The Billionaire On My Couch

The money stopped coming. My life as a pampered international student was over, and of all people, the one guy I couldn't stand to look weak in front of was asking for a place to crash.

I figured Id lean into the tragedy. If I was going to lose everything, I might as well become his kept womanlive off his dime and take whatever I could get.

I tried to seduce him. "Want to take advantage of the situation?" I whispered.

He pushed me away.

Fine. I straightened my posture and my pride, ready to scrub floors if I had to.

Then he hesitated. "Can you really handle a life that gritty?"

When I checked my messages later, he was fuming. "Ive basically moved in with you, and youre already looking for someone else?"

Six months into my masters program in London, my father cut me off.

The phone call was clinical. The company was bankrupt. What little cash he had left was being "secured" for his secret second familythe illegitimate son I only found out about ten minutes prior.

As for me? He didnt care if I found a rich benefactor or started waitressing. His parting advice was to "find a trust-fund kid among your classmates."

I was speechless.

I sank into the velvet sofa of my high-rise apartment near Liverpool Street. Outside, the London sky was a bruised purple. Inside, I felt like a gala appleglossy on the outside, rotting at the core. I could almost feel the maggots of my new reality squirming under my skin. It was sickening.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed.

It was Grant Mercer.

[Skye, are you in London? Im in a bit of a crisis.]

It was followed by a sticker of a soaking wet, pathetic-looking puppy.

Back in high school, Grant and I moved in the same elite circles, both of us always surrounded by a crowd. But we rarely spoke. Id heard that after graduation, hed taken over his familys hedge fund and was killing it. Cold, calculated, and incredibly successful.

Why was he asking me for help?

A second message popped up:

[Just landed. My hotel overbooked, and everything decent in the city is packed for the weekend. Any chance I can crash on your couch for a night?]

If it had been anyone else, I would have said no. But this was Grant Mercer.

Driven by some inexplicable impulse, I sent him my pin.

[Come over.]

I figured we were both far from home. Maybe I just didn't want to be alone with my own ruin.

My father tells me Im broke, and forty minutes later, a billionaire arrives at my door. My intuition told me something was off.

When I opened the door, I locked eyes with Grant.

His pupils dilated instantlya sharp, involuntary reaction. In the psychology books Id read to pass the time, they say that happens when you see something you desire. Does he have a thing for me?

"Long time no see, Skye."

He offered a small, easy smile.

"Thanks for taking me in. I seriously thought I was going to be sleeping in a tube station tonight."

He sounded composed, but the tips of his ears were a bright, tell-tale crimson. Was he... nervous?

A few damp strands of hair clung to his forehead, softening the sharp, intimidating lines of his face. He looked uncharacteristically approachable.

I stepped aside, forcing a polite smile. "Dont mention it."

Grant wheeled his suitcase inside.

"Sorry," I said, realizing a logistical issue. "I dont usually have guests. I dont have extra slippers."

"I figured," he replied.

"Wait, what?"

Had he planned this?

He knelt down to unzip his bag, avoiding my gaze. Guilty conscience?

"I mean, I figured most London apartments dont just have guest slippers waiting," he corrected quickly. He pulled out a pair of deep blue silk slippers and looked up at me with a grin. "So I brought my own."

I blinked. My heart did a strange little skip. "Right. Prepared as always."

In the living room, Grant hung his trench coat.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

I shook my head, feeling the weight of the day returning. "No appetite. Not really in the mood." My stomach was a knot of anxiety.

Grant frowned, looking like he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.

I realized how rude I was being. Hed just flown across the Atlantic. He had to be starving.

"Actually," I amended, trying to sound more hospitable, "I think Im getting hungry now. I was going to make some noodles. Want some?"

His eyes brightened. The change in his expression was almost childlike.

"I'd love some. Im actually starving."

I headed into the kitchen and pulled a pack of noodles from the pantry. As I reached for a pot, a long, elegant hand moved past me, taking it from my grip.

"Ill help," Grant said, stepping into my space.

"Youre the guest"

"Im the guest whos crashing on your couch," he interrupted with a laugh. "I should at least be useful."

I pulled some prawns, bok choy, and eggs from the fridge. Every time I tried to turn on the tap or prep a vegetable, he was there, gently taking over. What was supposed to be me cooking turned into me watching him work.

