The billionaire's public secret

CHAPTER ONE: The Girl Who Spilled Champagne

Paris, 9:47 PM. The gala shimmered, and Elena Moreau’s feet throbbed.

The blistering heat and sweat Elena suffered from during the charity event didn’t help with her ‘half an hour to go’ feeling. The golden lights hung from crystal chandeliers like trophies from some long lost battle. And as servers glided across the polished floors of dew gleaming marble like floating spirits, they siphoned away golden flutes of vintage champagne as well as duck confit Elena wasn’t able to and too much stress to pronounce.

Her rented heels—half a size too tight—had been mocking her since hour three of the event. As Elena Moreau, a Paris local, tried to turn around with a tray to of duck confit, she was welcomed with, “Careful with that tray,” barked a rude supervisor.

Just like everyone else that flaunted couture around her, she too had a job to get to. Rent, food, and a poorer than poor thirteen year old under the same roof made her life and a motto to repeat, smile and repeat. The longer and wider she stepped, the more she sensed her bougie executive look to target line was stepping outside the gate.

And before she knew it, it happened.

A sharp turn followed by a step that was as distracted as the executive look she was summoning, followed by an outfit summoning the sound of crystal and tawny fabric colliding.

Silence.

“Oh—merde.”

Elena was frozen.

In front of her was a man wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, the front of his crisply cut white shirt soaked with Dom Pérignon.

The tray was shaking in her grip.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean—” She glanced up, her heart doing acrobatics in her throat.

The man remained silent, but leveled his gaze upon her.

Steel grey eyes. Expression finely chiseled stone—a man born into power, but wholly indifferent to it.

His gaze was blank. He was neither irritated, nor amused, but simply icy.

Some of the patrons there were beginning to take notice. A woman in front of the bar gasped, and in the distance the flash of a photographer’s camera startled.

“A waiter serving drinks muttered, ‘you spilled champagne on the wrong billionaire.’” He continued, barely hiding his shock.

Elena refused to blink. “Then he shouldn’t act like a statue.”

The man lifted his brow, only to tilt it upwards with the faintest amount of movement.

It was then she realized she must have mouthed off to some high and mighty hotshot. Too late now, the words were out. She had a habit of not taking them back.

So, she put on a brave face and straightened up, empty tray in hand.

“I’ll have someone fix the shirt for you. Or, if your ego was what got soaked, I can dry-clean that too.”

Without hearing his response – if there was any to give – she pivoted and strolled away.

Ten minutes later, outside

The cold wind of Paris nipped at the edges of her coat as she stepped outside. It was time to clock out and she was calming down from the initial rush. A message from Matteo was lighting up her phone.

“Did you wrap things up? I warmed up the leftovers. Please don’t be upset.”

“Of course, I’m upset.” She loved her as much as her Apple Watch loved counting her steps.

Tonight’s shifts were particularly brutal. Leaving hints to customers on the importance of over tipping hadn’t paid much. She also had a client refund on a offers worth over a hundred K. Insulting clients was much easy to pull off with booze on the side. All in all, the night was mostly futile.

The black car had not gone unnoticed.

Two Days Later

Elena had gone to her building. This time, the concern was the orange eviction notice taped on the door.

Final lies. Immediate to cease all steps. No extensions whatsoever.

Inside of the building, Matteo was surprisingly quiet, and too much. Waiting was hard, considering now was the perfect time to let him know.

In one sentence, all her savings had gone to shit. Waiting on the side job to pay off, her shifts along with her side job’s pay had been slashed.

Forcing breath now was harder than ever. Friend’s lawn? Another box? Calling a close one? The now was aptly out time was indeterminate.

“Miss Moreau.”

The voice was gentle and calm.

“Yeah.”

“Miss Moreau, you need to claim the twelve on one.”

Elena had been jolted back to the current time. The world was once more spaced, and the dancing wind no longer thrilled.

It was indeed him. The fellow from the gala. The one who wore the suit drenched in champagne and looked at you like a glacier. Only this time, he had a different outfit. A sleek, black wool coat and standing next to a luxury car that was certainly out of place for the street.

“What are you—?”

“I’d like to make you an offer, “he said.

Elena blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Get in the car,” he repeated, as though this was the most normal thing ever. “We’ll talk somewhere private.”

Staring at him, she snapped, “I’m not in the habit of getting into strange men’s cars.”

“I’m not strange. I’m Damon Vierre.”

He said it as though it should mean something.

It did.

Damon Vierre—CEO of Vierre Media. One of the most powerful, unreachable men in France. She’d seen his face in magazines, and his name was a staple of whispered headlines on every news channel.

“Champagne on a Vierre?” She would have said.

“Oh. Great.”

Still, she didn’t move. “This—whatever this is—,”

“€500,000,” he said. “Six months. Fake marriage. Public only.”

Elena’s world tilted.

“What?”

Damon was calm. Measured. Looking her in the eye as if he were offering tea instead of a life-altering deal.

“I need a wife. For a bit. To maintain an image. It’s… more complicated.”

“And I’m the lucky prize?” She shakes her head, utterly stunned. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.” He looks over at the eviction notice. “You need the cash. You have a clean record. You’re intelligent. And won’t back down from a powerful person. That’s a real rarity.”

Elena just looks at him like he’s sprouted two extra heads.

“This is nuts,” she protests.

“It’s a business deal,” he says. “No intimacy. No fabrications.” No questions in private.”

Her voice was dry. “Sounds charming.”

He pulled something from his coat pocket—a slim folder. A contract.

“Read it. You have 48 hours.”

Then he left her standing there, stunned, silent, and already sinking into the decision she hadn’t made yet.