My Broke Billionaire Chapter 2

Ethan likes to hold me when he sleeps. Tonight was no different.

Except it was.

Tonight, he held me tighter, with a desperation that felt like he was trying to meld me into his own body, as if he were trying to anchor himself to the only solid thing in a world that had turned to liquid. My face was pressed against his chest, the familiar scent of him all around me. On any other night, I would have been blissfully nuzzling into him, drunk on the closeness.

But tonight, I just wrapped my arms around his waist and gently patted his back, trying to soothe him into sleep.

I understood. His life had been upended. He needed comfort, a pillar to lean on. And seeing him in so much pain made my own heart ache.

Which was a problem.

He was my benefactor, not my boyfriend. He was now the "fake heir." The smart thing to do would be to worry about my career in this cutthroat town, not his emotional state. My future in Hollywood, which he had so carefully paved, was now a dead end.

That’s what I should have been thinking.

But instead, I found myself gently smoothing the frown lines from his forehead with my thumb.

My career was built on Ethan’s influence—I’ll be the first to admit it. Yes, I worked hard. I’m tenacious and I don’t give up. But Hollywood is a place where hard work alone gets you nowhere. You need opportunities. You need luck. And if you don’t have those, you need a powerful patron.

When I started, I had nothing but raw energy and a burning ambition. Then, at the wrap party for some forgettable film, someone with a grudge slipped something into my drink. The next thing I knew, I was being led into the penthouse suite of a luxury hotel—Ethan’s suite.

I was dizzy, my limbs felt like lead. A single, foggy thought, It's over, drifted through my mind, but I was powerless to fight it.

Sometime later, Ethan came back to his room. As fate would have it, he was drunk too. He apparently mistook me for a body pillow and slept soundly, holding me all night.

The next morning, I woke up in the arms of a strange man and nearly screamed the hotel down. But before the scream could escape, I was struck by the impossibly handsome face just inches from mine.

Well… damn.

It wasn't that I was opposed to him, specifically. I was just, you know, morally against the whole predatory casting-couch culture of the industry.

I studied his face. His eyes were closed, framed by impossibly long lashes. That strong jawline, that perfect nose… how did all the best features end up on one person?

As I was lost in my critical analysis, his eyelashes fluttered. A moment later, his eyes opened, meeting mine directly.

My heart stopped.