The hum of the vent hood drowned out the dark thoughts in my head for a moment. I leaned against the kitchen island, feeling a twinge of guilt.

"Don't you have jet lag? You must be exhausted."

Grants hand paused as he sliced some green onions. He looked at me, his eyes shimmering with something I couldn't quite read.

"I'm okay," he murmured, returning to the cutting board. "Being with a... friend makes it easier."

Friend? Was that what we were?

Soon, two bowls of steaming shrimp noodles were on the table. A perfect soft-boiled egg sat atop the noodles, framed by the vibrant green of the vegetables.

"Try it?" He handed me chopsticks, looking almost anxious for my approval.

The steam rose between us, softening his features. He looked incredibly gentle in the yellow light of the kitchen.

I took a bite.

"Its amazing," I said, and I meant it. "Better than mine."

Grants lips curved into a satisfied smirk.

"Next time, I want to try yours," he said.

We sat in silence, eating. I thought I had no appetite, but I ended up finishing nearly the whole bowl.

"Is it peak tourist season in London?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

He paused. "Fashion Week. And a big concert series at the O2."

"Oh."

I looked down and pulled up a booking app under the table. A quick search showed plenty of five-star rooms available.

"Im picky," he added, as if reading my mind. "The places I actually like were all booked up."

I felt a flush of embarrassment. Did he catch me checking?

"So, is this a business trip?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah. A few meetings at the London branch," he said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "And a bit of a vacation."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intensifying.

"I came alone, though. I didn't really plan an itinerary." He sounded almost pathetic. "Could you show me around for a few days? Be my guide?"

I wanted to tell him I wasn't in the headspace to play tourist. But under the weight of that look, the 'no' died in my throat.

"Youre lucky," I said softly. "I don't have classes this week. I can show you around."

As I finished the last bite, I reached for Grants empty bowl. I should at least do the dishes.

Our fingers brushed against the ceramic. His skin was warm, and a tiny jolt of electricity shot up my arm. I froze.

"Ive got it," he said.

He caught the rim of the bowl, taking mine too, and stood up.

"Let me do it," I insisted, reaching out.

He lifted his arm, holding the bowls just out of my reach. I had to look up at him. From this angle, I could see the sharp line of his jaw and the slight movement of his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

"Skye," he said, a playful glint in his eyes. "What are you fighting for?"

He teased me with the bowls like I was a cat reaching for a toy.

"I actually like doing dishes."

He disappeared into the kitchen before I could argue. I sighed and followed him to help tidy up. By the time we were done, it was nearly ten.

"I only have the one bedroom," I said, pulling a duvet from the hall closet and laying it on the sofa. "Im sorry you have to sleep here."

"It's fine, really." He took the duvet from me, patting the sofa. "Better than a park bench."

"The bathroom is through there," I pointed. "You should go first. You've had a long day."

"You go," he smiled. "You look more tired than I feel."

Did I really look that drained? I thought I was hiding the breakdown better.

"I need to dig something out of my suitcase anyway," he added.

"Okay."

I was exhausted. In the bathroom, the hot water washed over me, and the air filled with the scent of my freesia-scented body washsweet, crisp, and cold.

Twenty minutes later, I stepped out, towel-drying my hair. Grant was on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. He looked up, then immediately averted his eyes.

"I'll head in," he said, grabbing his toiletries and rushing into the bathroom.

A second later, he poked his head back out.

"Um..." His eyes flickered over me for a split second before darting away. His ears were red again. "I forgot my body wash. Can I borrow yours?"

"Of course. Its on the shelf. The clear bottle."

"Thanks."

The door clicked shut. I plugged in my hairdryer. The roar of the dryer filled the room, but I could still hear the splash of the shower.

I finished my hair, but the water was still running. I started worrying about my utility bills. Every penny mattered now that the fountain had run dry.

Finally, the water stopped.

Grant emerged, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. Droplets rolled down his nose, over his collarbone, and disappeared into his shirt. As he walked toward me, he brought the scent of freesia with him.

He smelled exactly like me. Like Id marked him.

Get a grip, Skye, I told myself, looking down to hide my face.

"Hair dry?" he asked, his voice a bit gravelly from the steam.

