My bank account currently held four dollars and twelve cents.
I know this because I had spent the last twenty minutes staring at my phone screen, silently praying that if I refreshed the mobile app enough times, a random string of zero-filled lottery winnings would magically pop out after the four.
It actually didn’t.
Instead, an irritating push notification popped up to remind me that my rent was officially due in three days.
And my landlord, Mr.
Henderson, had recently upgraded his overall personality from “mildly annoying” to “actively hostile,” so I knew my time in this apartment was ticking down faster than a cheap explosive.
I looked down at my dinner—a bowl of plain, unseasoned white rice—and let out a long, dramatic sigh.
“Roxie,” I muttered to myself, pointing my wooden spoon sternly at my reflection in the microwave door.
“You are a twenty-two-year-old drama student.
You have a minor in high-stakes improvisation.
You survived three brutal semesters of classical Shakespeare without dying of pure boredom.
So you can definitely survive poverty.
It’s not even a big deal honestly .” I took a single bite of the bland rice, chewing slowly while trying to convince my brain and stomach that it was actually a medium-rare wagyu steak.
Then my doorbell rang.
I wasn’t expecting guests.
And for a fact I know people with four dollars in their bank account generally don’t host dinner parties—mostly because friends expect snacks, and the only items currently residing inside my fridge were half a dried-up lemon, a single slice of craft cheese, and a jar of expired mayonnaise.
I set my spoon down, dragged my feet over to the front door, and unlocked all three deadbolts.
When I pulled the door open, ‘Holy mother of God’ I nearly choked on my own spit.
Standing on my welcome mat was a man who looked like he had been custom-built in a top-secret military laboratory designed purely for wildly wealthy, ridiculously attractive men.
He was huge and tall, possessing a jawline so sharp and defined it looked like it could cut through bulletproof glass.
He also had dark, slicked-back hair, and piercing icy- grey eyes and wore a very sharp charcoal suit that probably cost more than my entire four-year university tuition combined.
Standing right behind him in the dimly lit hallway were two massive men in black suits and earpieces.
They didnt look like normal human beings and more like two brick walls built to guard a national vault.
I blinked once.
I looked at the tailored billionaire.
I looked at the human brick walls.
Then I looked down at my own outfit: a faded, oversized t-shirt featuring a cartoon cat eating a taco, paired with mismatched tartan pyjama bottoms.
“If this is about the noise complaint from Tuesday night,” I said smoothly, resting one hand against the doorframe, “I was merely rehearsing a dramatic monologue about betrayal.
The screaming was purely artistic, and I stand by my craft.” The man in the charcoal suit didn’t smile.
He didn’t even blink.
He just raised one dark, impeccably groomed eyebrow, studying me like I was a bizarre insect he was trying to decide whether to squash with his expensive shoes or completely ignore.
“Roxie Fox?” His voice was deep, smooth, and possessed the quiet, terrifying authority of a man who owned small countries for fun.
“That depends,” I said, narrowing my eyes.
“Are you a debt collector?” “No.” “Are you my landlord’s private attorney?” “No.” “Then yes, I am the legendary Roxie Fox.
Who’s asking?” The man didn’t bother answering.
He simply stepped straight past me into my apartment without waiting for an invitation.
The two human gargoyles stayed out in the hallway, flanking my front door like royal guards.
“Hey!
Excuse me!
Unlawful entry!” I yelled, spinning around as the stranger casually surveyed my tiny living space.
He glanced at my sagging sofa, frowned with genuine disgust at my bowl of plain white rice, and then pulled a flawless white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket.
He used it to lightly dust off my only wooden chair before taking a seat, crossing one long leg over the other with absolute grace.
“Your landlord is a man named Mr.
Henderson,” the stranger began calmly, resting his hands on his knee.
“You owe him twelve hundred dollars.
Your tuition payment for the upcoming semester is past due by two full weeks.
