Page 7 of Fake Fiancé for the Billionaire Rockstar

As he walks away, I wonder what the hell I’ve just gotten myself into. It would be easy to follow him, chasing after the long strides he makes across the floor, but I can’t bring myself to see that defeated look in his eyes again.

If only I were as heartless as the other managers I’ve been around. Things would be much easier.

But that's not who I am. My past experiences in the industry have shaped me, made me cautious about crossing lines.

Yet here I am, about to blur the biggest line of all with one of my clients. The irony isn't lost on me.

***

The elevator ride to Donny’s penthouse is torture. He stands close enough that I can feel his body heat, smell his cologne. My nerves are frayed, every cell in my body hyper-aware of his presence. If he touches me now, I might combust – or snap. I’m not sure which would be worse.

Now that I’ve had time to think properly, I’m angry at myself for giving in to the favor. I never should’ve told him I would do it. My heart stutters when the elevator dings, and the doors open up to his home.

My mouth hangs open as I take in the penthouse, and it takes me a few moments to gather the courage to step inside. The space is breathtaking, the kind of place you’d see on the cover of an architecture magazine.

The open floor plan stretches out endlessly, at least 3,000 square feet of carefully curated elegance. The polished hardwood floors gleam as though they were freshly waxed,catching the soft light that filters through massive floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall, which offers a panoramic view of Central Park, the greenery below contrasting beautifully with the skyline. The late afternoon sun bathes the entire living area in a golden hue, making the space feel both expansive and intimate.

The top-floor apartment is a masterpiece of modern design, all clean lines and sleek surfaces, with just the right touch of warmth. Rich walnut wood contrasts with cool steel accents, giving it a sophisticated but welcoming vibe. The living room features a plush sectional couch in soft, muted tones, positioned perfectly to enjoy both the view and the massive abstract paintings that hang on the walls. They aren’t just art; they’re statements—pieces I recognize from galleries we’ve passed in other cities.

Clearly, Donny has a passion for art, and his collection is impressive, with one canvas stretching nearly six feet across, a swirl of vibrant colors that demands attention. Each painting is illuminated by recessed lighting, showcasing them like they’re in a private gallery. The ceiling seems to stretch forever, at least twenty feet high, giving the space an even grander feel. A chandelier spirals above, its delicate tendrils adorned with tiny lights that sparkle like stars.

It wouldn’t surprise me if it cost a fortune — everything in here must have. Even the air smells like luxury, with a faint hint of lemons lingering as though the place had been freshly cleaned just for our arrival.

“Hungry? Thirsty?” Donny’s voice jolts me back to reality.

“Water,” I manage to whisper. My mouth is suddenly dry.

He nods, leading me into the kitchen, which feels like the crown jewel of this penthouse. The kitchen is open, modern, and impeccably organized, with custom cabinetry in soft shades of grey and cream that seamlessly blend into the rest of the space. A state-of-the-art espresso machine sits on the counter, next to a glass jar filled with perfectly arranged artisan coffee beans. It’s the kind of kitchen that invites you to cook, to indulge in something gourmet, yet looks almost too perfect to disturb.

I glance toward the windows again, my eyes drawn to the sweeping view of Central Park. From this height, the trees look like a serene, untouched world beneath the chaos of the city. It’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the beauty of it all—and by how well it suits Donny. This place feels like an extension of him, quiet, intense, and filled with things that matter.

“Nice place,” I mumble, trying to sound nonchalant, but my voice betrays me. I’m awed.

“Beats staying in the old house alone.” There’s a hint of something in his voice—loneliness?

My chest tightens. I want to say something, to comfort him somehow. But I can’t. I’m his manager, not his friend. Not his real fiancée.

"This is weird," he states after a few moments of silence, his eyes searching mine. "We really don't have to do this, you know. I can figure something else out."

My heart races. Part of me wants to take the out he's offering, to run as far as I can from this situation. But another part, a part I'm trying desperately to ignore, wants to stay.

"You're right, it is weird," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "But I don't back down from things I agree to. Even if they terrify me."

The intensity in his gaze makes me wonder if he can see right through me, if he knows how conflicted I really am.

He smirks. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

I roll my eyes at him and sigh. “So, how do you want to do this?”

Donny approaches with my water. As he sets it down, his arms cage me in, his chest brushing my back. My breath catches. Every nerve ending comes alive.

I stiffen, and he pulls away with a low chuckle. “Well, first things first... that has to be fixed. No one would believe we’re together if you can barely stand my touch.”

If only you knew. I want to touch you too much. The thought blazes through my mind, unbidden.

I arch an eyebrow, hoping my face doesn’t betray me. “How would you suggest we fix that?”

“Easy,” he says, as if we’re discussing the weather and not potentially upending our entire relationship. “Tomorrow, we stroll around the city. You’ll be snuggled up against me, shielding from the cold.”

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