Married To My Best Friend's Billionaire Father

Chloe stopped under the archway of her new bedroom, the sheer scale of the space stealing the air from her lungs. It wasn’t a room; it was a wing. The ceilings soared. One entire wall was glass, overlooking a manicured garden that stretched into the horizon. The bed was larger than her entire old apartment. A genuine Rothko hung on the wall.

Her hands stayed at her sides, afraid to touch anything.

She ran a hand over the cool marble of the fireplace mantel, her fingers tracing the gray veins in the stone. Alistair Sterling is Izzy’s father, she repeated to herself, a desperate mantra. He’s an elder. The thought was meant to ground her, but it only sent a fresh wave of heat to her cheeks.

Her phone vibrated on an antique vanity. A text from an unknown number.

I'm at the office. Helen will assist you with anything you need.—Alistair

No greeting. No name. Just a statement of fact. As cold and efficient as the man himself. She stared at the signature, a strange flutter in her stomach that she immediately crushed.

Before she could process it, her phone rang. Izzy.

"Chlo! Lifesaver needed! My thesis advisor just called a surprise meeting, but I'm stuck on campus. Can you come get me?"

"I don’t have a car, Izzy," Chloe said, the reminder a dull ache. Abe’s fiancée, Sloane, had "accidentally" backed into her beat—up Ford last week, totaling it. Another small cruelty.

She hadn’t told Izzy the whole story of last night. And she certainly didn’t know Izzy’s "emergency" was a complete fabrication.

"Use my dad’s car, silly!" Izzy said. "The garage is full of them. The keys are in a bowl by the entrance. Helen knows."

Ten minutes later, Helen Price, with an unnervingly serene smile, led Chloe to a door that opened into a high—end car dealership. A row of gleaming machines sat under spotlights. A Ferrari. A Lamborghini. A classic Porsche. Nausea surged. Her eyes scanned the lineup and landed on the most subdued option: a sleek, black Bentley. It still felt like a spaceship.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, she was enveloped in rich leather and profound silence. The engine started with a low, confident purr, a world away from the rattling cough of her old Ford. She gripped the smooth, cool steering wheel. She hated the easy seduction of this wealth, the way it whispered that everything would be okay. But the solid, powerful machine around her felt safe.

This is what Abe owes me, she thought, a bitter justification. This and more.

She pulled up in front of Izzy’s department building, the Bentley’s quiet elegance drawing stares. Izzy burst out of the doors, throwing her arms around Chloe in a hug before she could even get out. Then, with a theatrical flourish, Izzy dropped into a low curtsy on the sidewalk.

"Mommy, your royal chariot awaits!"

A few nearby students stopped, their expressions a mixture of shock and undisguised gossip.

"Izzy!" Chloe hissed, her face burning.

Izzy hopped into the passenger seat. "What’s the big deal? You are Mrs. Sterling. My new, legally certified mommy!"

She leaned over, her expression turning conspiratorial. "Besides, Dad laid down the law this morning. My future credit card limit is directly proportional to your daily happiness index. So, Mommy, are you happy today?"

Chloe stared at her. This wasn't a prank. It was a strategy. Alistair had made Chloe the gatekeeper to Izzy’s lifestyle.

"So," Izzy said, eyes sparkling with mischief, "for the sake of future Chanel and Hermès, you need to absolutely fleece my father. Make him spoil you rotten."

Izzy kept the rest of her thoughts to herself. She vividly remembered a disastrous night two years ago when an entitled frat boy had relentlessly harassed her at a club. Chloe had fiercely intervened, taking a hard shove into a table to protect her. Within a week, that frat boy was mysteriously expelled, and his family’s logistics company lost all their contracts with Sterling Enterprises, forcing them to relocate to another state in disgrace. Her dad had been terrifyingly furious at Izzy, freezing her accounts and forcing her to do a month of hard community service for "endangering an innocent bystander." But the day her punishment ended, he had wired fifty thousand dollars into her account with a single directive: "Take your friend shopping." When he had casually mentioned needing a marriage of convenience with "someone familiar and trustworthy" to stabilize his corporate image, Izzy had immediately connected the dots. Her dad wasn't just making a random choice; he had been silently watching and protecting Chloe for years.

A laugh escaped Chloe, genuine this time. It was absurd, manipulative, and somehow, exactly what she needed. The weight in her chest lightened. Maybe she could play this game.

She navigated the expensive car through campus, terrified of scratching it. Could she ever get used to this?

As she approached the main gate, a figure stepped out from between two parked cars, directly into their path.

Chloe’s heart stopped.

Abe Hays. His face was a thundercloud, his eyes fixed on her with a dark, possessive glint that made the hair on her arms stand up.

Her hands tightened on the wheel.

"Oh, great," Izzy muttered. "What a foul omen."

Chloe’s first instinct was to slam the car into reverse, but it was too late. He was already walking towards her window.