Chapter One – Broke Boy, Billionaire Girl

The New York City summer heat didn’t just touch you — it slapped. Malik Carter stood on the steps of the East 32nd Street job center, arms akimbo, neck glistening, and frustration climbing faster than the sweat on his back.

“This is the fifth damn rejection this week,” he muttered, reading the auto-response on his phone.

> Thank you for applying, Mr. Carter. At this time, we’ve chosen to pursue candidates whose experience better matches the role.

He stared at the message like it owed him money. “Better matches my—? I wrote half the damn website they’re using.”

His cracked phone vibrated again. This time it was from his landlord.

Landlord: Malik. Rent was due two days ago. Let’s not do this again.

He locked the phone screen and stuffed it into his faded jeans. Rent, food, MetroCard — all looming like angry creditors in his head.

Across the street, a digital billboard lit up:

“ROWETECH ANNOUNCES $1.2B EXPANSION”

Below it, a photo of her — Tina Rowe, in a sharp cream suit, chin high, eyes narrowed, looking like she owned the sun itself.

He scoffed. “$1.2 billion. I can’t even afford toothpaste without checking my account.”

The irony? Malik once did freelance copywriting for RoweTech. A blog post here, a press release there — all through some third-party agency that paid late and poorly. He'd never met Tina Rowe herself. Hell, he wasn't even sure she wasn't an AI bot with cheekbones.

He walked. No destination in mind, just the city as a blur of motion and sound — horns, bikes, tourists, yelling, construction, dreams and disappointment all packed into concrete.

---

Fifteen minutes later, Malik ducked into an air-conditioned building, pretending like he belonged. He needed to sit. Think. Maybe use the free Wi-Fi. The lobby was marble-tiled and smelled of lemon polish and money.

He chose a leather bench and pulled out his laptop. A security guard gave him a once-over, but said nothing. Malik did his best to look busy — because broke people always had to perform usefulness to avoid being removed.

He connected to the Wi-Fi. Password: Innovation123.

“Tech bros,” he muttered, logging in. The welcome page read: Welcome to RoweTech HQ.

His head jerked up.

Wait — what?

He looked around. Glass walls. A massive front desk. Behind it, a crystal-etched R. A sign on the wall read:

> Innovation doesn't wait. Neither do we. – Tina Rowe

Malik stood quickly, trying to look like he was supposed to be there. But as he turned to leave—

“Excuse me, sir? Do you have an appointment?” asked a receptionist, blonde, barely twenty-five, voice like she had coffee and judgment for breakfast.

Malik froze. His mouth did something stupid. It smiled.

“Oh yeah, definitely. Just running late for… uh…” He glanced at the name plate. “Ms. Rowe.”

The receptionist blinked.

“Ms. Rowe?” she repeated, slowly.

“Yep,” he said. “She…uh…wanted a surprise update on her web content. Said to come up and pitch it in person.”

It was the kind of lie so wild it felt bulletproof. Who would question confidence that broke the sound barrier?

The receptionist stared. “You’re not on the list.”

“I wouldn’t be,” Malik said coolly. “It’s a surprise. She likes surprises, right? I mean… I saw her TED Talk.”

That last part was true. He had watched it once — mostly to roast her stiff energy.

She hesitated. “Wait here.”

Malik nodded, calm on the outside. Inside, every muscle screamed RUN.

The receptionist walked to the back and disappeared. He opened his phone to text his best friend James:

> Malik: Bro. I just accidentally walked into RoweTech HQ and might be arrested.

> James: Send me pictures before they tase you.

> Malik: Real one.

Then, from behind a glass wall, a woman appeared.

She moved like a blade — sharp, silent, and deadly focused.

It was her. Tina Rowe.

---

She stood at the threshold of the elevator lobby, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than his entire neighborhood. Her hair was slicked back, her expression unreadable.

Her eyes locked on Malik like she was scanning a QR code for nonsense.

“Who are you?” she asked. No hello. No preamble. Just war.

Malik swallowed. “I… uh… Malik Carter. Freelance copywriter. I once worked on your 2022 press kit. Small-time gig. Nothing major.”

She blinked once. “So you lied to get upstairs?”

He exhaled. “I… yeah. But only because I was trying to find any opening. Even an unpaid pitch. I wasn’t trying to scam—just… improvise.”

She folded her arms. “You lied to my staff, trespassed, and interrupted my schedule.”

There was a long pause.

Then she added: “Bold.”

He blinked. “You’re not calling security?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Malik’s sarcasm kicked in. Defense mechanism. “Well, if you do, can you ask them to go gentle on my laptop? It’s borrowed.”

A ghost of a smirk flirted with her lips, then vanished like it was embarrassed to exist.

“Follow me,” she said.

Malik stared. “Wait. Seriously?”

She didn’t repeat herself.

---

Tina Rowe’s office looked like a Bond villain lair — all glass and clean lines, towering over Manhattan.

She motioned to a chair. Malik sat, heart tap dancing. She remained standing.

“Why copywriting?” she asked abruptly.

He blinked. “I’m good with words. And bad with stability.”

“Why RoweTech?”

He shrugged. “Because it’s big. And you’re terrifying.”

She actually smiled. Slightly.

“I need a fake boyfriend,” she said.

Malik’s brain took a full ten seconds to process that sentence.

“I’m sorry… what?”

“You heard me,” she said, walking behind her desk. “You want money. I need a warm body who can speak in public and hold my hand convincingly. Your file shows wit. That’s rare.”

“You looked me up already?”

“I’m not stupid.”

He rubbed his temples. “Wait. Why would a billionaire CEO need a fake boyfriend?”

Her jaw tightened. “Because men in my industry don’t trust women with no personal life. The board’s pressuring me to appear more ‘balanced’ before our IPO. Investors love a woman in love — not just a woman in charge.”

He whistled. “That’s messed up.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He leaned forward. “Okay. Hypothetically — how much are we talking?”

“Five thousand per week. Public appearances only. No touching without permission. One-month contract. Non-disclosure included.”

Malik blinked. “That’s real money.”

“That’s the point.”

He looked at her. Cold. Brilliant. Completely out of his league. But for five thousand a week?

He could be fake charming.

He grinned. “When do I start?”

Tina didn’t smile back. She simply said:

“Don’t make me regret this.”

---

End of Chapter One.