And yesterday afternoon, you attempted to purchase a two-dollar iced coffee using three different expired gift cards.” I stood frozen in the middle of my tiny kitchen, my jaw practically touching the sticky floor.
Okay, this is utterly terrifying, I thought, my brain firing off danger lights.
Is he a stalker?
Did my landlord hire an international assassin to track me down over twelve hundred dollars?
“Are you here to murder me?” I asked, grabbing my wooden spoon off the counter and holding it out like a broadsword.
“Because I should warn you, I took one full semester of stage combat.
I know how to make a fake sword fight look mildly terrifying.” “My name is Julian Sterling,” he said.
I paused, my wooden spoon wavering in the air.
Ju… Julian Sterling?
As in Sterling Enterprises?
The multi-billion-dollar corporate giant that owned half the commercial skyscrapers downtown, three shipping lines, and probably the moon?
“Right,” I said slowly, lowering my weapon an inch.
“And I’m the Queen of Sheba.
What does a billionaire want with a broke drama student?” “I need an actress,” Julian said flatly.
“Someone fast on her feet, entirely unbothered by social awkwardness, and capable of pulling off a massive lie under intense public pressure.” “Okay, but how on earth did you even find me?” I asked, throwing my hands up.
“Do billionaires just have a tracking device for broke college kids?” “I called the head of the university’s Drama Department, Professor Vance,” Julian replied.
“I asked for the most chaotic, shameless student currently enrolled.
He didn’t even hesitate.
He gave me your name, your address, and a fifteen-minute lecture on how you once convinced an entire theater audience that an unscripted power outage was actually part of an experimental play.” “To be fair, my monologue during that blackout was magnificent,” I said, puffing my chest out slightly.
“The crowd gave me a standing ovation.” “He also mentioned your little side business,” Julian continued, ignoring my pride entirely.
“Drama-for-Hire.
A service where students paid you fifty dollars to show up at awkward public breakups, pretend to be their wildly dramatic exes, and take the blame so they could walk away cleanly.” “Ah, my old enterprise,” I sighed dramatically, leaning against my counter.
“I had to retire when word got around, clients started getting lazy, and honestly, fifty bucks wasn’t worth getting cheap red wine thrown at my face by angry fraternity boys.
But I see my reputation precedes me.” Julian reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick brownish paper folder, but he didn’t open it.
Instead, he leaned back, assessing me with a cold, analytical glare.
“Professor Vance swears you can act your way out of a murder charge,” Julian said softly.
“I want to see it.
Prove him right.
Give me thirty seconds of your absolute best high-society matriarch act.
Right now.” I blinked.
“Right now?
In my cat-and-taco pyjamas?” “Twenty-five seconds,” he replied, tapping a sleek silver watch on his wrist.
“If you impress me, I open the folder.
If you fail, I walk out this door and hire your classmate.” My eyes narrowed.
Oh, so he wanted to play games.
I dropped the wooden spoon onto the counter, immediately threw my shoulders back, tilted my chin up at an absurdly arrogant forty-five-degree angle, and peered down my nose at him like he was a blob of grease on a luxury carpet.
“Is this conversation domestic?” I drawled, lacing my voice with thick, aristocratic disdain and a subtle European accent.
“Take it away before my complexion breaks out in poverty.
And someone inform the staff that if this chair isn’t hand-carved mahogany from the French Alps, I shall have the entire building demolished by tea time.” Silence stretched across the tiny room.
The two giant bodyguards outside the door shifted uncomfortably.
Julian didn’t move a muscle, but the sheer coldness in his eyes flickered into something sharp and intensely focused.
Slowly, a microscopic twitch appeared at the corner of his strict, handsome lips.
“Acceptable,” he murmured.
He reached into his folder, pulled out a crisp piece of paper, and slid it gently onto my shaky coffee table.
I leaned forward, peering over the top of my scratched glasses.
The sheer amount of zeros written across that certified cashier’s check shone so bright into my broke eyes that my vision temporarily blurred.
