Billionaires Dollar Series

He doesn’t seem to get it, raising an eyebrow at me. What, honey?

When I hear the price, standing by the cashier next to him, it’s staggering. It’s the GDP of a small country. It’s not something I can walk around wearing. It’s something that should be locked into a safe and the key thrown away.

Liam hands over his credit card like he’s paying for lunch. How much money does he make, really? Investment banking is known for being obscene. But, Liam? The Liam I grew up with?

As we walk out of the jewelers with a tiny velvet box, I have to admit to myself that he’s really not the boy I knew anymore.

His phone rings as we step out onto the street. Liam glances at his watch before he replies, the charming smile he displayed in the store wiped clean.

“Carter,” he says.

I look at the people passing us, minding their own business, and feel like the heavy weight of the ring in my pocket is burning lead.

I put my hand over it just in case, as if hordes of thieves are about to descend. Can they tell? Are there diamond-sniffing dogs?

Liam blows out a breath. “Take the short position. We have enough capital. Leverage a few of our other positions too.”

My gaze drifts from passersby to Liam. The sharp cut of his jaw as he speaks. The words that sound like a different language.

The giant diamond in my pocket.

By the time he hangs up, I’m biting my lip to keep from laughing.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Look at us,” I say, sweeping a hand from him to me. “There is no way this’ll work.”

He frowns, the furrow in his brow returning. “Why not?”

“Who would ever believe you are engaged to me? Or the reverse, for that matter?”

“Your ex at the restaurant seemed to believe it,” Liam points out. “So did the ladies in the store just now.”

“They wanted to make a sale.”

“They still believed it. I could tell.” There’s more confidence in his voice than I feel in my little toe, so I release the breath I’ve been holding.

“I’m just warning you,” I say.

“So we’ll do a better job at acting.” Liam glances back down at his phone. “It’ll be fine.”

I’m left standing there while he replies to a text or an email, the afternoon sunlight glinting on his thick, honey-brown hair.

“And now I’m talking to myself,” I say. “Delightful. Liam, there are things we have to discuss.”

“There are?” His fingers fly over the phone and then he slips it back into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, a charming smile back on his face. “I’m all ears.”

“We need an origin story.”

“An origin story?”

“How did we meet?” I prod. “Where did you propose to me?”

“They’re not going to ask about any of that.”This content is © NôvelDrama.Org.

“How often have you met these people before? The ones we’re to pretend in front of?”

Liam’s eyes flit to mine. “Once.”

“Once? They are absolutely going to ask how we met, then. It’s a common enough ice-breaker.”

He sighs, like this is another thing on his already full agenda. “Okay, we’ll come up with something. Come on, let’s sit down.”

He stops by a small café on the corner, but I shake my head. “Not here. Let me lead the way.”

Five minutes later we’re sitting under the shade of tree on a little square, tucked inside the high-rises in the Financial District.

“This place is much better,” I say, handing him a menu. “I went to school with one of the cooks here.”

Liam snorts, looking down at the selection. “You always loved food.”

“Everyone loves food,” I correct. “I just love making it, too.”

He tosses his menu back on the table and leans back, eyes on me. “We stick as close to the truth as we can.”

“For our origin story?”

“Yes. We grew up in the same town, lost touch, but reconnected in the city a while back.”

“How far back?”

He runs a hand along his jaw, looking past me. “That’s tricky.”

“Is it?”

“There might be pictures of me with dates out there, so if they decide to fact-check this, we can’t have been an item for long.”

I shake my head at him, but my heartbeat speeds up as I look down at my menu. I know nothing about his life now, and he knows nothing about mine.

We’re old friends hovering on the edge of strangers, trying to pretend we’re lovers.

“That’s why you need a fiancée? To scrub clean your image as a playboy?”

“That’s the way they see it, at least.”

I take a deep breath. “We’re a whirlwind romance, then.”

“We met again and sparks just flew,” he says. “Let’s stick to the catering story. It works.”