Millionaire Romance Novels & Stories

“Three? You want to make him offer us three billion dollars?” Magda noticed even Darya thought Dimi might be a bit over the top and she watched her hands shaking. Yup. Dimi was pissed on her behalf. It suddenly felt good to have the backing of the daughter of the most ruthless mafia kingpin in the country. “A billion each? Let’s find out if when a billionaire gets their first billion how long it takes for the devil to show up.” On the beach the girls had held an entire discussion whether earning a billion got you a deal with the devil and Magda found herself wondering if Dimi might have already made it. Her face was far more wicked than she’d ever seen it.

he asked. "I said that I had a miscarriage before, and what he saw was not his child," I replied. "So, it was right that I introduced myself as your husband because he would think that Agatha is our daughter. It was right that I did that," he said while nodding. "Duh? He's a millionaire now, and I don't think your pretending will be safe," I answered him. He laughed and shook his head before speaking, so I frowned at him. "He's just a millionaire," he said, as if hearing it from me was an insult to him.

It could be a bad sign. I told myself not to read too much into everything. I knew Rue was likely to date and marry someone from a wealthy family, unlike me. Even though I had become a millionaire because of what I got from Rij, it paled in comparison to the wealth of old-money families. The smiles Rue showed me yesterday were no different from the ones he gave to everyone else. Just like the video of him having a fun conversation with the person he dated. "Yeah, Tysha. Don't be the hopeless romantic piece of shit that you are," I muttered to myself. "You can't fall in love with the one who hired you."

Anton's fingers traced the curve of my waist, making me shiver with anticipation. Stepping into the suite, we were greeted by a cozy atmosphere. Soft lighting, a crackling fireplace, and the faint scent of roses set the mood for our first night as husband and wife. The room was spacious, with a luxurious four-poster bed draped in silk sheets, inviting us to indulge in our passion.

“Money or you.” Sophie met his gaze. “And you chose?” He dropped a document onto the table. “Neither. I chose myself.” She scanned the paper. It was a withdrawal from the Trust. He’d signed away 1.4 billion dollars in potential inheritance. Sophie whispered, “You didn’t have to do that.” “I did,” he replied. “Because I won’t build my future with hands chained to someone else’s gold.” She stepped closer. And kissed him. Camellia broke into the second partition of the Ash List USB.

But his voice…the deep baritone with an undercurrent of roughness calls to me, making me pause in my tracks. Making sure to remain out of sight, I spy the entrance where the handsome, sexy hunk of a billionaire is talking with the boat keeper. He doesn’t seem too pleased. “...do you mean I can’t have the boat?” “It has already been booked, Sir,” the keeper is pleading. “Well call them and let them know they’re holding up the line.” I shake my head, this time in disappointment. Although his condition has altered a lot of things about him, the classic Neal Ward arrogance is still fully present.

The rumors swirl louder than the elevator music still playing in my ears. They say Damien Wolfe lives here. Billionaire heir. Arrogant playboy. Wrecker of maids. I knock once. No answer. I knock again. Still nothing. Mrs. Donovan gave me the code. Scribbled it like it was no big deal. Like entering his space wasn’t the same as stepping into the lion’s cage. I hesitate. Something in my gut twists. But rent is due, I’m behind on groceries, and my scholarship doesn’t cover ramen noodles, let alone dignity.

“So what do you say?” I gulp. “No.” He raises a brow. “No?” “Absolutely not.” I say more firmly. “I’m not something you can keep.” “A million dollars.” He murmurs, leaning closer. My heart skips a beat. “Be my personal whore,” he continues, voice low, “and I’ll pay you a million dollars. Monthly.”

Her stomach dropped as bits of the night came rushing back. It began at that fancy masked club, tucked away in Milan's fashion area. The spot where big shots hid behind masks and low lights to let loose. She'd gone by herself, sick of her life closing in. Three years stuck with Lorenzo Bianchi, the billionaire CEO running tech giants and property deals. It was all fake, a contract. Her dad had gambled away everything, almost losing the family vineyard. Lorenzo stepped in, paid it off, but only if she'd be his quiet, perfect wife. No real feelings, no heat. Just showing up at events, faking smiles for photos, and lonely nights while he chased work or other women.