The Billionaire’s Fake Poor Boyfriend Chapter 1

After living with the broke, impossibly gorgeous campus crush in a cramped shoebox apartment for three months, I wanted out.

He was suffocatingly clingy, and behind closed doors, his dominance was relentless.

Desperate, I begged my best friend to help me execute an utterly unhinged exit strategy.

She marched right up to him, a bank card in hand.

"There's five grand on this," she told him flatly. "Leave her alone. She's just a trust-fund kid playing poor for kicks. You are entirely out of her league."

He didn't say a word. He just quietly took the card.

The next morning, the universe played a massive, cruel joke on me.

He was leaning casually against a pristine black Maybach, looking utterly in his element.

With deadpan sincerity, he looked at me and asked, "So, you were faking it too? Does this mean I’m finally in your league?"

I froze, my brain short-circuiting. He was faking being poor?

But I was actually broke!

…

* * *

I dodged his kiss.

"Can we skip tonight?"

Holden arched an eyebrow, his long, elegant fingers already hooking the hem of my slip dress.

"Why? Bad timing?"

He smiled, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips.

He knew exactly where I was in my cycle. Back when my periods were agonizingly irregular, he’d spent weeks babying me, bringing home fancy, nutrient-dense organic broths every single day.

I’d asked him back then, "Where are you getting the money for this?"

He had paused mid-sip of his water, his Adam's apple bobbing as he instinctively licked his lips.

"One of the girls at the warehouse has the same issue. I just asked her to make an extra batch. She didn't charge me."

I was curled up under a mountain of blankets at the time, my cramps blinding, my head thick with brain fog.

Holden had scooped me up out of the covers, spoon-feeding me the warm broth.

"Just eat a little, baby. It'll make you feel better."

It was his favorite line.

Even now.

His cheek rested against my thigh. His lips were damp. "Just let me, baby. You'll feel better."

His knuckles were sharp, his fingers leaving faint, possessive marks against my pale skin.

I gasped.

He let out a low laugh. "And you said you didn't want to?"

The truth was, my defenses had already crumbled into dust.

The bed was a cheap, secondhand nightmare. It squeaked and groaned with every movement. The rhythmic, obnoxious noise finally broke Holden's concentration. He swore under his breath—a rare occurrence. "I'm throwing out every piece of furniture in this place tomorrow."

My head was spinning, my arms locked tightly around his neck.

"With what money?" I breathed.

Holden lowered his eyes. "I hit my performance metrics this month. The bonus isn't bad."

That sobered me up a fraction. "How much?"

He blinked, caught off guard.

Then he kissed me again, silencing me. "Don't talk about money in bed. It's tacky."

I cursed him in my head.

I didn't know what was wrong with him. He was broke, yet he acted like he was slumming it by choice.

I really needed to break up with him.