FAKE FIANCÉE FOR MY BILLIONAIRE BOSS

I'm running late. Again.

Cursing under my breath, I dodge through the crowded lobby of Vinz Hotels' flagship location, my heels click-clacking against the marble floor like a timer counting down to my doom.

Like I need another thing to stress about today.

"Morning, Penny!" chirps Jake from the front desk. "Cutting it close, aren't you?"

I flash him a harried smile. "Save me a muffin from the breakfast bar?"

He winks. "Already set one aside for you. Blueberry, right?"

"You're a lifesaver!" I call over my shoulder, already rushing towards the elevators.

The glossy doors slide open, revealing my reflection. I wince. My usually sleek brown hair is slightly frizzed, and there are shadows under my green eyes that even my trusty concealer couldn't quite hide. But my coral blouse is wrinkle-free and my pencil skirt hugs my curves in all the right places. It'll have to do.

I smooth my hair and straighten my spine as the elevator climbs. No matter how chaotic my personal life might be, I refuse to let it affect my work. As Head of Events for one of the most prestigious hotel chains in the country, I've got a reputation to maintain.

Even if that reputation includes working for the most infuriatingly handsome man I've ever met.

The elevator dings, depositing me on the top floor. I power-walk towards the conference room, my mind already racing through today's to-do list. There's the charity gala next month, the summer wedding expo to coordinate, not to mention—

"Ms. Goodman."

I freeze, one hand on the conference room door. That voice. Deep, smooth, and cold as ice. It sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.

Slowly, I turn. "Good morning, Mr. Floyd."

Vincent Floyd stands a few feet away, looking like he just stepped off the cover of GQ. His charcoal suit is impeccably tailored, emphasizing broad shoulders and a trim waist. A blood-red tie provides the only splash of color. His brown hair is artfully tousled, and those deep-set eyes regard me with their usual inscrutable expression.

Don't think about those eyes. Or those hands. Or that mouth...

I shake my head slightly, banishing the unwelcome thoughts. "I was just heading into the meeting."

"So I see." Is it my imagination, or does his gaze linger a moment too long? "Try not to make a habit of arriving at the last minute, Ms. Goodman. It sets a poor example for the rest of the staff."

My cheeks flush with equal parts embarrassment and annoyance. "Of course, Mr. Floyd. It won't happen again."

He nods curtly and brushes past me into the conference room, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something spicy—teasing my senses. I allow myself a moment to close my eyes and take a deep breath.

Get it together, Penelope. He's your boss, remember? Your incredibly hot, incredibly arrogant boss who you happened to have mind-blowing sex with once upon a time. Ancient history. Never to be repeated.

Squaring my shoulders, I follow Vincent into the lion's den.

________________________________________

Two hours later, I slump at my desk, feeling like I've gone ten rounds with a prize fighter. These quarterly review meetings always leave me drained, but today was especially brutal.

I pull up my calendar, groaning at the sea of color-coded appointments stretching endlessly before me. Someday, I promise myself, I'm going to take a real vacation. Preferably on a tropical beach. With unlimited margaritas.

My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mom.

> How did Reece's appointment go? Everything okay?

Reality comes crashing back. Shit. I'd been so caught up in work drama that I'd almost forgotten about my sister's doctor visit this morning. Guilt gnaws at my insides as I tap out a quick reply.

> Sorry, got stuck in a meeting. Calling her now.

I hesitate for a moment before dialing Reece's number. Part of me wants to put it off, to live in blissful ignorance for a few more minutes. But I've never been one to bury my head in the sand.

She picks up on the third ring. "Hey, sis! I was wondering when you'd call."

"Sorry, crazy morning," I say, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. "How'd it go?"

There's a pause, just long enough to make my stomach clench. "Well, the good news is, I'm not dead yet."

"Reece." My voice carries a warning note. At twenty-four, my baby sister still hasn't outgrown her morbid sense of humor. Usually I find it endearing, but not when it comes to her health.

She sighs. "Okay, okay. The doc says the new treatment is showing some promise, but..." Another pause. "They want to try a more aggressive approach. It's experimental, but they think it could really help."

Experimental. The word hangs in the air between us, loaded with hope and fear in equal measure.

"And the cost?" I ask, already dreading the answer.

"Don't worry about that," Reece says quickly. "I'll figure something out. Maybe I can pick up some more hours at the library, or—"

"Absolutely not," I cut her off. "You need to focus on getting better, not working yourself into the ground. I've got this, okay?"

"Pen..." Her voice wavers. "You've already done so much. The house, the medical bills... I can't ask you to take on more."

My throat tightens. "You're not asking, I'm offering. That's what big sisters are for, remember?"

We chat for a few more minutes, carefully avoiding any more talk of money or mortality. By the time we hang up, I feel hollowed out, like someone's scooped out my insides with a icecream scoop.

I lean back in my chair, staring unseeing at the LA skyline outside my window. The numbers dance in my head, a grim calculation I've become all too familiar with lately.

Between the mortgage on our new house—the dream home I'd promised Mom and Reece years ago—and the mounting medical bills, my savings account is looking decidedly anemic these days. I'm already working every event I can get my hands on, plus freelancing on the side. But it's not enough. Not nearly enough.