For money, I married a sleeping prince

The past few days, I had been tagging along with a matchmaking group. My intention? To enjoy the free food and drinks at the events while blending into the lively atmosphere. Honestly, I wasn’t there to find love but rather to amuse myself by observing the dating habits of modern bachelors and bachelorettes.

The group wasn’t just young singles. Among the members were a handful of elderly women eagerly seeking matches for their children. One day, one of these aunties dropped a bombshell that sent the group into a frenzy.

She casually announced, “I own 53 rental properties, three villas, and five adorable cats. All of this, plus additional assets, will be inherited by my only son. On top of that, I’m prepared to give my future daughter-in-law a monthly allowance of $50,000.”

The chat erupted with messages from women of all backgrounds vying for her attention. Questions flooded in, asking if her claims were true.

With confidence, she affirmed the legitimacy of her statement. But then she added, “There’s just one condition—my son is in a vegetative state. I hope his future wife will not mind.”

Silence fell over the group like a heavy curtain, but I couldn’t help chuckling. To me, this sounded like a golden opportunity wrapped in a velvet bow.

I had already decided long ago that marriage wasn’t in my plans. Why bother tying myself down? Life was better lived on my own terms. But if marrying a man in a vegetative state meant financial freedom? That didn’t sound too bad at all.

I, Stella Greer, had one great love: money.

Without hesitation, I sent her a message in the group chat: “Why would I mind? Your son is clearly my destined Sleeping Prince!”

The group exploded in laughter and applause. Messages poured in, calling me bold, funny, and even shameless. I didn’t care. To me, it was all worth it.

Moments later, the auntie messaged me privately:

“Are you being serious? Do you actually want to marry my son? Or are you just joking?”

“Of course, I’m serious!”

“Why?”

“Because of money,” I replied bluntly. There was no point in sugarcoating it—I was in it for the fortune.

She fell silent, and I assumed I’d blown my chance. But then, to my surprise, I received a transfer notification. She had sent me $500 as a travel allowance and invited me to visit her at Villa Eight in Starlight Bay, located in Crescent Gardens. She promised a warm welcome.

Crescent Gardens was the most exclusive neighborhood in the city, with villas averaging over $1 million. This woman wasn’t just rich—she was obscenely wealthy.

Grinning, I shamelessly accepted the money and set off immediately.

When I arrived at Villa Eight, I was greeted by an atmosphere of luxury and grandeur. The villa’s exterior was stunning, with meticulously maintained gardens and an air of nobility that made me feel slightly out of place.

After straightening my hair and smoothing my clothes, I rang the doorbell.

A glamorous woman in her forties opened the door, her smile radiant. She exuded sophistication, looking no older than her early thirties. Her flawless skin and impeccable fashion sense made me feel like I was meeting a celebrity.

“Hello, my name is Stella Greer,” I introduced myself, extending a hand. “I’m a graduate of a prestigious Ivy League university, currently preparing for the civil service examination.”

The woman, Abigail Winslow, shook my hand warmly, her eyes gleaming with approval. “You’re young, beautiful, and accomplished. Wonderful.”

After exchanging pleasantries, she invited me inside, pouring tea as we sat in the opulent living room. She asked about my background—family, work, and aspirations.

“My parents divorced when I was young, and neither of them kept in touch. I’ve been on my own ever since,” I explained. “As for work, I’m a fashion designer with an annual salary of around $100,000.”

Abigail nodded thoughtfully, her expression unreadable. She didn’t press further and soon gestured for me to follow her upstairs.

“Are we going to meet my Sleeping Prince now?” I teased.

She smiled. “Yes, my son is also my precious Sleeping Prince.”

We climbed to the third floor and entered a bedroom. I wasn’t expecting much—I’d already prepared myself for a purely transactional relationship. I didn’t need to fall in love. I only needed to secure the deal and fulfill my duties.

But the moment I saw him, my breath hitched.

There he was, lying peacefully on the bed. His long lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks, and his features were so exquisite they seemed sculpted by an artist. His collarbones peeked out from under his shirt, sharp and defined, giving him an otherworldly elegance.

My heart raced. My mind screamed, This… this is my prince.

For the first time in my life, I felt a spark—something more than ambition or greed. Was it excitement? Was it attraction?

Whatever it was, I knew one thing: this wasn’t going to be as simple as I had thought.