Faking It with the Billionaire Alpha

Five years ago, Freya Laurent was the youngest editor-in-chief in LUXE Magazine history—sharp, fearless, untouchable. Then she married Caleb, gave up her throne, and became the perfect Alpha's Luna. Her reward? Watching him kiss his "fated mate" against a wall at their fifth anniversary party, in front of two hundred guests. So Freya does the only thing a humiliated woman can do: she lies. She announces she's found her own fated mate—then has exactly until noon tomorrow to produce one. Desperate, she hires the most gorgeous stranger she can find at an exclusive members' club. Ten thousand dollars. One day. Pretend you can't live without me. There's just one problem. The man she hired isn't an escort. He's Asher Blackwood—billionaire Alpha, the most powerful and dangerous wolf on the continent—and he agreed to the lie for reasons of his own. What starts as a contract becomes a war. Fake engagement. Real chemistry. A penthouse, a reclaimed empire of her own, and a man who buys back the career Caleb made her surrender. But when Caleb crawls back begging—stripped of everything, ruined by the fake mate who used him—and a woman from Asher's past begins building something poisonous in the dark, Freya learns that some bonds can't be bought, and some can't be faked. This time, she's not the wife who gets discarded. This time, she's the one they'll beg.

Chapters

Chapter 5

Freya's POV

The hotel suite was ridiculous.

Marble everything. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. A sitting room bigger than my entire apartment. The kind of space that screamed money so loud it practically echoed.

I kicked off my heels the moment we entered, leaving them abandoned near the door. My feet screamed in relief. Those fuckers had been torturing me since noon.

"Drink?" Asher moved toward the mini bar with the confidence of a man who owned every room he entered.

"Whiskey. Neat. Make it a double."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Smart man.

I sank into the plush cream sofa, tucking my legs beneath me. The black dress bunched around my thighs, riding up in a way I should probably care about. I didn't. The day had been long enough that propriety could go fuck itself.

Asher returned with two glasses. He handed me one, then settled into the chair across from me. His jacket was already gone, discarded somewhere between the door and the bar. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a hint of dark hair and defined muscle underneath.

Don't stare. He's paid help. Expensive, gorgeous, paid help.

I took a long sip. The whiskey burned pleasantly down my throat, warming me from the inside out.

"So." I set my glass on the coffee table. "Let's talk business."

"Business." His lips curved. Those gray-blue eyes glittered with amusement. "You want to discuss my fee now?"

"I want to settle accounts. You delivered." I gestured vaguely at the suite. "Hence the upgrade from hotel barto hotel suite. Consider it a tip."

"A tip." He swirled his whiskey. "Generous."

"I'm a generous woman." When I'm not being publicly humiliated by my cheating ex-husband. "So. How much do I owe you for today's performance?"

Asher studied me over the rim of his glass. The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Electric.

"Ten thousand."

My eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"Standard rate for a gig like that. Public appearances, emotional labor, kissing you in front of two hundred judgmental werewolves." He shrugged. "Hazard pay."

A laugh escaped me. Genuine. Surprised.

"You're charging me hazard pay for kissing me?"

"Best kiss of my life, sweetheart." His voice dropped. "But I'm a professional. Can't let personal enjoyment interfere with billing."

My face flushed. Heat crept up my neck.

He's flirting. He's a gigolo. Flirting is literally his job.

"Fine." I reached for my clutch, abandoned on the side table. "I'll write you a check—"

"Hold on." Asher leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "There's another option."

I paused. "Which is?"

"Monthly retainer."

"... What?"

"Think about it." His eyes locked onto mine. "Your ex isn't going to give up. I saw his face today. That man's obsessed. He'll keep coming back, trying to win you over, making your life miserable."

My stomach twisted. Because he was right. Caleb didn't let go easily. Never had.

"And?" I asked carefully.

"And having a fake fated mate on retainer would solve that problem." Asher's voice was smooth. Reasonable. "Public appearances. Social events. Sending the message that you're unavailable. Taken. His loss."

I stared at him.

"You're suggesting I hire you... long-term?"

"I'm suggesting you invest in your freedom." He swirled his whiskey again. "Twenty thousand a month. I'll be your plus-one for any event. Your pretend mate whenever Caleb gets ideas. Your verbal attack dog when his new girlfriend gets mouthy."

Twenty thousand. A month.

That was insane. That was ridiculous. That was—

"Deal."

Wait. What?

My mouth had apparently disconnected from my brain. Asher's eyebrows rose.

"Deal?" he repeated.

"I—" I cleared my throat. "I mean. That's reasonable. For the services described."

You're drunk. You're definitely drunk.

"Perfect." He raised his glass. "To our new arrangement."

I clinked mine against it. The whiskey sloshed. I drank it anyway.

The alcohol was hitting harder now. Warm and fuzzy around the edges. Making me say things I shouldn't.

"You know what the worst part is?" I slouched deeper into the sofa. "Not the cheating. Not the public humiliation. It's the small shit. The shit I put up with for five years."

Asher set his glass down. Gave me his full attention.

"Tell me."

So I did.

