Billionaire Romance9 min read
I Woke Up as the Fake Heiress — and He Wouldn't Let Go
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"I hit him full on." I say it out loud because my head is spinning and saying it makes it real.
"Did you mean to?" a low voice asks.
I lift my face and see him. Cyrus Mori is taller than every picture, darker-eyed than every ad, and he smells like soap and cold air. He lets me fall into the wall and doesn't move to help. He only watches, like I am a small quake.
"Watch where you're going," Katelyn Perry, his agent, snaps from behind him. "This is not a place for drama, Evelynn."
"Evelynn?" I touch my mouth. That name is mine now. My old life is a thin film and it just broke. I remember books, not bones. I remember whose skin I wear: Evelynn Deng, a fake heiress in a pet novel. I remember the scene I'd read a hundred times—the night I was drugged, the way a predatory heir laughed, the exile that ended in the hospital.
"She looks ill," Cyrus says, finally. He shifts and puts one solid arm under my back like it's nothing. "Bring her to the med room."
I swallow. "I'm fine."
"You look drugged," Katelyn says. "We saw her come in with Bennett Albert. He was with her."
I go cold at that name.
"Who?" I say.
"Don't play dumb," Katelyn answers. Her smile is sharp. "Bennett Albert. You know him. He likes risky games. He likes to take photos."
"I was not—" My throat closes. Everything in me remembers the book. In that book, Bennett slipped something into my drink. In that book, I woke in a room that was not mine. In that book I lost everything.
Cyrus tightens and his jaw goes just so. "You are Carsen Acosta's wife now," he says to Katelyn. "You do not speak badly of her."
"She isn't—" Katelyn starts.
"She is," Cyrus says. "And I will not hear another word."
I feel my legs give. A dozen memories flood in: the system voice, the list of sixteen story points, the temptation to refuse the plot and die. The system spoke soft and clear in my head like it was reading me a script.
BD123: "Complete tasks. Score points. Live."
I stood up then because my life is not an old book. I stood up because I tasted a kind of freedom the original Evelynn never had.
"Who are you?" I ask Cyrus.
He lifts one eyebrow. "Carsen Acosta. Your husband."
My eyes must have gone wide. I have a husband. I have a contract. I have a system.
"Nice to meet you," I say. "Could you untangle me now?"
He lets go without comment and I stumble to the med room. The med tech checks me over and says low blood sugar, a sugar drip will help. Katelyn collects herself and gossips into her phone.
Later, when I'm steadier, the system chimes like a small bell in my head.
BD123: "Task 1 checked. You were drugged. Your score: 1000."
"Task?" I mutter.
BD123: "There are sixteen key plot points involving the later arcs. You need eighty percent to pass. Fail and—"
"Return to death," I say to the system.
BD123 is annoyingly cheerful. "Yes. Choose life."
I look at my hands. My nails are a plain, neat pink. I have resources and poverty both. In this life I can either play the villain Evelynn did, or I can change her script.
I choose change.
Three weeks later I sign paperwork in a small office with Robert Heinrich, an agent who smells of books and coffee. "You want a company?"
"Yes," I say. "Make actors. Make real work. Make money."
"You have the money?" he asks.
"Not yet." I grin. "But I have an idea."
Robert laughs, the kind of laugh that sticks. "Okay. We'll call it Whiteframe Entertainment."
"Whiteframe," I repeat. "I like it."
Later, we go to the agency building. I meet Robert's team. Cyrus watches from the background like an unread book. There is an odd push and pull between us. He calls me out in private.
"You are going to be trouble," he says.
"Good trouble," I answer. "I'm done being a punchline."
"Prove it," he says.
---
"Why are you signing a marriage contract?" Carsen asks three days later, when he summons me into a quiet room of a music bar.
"Why are you offering one?" I counter.
He slides a folder to me. "Publicly we are married. Privately we both do what we want. For three years we play the part. I protect family interests. You get 420 million RMB if you complete it. I will not force you. You get career resources during the contract. We divorce at the end."
"Three years to retire rich," I say, flip to the clause. "And if one of us breaks it?"
"422 million in penalties," he says, calm as carved ice. "You sign, you get safety, you get money, you get a bed partner if you want. I get stability."
I look up. He is telling it like ledger work, but his chin is warm with something like interest.
"Penalties apply to you, too," I say. "This is mutual."
He nods. "That's the point."
"Fine," I say.
I sign.
---
"You're reckless," Robert says later, when I move into the Acosta estate and find my phone blasting with offers for fittings. "Do you want forty couture gowns?"
