Unknown Billionaires Novels & Stories

No Billionaires. “Is this about Rule #1?” Kim asked. Her guilt was gone and replaced with narrowed eyes and a frown. Wow, she shifted through emotions like a NASCAR driver shifts through gears after the green flag was waved. “Yes, it is.”, hissed Celine. Of all the billionaires, Sebastian Gale was the most dangerous. The last time, she saw him she was having her heart ripped out of her chest in the parking lot of her old penthouse. Where she saw her husband trying to inhale his mistress’s tonsils the night her mother died. And she wanted to keep that as the very last time she ever saw Sebastian Gale. There was still a chance to avoid him if she hurried.

He was stalling at the edge of the door instead of moving towards the couch. "Yes, it's afternoon indeed but not a good one Mr Milano" The grumpy man grumbled, lines forming on his forehead. I tried not to look smug as I exactly knew what he was angry about. It was getting tiring persuading him for an entire year so I bought his friend's company. As expected Nolan had a close relative who was ready to sell out and be happy in his townhouse. His brother. Nolan had invested in that business in the beginning so he was pissed.

And visibility invited danger. The Trillionaire System’s voice echoed in his mind, calm and mechanical. [Host’s current net worth: $3.7 billion.] [Daily passive income: $4.3 million.] [Warning: Unknown entities are monitoring your activities.] Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly at the last line. “Unknown entities… How many?” he asked under his breath. [Four confirmed. Two suspected. None have yet made a direct move.] “Yet,” Ethan repeated grimly. He set the glass down and turned to the dining table, where Liam and Aria were seated. Liam was scrolling through his tablet, his face serious. Aria, however, was leaning forward, her long hair cascading over her shoulders as she studied Ethan’s express

Anne With all the events of the past month, things had been a whole lot stressful physically and mentally. The thing with the paparazzi was taking longer to diminish. Vincent being the heir to Sawyer Memorial plus his other passive income asserts had placed him on the top 10 billionaire bachelors under 30. It was from the press releases that I found out that in his early twenties, he’d taken the money he’d gotten from his trust fund to acquire new and dying companies, both foreign and local, and today, more than half the companies were flourishing wildly. On top of that, Vincent and Andrew had inherited properties worth billions of dollars from their grandparents. This was why the press was

“But I’m honoured to finally introduce you to the man I’ve been keeping to myself, Dante Moreau.” Gasps. A glass shattered. Someone actually whispered holy shit. Because that name, that face, that man, wasn’t just rich. He was untouchable. Elusive. A billionaire ghost whose appearances were limited to boardrooms and court filings. No woman had ever been seen on his arm. No tabloid had ever caught him in a compromising photo. If there had been a sweepstakes for Least Likely To Be Secretly Engaged To Me, he would’ve been the odds-on favorite.

I was even thinking of it in quotations, like it was incredibly important and secret. I wondered what the billionaire was doing this late at night, other than throwing out broken surfboards. I didn't actually know much about him. Sure, I of course had Googled him, but even the internet knew remarkably little about the reclusive billionaire. His two partners had several pages of information, but not him.

I was even thinking of it in quotations, like it was incredibly important and secret. I wondered what the billionaire was doing this late at night, other than throwing out broken surfboards. I didn't actually know much about him. Sure, I of course had Googled him, but even the internet knew remarkably little about the reclusive billionaire. His two partners had several pages of information, but not him.

Dancers and writers and photographers, all of us drowning in the same swamp of debt and disappointment, whispering the same name: Alexander Kale. Tech billionaire. Thirty-seven. Brilliant, ruthless, impossibly private. He didn’t date. He didn’t keep lovers. He didn’t do messy public relationships or tabloid breakups. He bought them. One year of total surrender. Absolute obedience. Complete discretion. Enough money wired overnight to erase every overdue notice, every collection call, every nightmare about ending up like my mother—sick, broke, and gone too soon.

I think the only people who can afford to live in a place like this are oil moguls, drug lords and arm dealers. “I don’t know.” Comes Bhyron’s quiet response. Surprised, I turn to him. “What?” He regards me through hooded, unreadable eyes; “I don’t know exactly how wealthy I am, Amani. I stopped counting the zeros two years ago when I could no longer keep up.” I frown; “but G****e says you’re worth thirty billion dollars in assets.” The words fly past my lips before I can stop myself. Bhyron’s lips curve in a small smile; “you looked me up on G****e.”

LAYLA. 03/60 FRIDAY. “Nothing. I can’t unearth anything on this dude. It’s like he’s off the face of the earth. Zero social media presence!” I knocked the entire file in the air, cursing at anything. “What’s funny?” I snap, kneading the base of my neck. “We are both billionaires, digging into one man who’s probably not worth half the price of my penthouse. Ironic.” “How do you know he isn't a billionaire?”