"He couldn't cook. Couldn't clean. His mother still did his laundry. I found that out year three." I let out a bitter laugh. "His fucking underwear. His mom washed his underwear. A grown-ass Alpha werewolf."

"Jesus."

"And he'd leave dishes everywhere. Everywhere. I'd find crusty cereal bowls in the bedroom. In the bathroom. Once found one in his office, growing something that looked sentient."

Asher's nose wrinkled. "That's horrifying."

"He never remembered anniversaries. Or birthdays. I planned every date, every vacation, every dinner reservation." My voice cracked slightly. "I wanted to feel wanted. Just once. Just fucking once."

The words kept spilling out. Whiskey-loosened and raw.

"And the sex—" I stopped. Laughed humorlessly. "God. The sex. Five years of faking it because he couldn't find my clit with a map and a flashlight."

Asher went very still.

"He'd just... jackhammer away. Two minutes, tops. Then roll over and snore." I drained my glass. "Small dick. Mediocre tongue. Zero interest in actually pleasing me."

"Freya."

Something in his tone made me look up. His eyes had darkened. Intense. Unreadable.

"What?"

"Any man who makes you feel like an afterthought is a fucking idiot." His voice was low. Rough. "You deserve to be worshipped. Every inch of you. Every thought. Every breath."

The air between us shifted. Charged.

"You're a client," he continued, leaning forward. "So I shouldn't say this—"

"Say what?"

"That if you were mine, I'd spend hours learning your body. Every sound you make when you're turned on. Every spot that makes you shiver."

My throat went dry.

"That I'd never let you feel unwanted. Or unappreciated." His gaze dropped to my lips. "That I'd make you come so many times you forgot any man existed before me."

Shit.

This is a bad idea.

This is such a bad idea.

Then he kissed me.

I couldn't say who moved first. Maybe we both did. But suddenly his mouth was on mine, hot and demanding, and every thought in my head evaporated.

His hand slid into my hair. Tilting my head back. Deepening the kiss.

I opened for him. Let his tongue sweep inside, tasting whiskey and something darker. Something addictive.

A moan escaped my throat. Embarrassing. Needy. I didn't care.

He pulled me onto his lap. I went willingly, straddling him, knees sinking into the plush cushion on either side of his thighs. My dress rode up dangerously.

His hands found my waist. Then my hips. Then lower, cupping my ass through the silk.

"Fuck," he growled against my mouth.

Yes. Fuck. Please.

My fingers worked at his buttons. One. Two. Three. Until his shirt hung open and I could feel the hard planes of his chest beneath my palms. Dark hair. Defined muscle. Warm skin.

He yanked my dress down over my shoulders. The silk pooled at my waist, leaving my chest bare except for the thin lace of my bra.

His mouth trailed down my jaw. My neck. My collarbone.

I arched into him. Lost. Desperate. Wanting.

"Asher—"

"Tell me to stop." His breath was hot against my skin. "Tell me to stop and I will."

I didn't.

I kissed him instead.

Hard.

Everything blurred after that.

---

Sunlight hit my face like a personal attack.

I groaned, rolling over. My head pounded. My mouth tasted like whiskey and regret.

The bed was empty.

I blinked, forcing my eyes open. White sheets. White pillows. White everything.

Where the fuck—

Memory crashed back.

The suite. The whiskey. Asher. His hands. His mouth. His—

Oh God.

I sat up too fast. The room spun.

The other side of the bed was cold. No warmth left in the sheets. No sign anyone had been there at all except for the faint indent in the pillow.

I grabbed my phone. 9:47 AM. Six missed calls from Darren.

Darren.

I hit call.

"Finally!" he shrieked before the first ring finished. "I've been calling all morning! Did you hire the guy? Didhe show up? The Velvet Room owner won't tell me anything because of their stupid confidentiality policy!"

My stomach dropped.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the owner said no one checked out any of their employees yesterday! She has no record of you taking anyone from The Velvet Room!"

The room tilted.

"What?"

"Freya, did you hire a male model yesterday or not?"

I stared at the empty bed. The cold sheets. The indent in the pillow.

The man who'd known exactly how to play the crowd. Exactly what to say. Exactly how to kiss.

Asher.

Holy shit.

Who the fuck did I sleep with last night?

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Iverson played the role of a rebellious, useless loser to survive in his mother's new wealthy family. He deliberately tanked his grades and hid his genius so his perfect stepbrother wouldn't feel threatened. But when a violent gang extorted Brenda, the only woman who actually acted like a real mother to him, Iverson dropped the act. He brutally dismantled four armed thugs with a broken aluminum pole to save her life. At the police station, he faked being a terrified victim to avoid jail. But when his biological mother arrived, she didn't even ask if he was hurt. Instead, she glared at him with pure disgust. "How much more humiliation are you going to put me through?" She threw a tutoring folder at his chest, praising his stepbrother's Ivy League prospects while threatening to cut off Iverson's trust fund for fighting over slum trash. Iverson clenched his fists in silence. He had deliberately played the idiot and ruined his own reputation just to keep her safe in that toxic mansion. Yet, she looked at him like he was absolute garbage. She truly believed he was just a brainless thug holding her back. Back in his room, Iverson locked the heavy oak door and booted up his highly encrypted laptop. The screen loaded into the world's most elite underground academic network. "Welcome back, Rank 1." He stared at the glowing screen with a cold, dangerous smile. He was done playing the fool.