"I need forty—we will need them in public." I smile. "I will look the part."
"You're bending under the metal press," he mutters.
"I have to flex the muscles of the part," I answer. "Also, the list of parties will keep you paid."
"Good," he says.
Almost like that, I sink into the role of Carsen's wife. We walk into charity dinners. We rehearse smiles. We appear on Carsen's arm and databases nod. People accept the marriage as a soothing fact.
Truth is, he tests me often. Sometimes he is cold and distant. Sometimes he is a hand at the small of my back. He refuses to be affectionate in public, but his private behavior is complicated. The night I first woke in his bed, he had said under his breath: "You can't be that simple."
I roll my eyes. "You can't be that hot."
"You're not supposed to say that to your husband."
"You're supposed to pour my coffee differently."
He doesn't answer. He pulls me close enough to read the color in my throat. "You left your card in my room," he says. "Why?"
"I didn't mean to," I lie fine and easy.
He gives a sound that is almost a laugh. "No. That's not your way."
"My way is to collect people who help me."
He studies me like a tilt of a painting. "I like that."
---
On set with Cyrus, our chemistry is a problem and a weapon. He accuses me of stalking him and I accuse him of being a textbook drama king. We push and banter in front of cameras, behind them, in the woods. He calls my bluff on social media. I call his.
"You're pretending to be unmoved," I tell him one night under the stars. "You are very moved."
"Am not," he says, and kisses me quick because the camera's off.
"Stop," I say, and then I do not stop him.
We become a public rumor, a quiet heat. I am not his obsessed fan. I stopped being that the night I announced I was done being someone else's story.
---
But a bad plot thread returns.
One morning I receive a message: a photo of Bennett Albert and Katelyn Perry together in a private club. They laugh. Under the photo is a caption: "She was easy. She will be easy again."
My stomach drops. I remember the prick of the drug, the hot rush, the weakness. I remember waking to a bed I did not own. I remember being dragged out of my own house. I remember how the original Evelynn died over and over.
"Do you want me to handle it?" Carsen asks quietly when I show him.
"No," I say. "I want them to fall."
He nods. "Good. Do it in public."
I plan then. The system helps. I gather evidence: texts, a receipt for the night, a surveillance clip from the hotel corridor showing Bennett trailing me. Robert uses Whiteframe's lawyer and reaches some staff who remember Bennett's threads. Cyrus helps. He records a quiet, careful conversation with Katelyn who brags about getting girls drunk.
On the night of Carsen's foundation gala I choose to set the stage. Carsen agrees; he hands me a small card that reads: "Tonight is cleaned." He is stone-calm as always.
We walk into the ballroom with a thousand people. Lights bloom like coins. The press forms a ring. Cyrus is at my side—public ally, private spark.
I climb the stage under polite applause. A thousand face screens glow.
"Good evening," I say. "I want to tell a story."
There are murmurs. Katelyn looks at me sugar-sweet in her satin. Bennett stands a few rows back in an expensive suit, a man used to buying silence.
"This story is about a woman who was drugged," I say. "This woman is me."
The room stills.
"You are allowed to be quiet," I say. "You are allowed to walk away. But I will not."
I press a button. A video pulses on the big screen.
"Here is a hotel camera clip," I say. "Here is a message chain where Mr. Albert arranges for drinks to be dosed. Here is Ms. Perry congratulating him. Here is a string of photos they sent each other showing arrangements."
The clip plays. Bennett's face tightens. Katelyn's smile thins. Around the room phones come up, faces go pale.
"You think money buys you immunity?" I say. "You think a woman's body is a ledger?"
"Shut up," Bennett says. He stands and walks up. "You have no proof. This is slander."
"I have proof," I say. "And the police will have proof in thirty minutes."
He laughs. "You can't do anything to me."
Then a dozen phones ring at once. Cyrus's assistant sends the clip to three journalists live. Robert has already filed a restraining request with evidence. A live thread on social media spikes. Handheld cameras in the crowd point.
Bennett starts to shift. Katelyn's hands tremble.
"Get him out," she hisses.
"No," I say. "Wait."
She can't wait. Katelyn opens her mouth, but the clip continues. It shows the texts. It shows Bennett's face. It shows a hotel worker confirming he bought liquor.
"Then explain this!" I press.
Bennett's composed mouth cracks. He is a man used to money; now money cannot press its fist over evidence. He looks like a boxer whose opponent just changed the rules.
"You're lying," he says at last. His voice is small and raw.