“That is fifty thousand dollars,” Julian said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity.
My heart did a violent, banging flip against my ribs.
Fifty thousand dollars?
That wasn’t just rent money.
That was rent, past-due tuition, a year’s worth of actual groceries, and even a brand-new microwave that didn’t make terrifying buzzing sounds whenever I turned it on.
I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath, trying to play it cool despite the fact that my soul was currently screaming.
“Fifty thousand dollars,” I repeated, squinting at him suspiciously.
“For what, exactly?
Mr.
Sterling, am I robbing a bank tonight?
Because if we are committing a felony, I need to know what the dress code is.” “No bank robberies,” he said coldly.
“My twenty-year-old niece, Chloe, is currently being targeted by a gold-digging parasite named Devon.
He intends to propose to her tonight at the Grand Imperial Gala to secure his access to her trust fund.
She is far too gentle to handle confrontation, and she views my interference as overbearing.” “So you want me to crush him?” I asked, my inner chaotic actress sitting up at full attention.
“Throw champagne in his face?
Reveal his double life?” “No,” Julian replied, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
“I need an authority figure she actually fears and respects—someone who can dismantle Devon publicly, humiliate him so thoroughly that he flees the city, and give Chloe a valid reason to dump him without feeling guilty.” “An authority figure?
Like a cop?” “Like her adoptive, ultra-wealthy, deeply terrifying mother-in-law,” Julian said smoothly.
I blinked once.
Then twice.
“I’m sorry, I think my ears just glitched.
Did you say mother-in-law?
Like the matriarch of Sterling.” “I did.” “Mr.
Sterling, look at me!” I gestured wildly at my cat shirt.
“I am twenty-two years old!
I look like I still get asked for ID when I buy cough syrup!
How in the world am I going to play the mother-in-law of a twenty-year-old girl?!” “My team of stylists has already prepared a custom wardrobe,” Julian said, entirely unfazed by my rising panic.
“A vintage mink coat, three strands of real pearl necklaces, oversized dark sunglasses, and enough high-end cosmetics to age your demeanor by thirty years.
You will play Lady Sterling—the long-lost, eccentric matriarch who has just returned from a spiritual retreat in Monaco.” “And what is my character’s motivation at this gala?” I asked, my voice dripping with heavy sarcasm.
“Your motivation,” Julian said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket with crisp precision, “is to walk into that ballroom, claim Chloe as your beloved adoptive daughter, and treat Devon like a piece of dirt stuck to the bottom of your designer shoe.
You will roast his family background, criticize his atrocious table manners, audit his failing business in front of two hundred elite guests, and make him wish he had never been born.” He took two slow steps toward me, stopping directly in front of my kitchen counter.
He was so tall I had to tilt my head all the way back just to meet his gaze.
Up close, he smelled faintly of expensive cedarwood, clean rain, and crisp, brand-new paper money.
“You have exactly two hours to get dressed, memorize a twenty-page fake family history, and transform into a high-society nightmare,” Julian said softly, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low tone.
“Do we have a deal, Miss Fox?” I looked down at the fifty-thousand-dollar check sitting on my coffee table.
Then I looked at my bowl of cold, plain white rice.
I reached onto the counter, picked up my scratched five-dollar sunglasses, slipped them over my eyes, and turned back to the icy billionaire with a wide, wicked grin.
“Mr.
Sterling,” I said, putting my hands on my hips.
“For fifty thousand dollars, I won’t just make him wish he was never born.
I’ll make him apologize to his ancestors.” Julian stared at me for three long seconds.
For the very first time, a slow, dark smirk carved its way across his face.
“Good,” he said softly, turning toward the open doorway.
“The limousine is waiting downstairs.
Don’t be late for your debut, Matriarch.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Bel_Rose Hope you enjoyed the opening chapter!
Lovelies!!
(^~^) We’re just getting started with the secrets, drama, and high-stakes twists.
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