Action Billionaire Modern

8.0

After My Groom Protected His Mistress at Our Engagement Party

8.0

The bridal suite of the St. Regis was everything I'd dreamed of—crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across ivory walls, fresh roses scenting the air, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan's glittering skyline. But despite the perfection surrounding me, my stomach churned with nerves. I touched the simple silver pendant at my throat—my mother's final gift before cancer took her. The cool metal against my skin had always been my anchor in moments of anxiety. "You can do this, Mom," I whispered to her memory. "I found someone who loves me for me." Six years of living as an ordinary woman in Brooklyn had taught me to recognize genuine affection. Or so I thought. The door burst open without warning, and Aunt Nancy swept in like a hurricane in Chanel, her oversized diamond earrings catching the light as she turned her nose up at everything in sight. "Oh, Emberly, dear." Her voice dripped with condescension as she circled me, inspecting my dress.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.6

Reborn To Love My Wheelchair Billionaire

8.6

Aubree pushed Ezra down the grand staircase, crippling the only man who silently protected her. She thought she was finally escaping his control to be with her true love, Foster Newton. But she had no idea it was a vicious trap meticulously set by Newton and her sweet, innocent cousin, Brandi. Once Ezra was driven out of New York in despair, Aubree's life became a living hell. Her father completely disowned her. Brandi smoothly took over her home and her millions in inheritance. "You were just a stepping stone for us, Aubree." That was the last thing Newton sneered before leaving her to die. Lying on the freezing floor, her warm blood pooling in her palms, Aubree finally saw the horrifying truth. She had destroyed her own family and ruined the one man who genuinely cared for her, all for a pair of greedy parasites. Endless regret and suffocating hatred consumed her fading consciousness. Why was she so blind? Why did she let them manipulate her into destroying her own life? Then, her eyes snapped open. A violent wave of dizziness hit her. She looked down at her pale, flawless hands. There were no deep cuts. There was no sticky blood. She was back. She had miraculously returned to the exact night she pushed Ezra, just two hours before his private jet was scheduled to leave forever. Hearing her father's furious roar outside her bedroom door, Aubree didn't cower. She wiped the smeared makeup from her face, her eyes turning dead cold. This time, she was going to make Ezra stay, and she was going to send those leeches straight to hell.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.5

Rejected Father's Last Plea

9.5

The pain tore through me like a white-hot knife, making every breath a battle. I clutched the hospital bed rails, my knuckles turning bone-white as another contraction seized my body. "Where's my husband?" I gasped when the wave receded. "Has anyone reached Dane?" The nurse—Emily, according to her name tag—checked her watch with a poorly concealed frown. "We're still trying, Mrs. Richards. His phone appears to be turned off." Impossible. Dane never turned off his phone. Eight years together, building our design firm from nothing to an industry leader, and he'd always been reachable. Always.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.9

The billionaire lust and hatred

8.9

The family of Williams are known to be strict, rigid and too controlling; they set barriers and closed edges between relations and an interloper. A family once filled with wealth and life of riches went bankrupt after it was discovered most of its stocks were poorly managed by top board members in the enterprise. Emily Williams, was born into this once prosperous family, her father Mr Williams Richard mentally broken since the huge financial loss had to change the family doctrines and conservative manners to accommodate an outsider, a Rich one to be precise. Her mother Elizabeth Williams and brother John Williams, work as a day labourer to make ends meet they find it hard to gratify the whole family needs for the pressure was hard on their neck. Since their father is unable to support the family's financial backbone he had only one idea that could take the family out of financial disgrace: His youngest child and only daughter, Emily Williams. She was later given out as an arranged marriage after she gave up her passion to become an entrepreneur She would now become a full house wife to a son of an affluent lineage in the society where she would face different adversaries and oppositions. She wasn't welcomed into the family of the Carter's; her mother in-law Sarah and her two daughters Hannah and Lucy saw her as proud, egoistic, narcissist, self-absorbed egomaniac, smug and insufferable. She only got the approval of her father in-law Mr Carter James and husband Eric Carter who helped her in times of difficulty and pains due to a held promise made by James Carter and her father Richard Williams. Read to find out if Emily would ignite her passion back when she figures she has been living a life full of lies and hatred.

Billionaire Modern Romance

7.2

The Billionaire's Accidental Mistress

7.2

Freya Lune is a professional mistress for hire. Her unique, controversial mission? Expose cheating husbands, ruin shady marriages, and test loyalty-all for a price. But when she's hired by a high-profile client to tempt her husband, her professional life crashes into a chaotic passion. Instead of the target, Freya accidentally captivates his single, irresistible older brother: Zayde Creed-a man accustomed to getting exactly what he wants. Now, Freya is torn between her ruthless professional code and the undeniable, forbidden attraction to the man who is far more than she ever expected. Will she stay loyal to her lucrative job, or give in to the love that could ruin her career?

Billionaire Modern Romance

Faking It with the Billionaire Alpha

Chapter 5

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