Page 1 of Ezra the Billionaire

CHAPTER ONE

LAUREN BILLINGSLEY

Agreeing to shoot a reality TV show is a bad idea. Cameras in your face. Manufactured drama for ratings. It’s the absolute worst.

And then there’s the fall out once the show airs for millions of people to laugh and snicker at your woes—a modern day Colosseum, where its gladiators aren’t clad in leather and wielding swords, but lounging in sweats and crying into mimosas.

I knew before I signed the contract that it had the potential to blow up in my face, but sweet,stupidoptimism blinded me. Along with love, or something that could’ve eventually turned into love if the explosion onHarmony Househadn’t been fucking nuclear.

“Lauren, over here!” A paparazzi photog shouts, clamoring for a prime spot within the mosh pit of vultures staked in front of my hotel. I duck my head to avoid the flash of cameras and hug my oversized tote closer to my chest.

“Hunter and Mya’s song ‘My Lonesome Heart’ is now number one on the pop charts. How jealous are you of their accomplishment?”

“No comment.”

It’s alwaysno comment. Since the day I found my ex-boyfriend balls deep in an upcoming starlet, that’s the only phrase I can legally say to the press.

The filming for our reality show,Harmony House, wrapped over a week ago, but the shocking reveal that my former boyfriend cheated on me with a fellow housemate aired for the entire world to see last night.

Hunter and I had co-written hundreds of songs before falling into a romantic relationship last year—a natural progression after spending hours together writing one romantic ballad after another. Which is why when he suggested we apply to join a show featuring songwriters and new singing talent living in a sort of creative mecca, I said ‘yes.’

Boy, do I regretthatdecision.

Hopping into the rideshare whisking me away to the airport, I close the door on the frothing rabble outside the car and force a smile at the wide-eyed driver.

“Sorry for the chaos,” I say, pulling the seatbelt across my chest and clicking it into place. My gaze stays fixed ahead rather than on the camera flashes piercing the windows.

“Should I know who you are?” The driver merges into traffic.

“Nope. These are just my fifteen minutes of fame before I’m forgotten.”Hopefully.I mean who remembers reality TV participants? Unless they intend to turn their time in the limelight into brand deals as influencers, most fade into obscurity.

My only fear is that the drama of Hunter cheating on national television will make some sort of ‘Top Ten’ list of TV’s most epic reveals or surprise twists. Then my humiliation will live on in infamy.

“What are you famous for?” the driver asks. Guess they’re the curious, small-talk type.

Just my luck.

“I was on a show calledHarmony House.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Thank god,” I mutter under my breath. I’m praying no one in Suitor’s Crossing has heard of it either, because I booked an extended stay at Hearthstone Lodge as part of myEscape Hunter, That Damn Show, & the Paparazziplan.

The moment my phone began blowing up during last night’s episode, I knew I was living on borrowed time in my quiet little bubble. Hunter’s indiscretion made my admittedly boring storyline—writing songs, working with singers, and staying drama-free—suddenly newsworthy, and my poor apartment got bombarded by paps. Racing to a hotel with better security didn’t help matters, so I took drastic measures and decided to flee the state.

Besides, a little R&R in the mountains sounds sublime, as long as I remain hidden from the public eye.

Surely, no one will follow me across the country, right?

CHAPTER TWO

EZRA CALDWELL

“Look out!” The shouted warning echoes in Hearthstone Lodge’s atrium before a splash of cool liquid hits my head and shoulders, dousing me in something sweet and distinctly coffee-like. Ice cubes rain down and scatter across the marble tile as Keisha from the concierge desk hurries over.

“Are you alright?” She searches the upper levels of the lodge while speaking into a walkie-talkie. “Does someone have eyes on what happened?”

A couple of guests lean over the balconies to stare below, confusion rife on their faces until my narrowed gaze connects with violet eyes wide with guilt. Pointing at the woman, I tell Keisha, “There.Bring her to me. I’ll be in my office drying off.”

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