A woman near the front—an actress I've signed—stands. "He drugged me too," she says. "Two years ago. I was too scared. I didn't tell."
Others start to speak. A stylist raises a hand. A former model says he pushed her to the back of a car. A waiter recalls someone whispering about "a private room."
Cameras catch each confession. The ballroom, at first shocked, turns into an arena. Phones flash. People lean in.
Bennett's face drains. He stumbles backwards as if someone hit him. He tries to smile. "You will—"
"Shut up." A reporter steps forward. "Will you comment?"
Bennett's supporters shrink. He looks around for guards. There are none. He takes two steps, then three. He reaches Carsen's edge and stares at me with something like pleading and anger in the same breath.
"Get off my property," Carsen says.
Bennett turns to him. "You can't—"
Carsen doesn't speak much. Tonight, he does. "You took what was not yours. You stole a woman's safety. You will answer."
Katelyn is pale. She looks smaller than I expected. She opens her mouth. "I didn't—"
"You got money and you used it," I say. "You both did. You should have known better."
Bennett's knees bend in slow motion. He drops to his knees on the marble. Every camera is on him. Phones record. The balcony murmurs. "No," he says. "No, no, no. I didn't mean—"
He begs. He bangs his fists. "Please. Please, I can give you money. Please let me go."
Cameras don't stop. The crowd records, broadcasts, uploads. A live feed captures his voice—"Please"—and every excuse. He cries like a cornered man.
Katelyn starts to cry, too, but she is different: not real tears, a tremor. "I'm sorry," she says, low. "I didn't know. I didn't—"
"No," I say. "You did know."
I watch them bow and plead. I watch the same men who once wore power like armor now wear shame. I watch the room change color from gold to glass.
"I will not let you vanish this under money," I tell him. "You will show your face in every testimony. You will sit under the lights and answer questions. You will learn how small your money is in front of law."
He is still on his knees. He presses his forehead to the marble as if to pray. People nearby hiss. Someone snaps a photo that will be on newspapers within minutes.
"Do you want everyone to see you on your knees?" I ask.
"Please," he says, body shaking. "I'll—I'll do anything."
"You will go to the police," I say. "You will return every photo. You will publicly confess. You will never approach another woman alone again. You will pay."
He looks up at me. His mask is gone. "I—"
"Go now," Carsen says shortly.
He stands like a man dead inside. Katelyn wobbles to her feet, her face blotched. She stumbles away. People close in for interviews. The gala is a ruin of murmurs and phones.
Later the hashtags explode. The videos trend. Bennett is arrested that night; CCTV footage, witnesses, and messages are all on file. Katelyn loses deals and is fired by her agency. The lawyers get busy. The footage of him on his knees goes viral.
I watch it all from the doorway of a small sitting room. Carsen sits beside me where no one can film. He does not touch me. He just says, quietly, "You were brave."
I say, "We did what we had to do."
He nods. "You took control."
I rest my head on the wall. I did not plan for him to be arrested within hours. The system gave me the tools. The people I built trust with—Robert, Cyrus, the actors—lent me their voices. The world changed because a woman refused to be the quiet one.
---
Days pass and the dust settles. Whiteframe grows. We sign talents like Robert says we will. Cyrus becomes an odd cross between foil and ally—he teases, he protects, he fights over lines I take in scripts. Carsen grows softer, not openly but in private rooms. We sleep sometimes and sometimes we don't. The contract remains. Money looms at the end like a prize, but it is not the only thing.
One night, alone in the old library of the Acosta estate, I find a small card on the desk—my old credit card, with six 8s scrawled on the back. It has always been a silly secret. I run my thumb across the embossed numbers.
"Keep it," a voice from the doorway says.
Carsen stands there in a dark shirt. "You left it in my room that night," he says.
"I forgot," I say.
He smiles small. "Then don't forget me."
The system chimes quietly, like a small victory bell: BD123: "Twelve tasks complete. Keep going."
I put the card back into my wallet. I put my hand over Carsen's on the desk. He does not pull away.
"Promise me one thing," I say.
"Name it," he says.
"Keep my name clean," I say. "Don't trade it."
He meets my eyes and nods. "I won't."
We do not end with declarations or fairy lights. We end with a quiet, real thing—an agreement to keep a promise. The world is still messy and loud and dangerous. There are more tasks, more points, more people to sign and places to go. But for the first time since I fell into this story, I feel I belong to my own plot.
I am Evelynn Deng. I make the story bend.
The End
— Thank you for reading —