"Yeah. The dryer is right there."

I looked up and stopped breathing. He was wearing navy silk pajamas. The pattern, the material, the cutthey were identical to the dusty-rose set I was wearing. Same brand, same collection.

Grant stopped drying his hair. He looked at my pajamas, then his own.

"Small world," he said, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "I guess we have the same taste."

He looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable, though his ears remained flushed. My heart was thumping against my ribs.

"I guess so," I managed to whisper.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat, breaking the tension. "I have to stop by the office tomorrow morning. I should be done by eleven. Lunch?"

He sounded almost tentative, like he was afraid Id say no.

"Sure," I said.

"Its a date, then."

His voice was light, relieved.

"It's late. You should get some sleep."

I turned toward the bedroom.

"Skye?"

I looked back. He was standing by the sofa, silhouetted against the city lights.

"Goodnight."

My heart skipped a beat. "...Goodnight."

I lay in bed, my mind spiraling.

Ive always had an impossibly high bar for men. They had to be brilliant, handsome, kind, wealthy, andmost importantlyutterly devoted to me. I had a high opinion of myself. If a guy didn't check every box, I preferred to be alone.

Grant Mercer checked every single one.

Except the last one. He didnt love me.

I was used to things being handed to me. I thought "pursuing" something was beneath me. But now, he had landed right in my lap just as my world was ending.

If Grant was here to save me, how easy would that be? I could just let him. I could be his.

I rolled over, clutching my pillow. Stop it. You're being delusional.

Yes, the apps showed hotels were available, but he said he was picky. Yes, he was blushing, but maybe he was just awkward with women. Yes, he was nice, but maybe he was just well-bred.

I woke up to an empty living room.

Grant was already gone. On the dining table sat a sandwich and a note in his bold, sharp handwriting:

[Off to the meeting. Eat breakfast. I'll pick you up at 11. :D]

I couldn't help but smile. But then reality came crashing back in.

I sat at the table, chewing the sandwich, and opened a real estate app. I drafted a post to sublet my apartment. This place was a luxury I could no longer afford. My lease was for a full year; if I broke it, Id lose the deposit. Subletting was the only way to survive.

The weight of my future felt like a physical blow. A Masters in Art History? Good luck finding a high-paying internship.

Find someone rich, my fathers voice echoed in my head. You're beautiful and you have a degree from a top school. That's your capital. Drop the "pure and noble" act.

I remember arguing with him. I'm not an object! There are plenty of pretty girls with degrees.

But now, staring at my bank balance, a cold shiver ran down my spine. I was starting to see myself as an object. A commodity for sale.

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. Twenty-two stories up.

Below, the cars and people looked like ants. I felt a terrifying urge to just... let go. To fall into the mud. If I was going to lose it all, why not crash spectacularly?

A sense of self-destructive ruin washed over me.

I sank to the floor, my knees hitting the hardwood.

Suddenly, I heard the front door open. Heavy footsteps.

"Skye?"

Grant was back. His voice was frantic. He rushed to me, reaching out to help me up, then hesitating as if afraid hed break me.

"What happened? Are you hurt? Is it your family? Im here..."

I looked up at him. His eyes were full of pain and panic, but notably, no confusion.

I realized then.

"Grant," I whispered, my voice cracked. "You already knew, didn't you?"

His fingers twitched.

"Yes," he admitted quietly. "I heard about what happened with your fathers company."

He was framed by the light, looking like a golden god. He was Grant Mercer. He had everything I was about to lose.

I wanted to cling to him. I didn't want to fall.

The tears finally broke. Big, hot drops rolled down my cheeks. He reached out, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of my eye.

"Grant..."

I reached out and grabbed his collar, pulling him down toward me.

"Do you know... do you know that I'm looking for a rich man to take care of me?"

We were so close I could feel his breath hitch. His whole body went rigid.

I let go of his collar and let my fingers graze his Adam's apple. It was a clumsy, desperate gesture.

Grant grabbed my wrist. "Skye, what are you doing?"

"I'm being a ghost," I whispered. "I'm giving up."

I leaned into his ear, my voice a trembling breath.

"Grant, did you come here for me? Do you want to take advantage of me?"

I looked up at him with wet, shimmering eyes.

"Do you want... me?"