My Broke Boyfriend Was a Secret Billionaire

The next morning, Ethan hugged me from behind while I was spreading peanut butter on toast.

He did it every morning. Arms around my waist. Chin on my shoulder. A quick kiss on the tip of my ear.

Today he didn't let go right away.

"Claire."

"Mm?"

"Do you really hate liars that much?"

I scraped the knife across the bread. "Obviously. Especially the ones who lie to the person closest to them. That's the worst kind of human."

He said nothing.

One second. Two. Five.

His arms were still around me, but they'd gone stiff.

I spun around, grabbed his tie, and yanked him down to my eye level. It was the nine-dollar Target tie he wore to every investor meeting. The one with the coffee stain he thought I didn't know about.

"Ethan." I narrowed my eyes. "Are you hiding something from me?"

He gazed down at me. For a moment his face was blank.

Then he smiled, slow and warm, and pressed his lips to my forehead.

"There's one thing," he murmured. "Last night I ate the last piece of cheesecake."

My mouth fell open.

"That was *my* cheesecake! I was saving it for *Friday!*"

"It was calling my name."

"I'm going to *kill* you!"

I chased him to the door with the butter knife still in my hand. He laughed all the way down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

From the window, I watched him climb into the Honda.

He didn't start it.

He just sat there, both hands on the wheel. The smile slid off his face like it had never been there.

Then the engine coughed to life, and he was gone.

---

When I got to my desk, there was a bag sitting on it.

Cream leather. Gold clasp. The kind of designer logo I'd only ever seen on girls getting out of cabs on Madison Avenue.

"Someone lost their whole life savings," I muttered, picking it up to take it to the front desk.

"It's not lost."

Brandon was leaning on the edge of my desk. Hair gelled. Teeth very white. He was smiling like he was posing for a cologne ad.

"It's for you," he said. "A gift."

I studied him. Really studied him.

"Brandon, I say this with love. You should get your brain checked. Like, today."

I expected him to get angry.

Instead, his eyes lit up.

"See? *That's* why you're different."

Oh no.

---

He was everywhere after that.

In the break room when I made tea. At the elevator when I went to lunch. Outside the copy room, holding two coffees, like he'd been waiting there for an hour.

"Oat milk, extra vanilla," he said. "I asked around."

"I'm in a season of sacrifice," I told him, and walked past.

Across the office, Vanessa's pen snapped in half.

---

At five-fifty, Brandon blocked my path to the exit.

"There's a private business dinner tonight. You're coming with me."

"No, I'm not."

"Claire." He stepped closer. His voice dropped, still friendly, but something sour sat under it. "My dad plays golf with three people on the executive floor. Did you know that?"

I froze.

"Be a shame," he went on, "if somebody's position got cut. Budgets are tight this year."

My fingers squeezed the strap of that stupid cream bag. One swing. Right into his perfect teeth.

Then I thought about rent. Due in nine days. About the electric bill on the fridge. About Ethan asleep at the kitchen table, his laptop glowing, his startup still not making a single cent after five years.

I unclenched my hand.

"Fine. One dinner."

His grin came right back. "Knew you'd get it."

I pulled out my phone and typed to Ethan.

*Working late tonight. Don't wait up.*

He answered in seconds. A cartoon puppy with huge wet eyes.

*When are you coming home?*

My chest went tight and sour.

*Soon. Go to bed early, okay?*

---

The club was in Midtown. No sign. Just a black door and a man with an earpiece who looked at Brandon's card and nodded us in.

The private room was gold and velvet. Four guys in loose collars lounged on a leather couch. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket that probably cost more than my couch.

"So this is the famous Claire," one of them drawled. "Brandon says you're feisty."

"Brandon says a lot of things."

They laughed. Someone filled my glass. Then filled it again before I'd taken a sip.

"Come on, drink up. You work for a living, right? Must be nice to get a night off."

"What does your boyfriend do?" another asked. "Brandon says he drives a car from the Stone Age."

"He's building a company."

"Cute." He tipped more champagne into my glass. "Bottoms up, sweetheart."

Every time my glass dipped, someone topped it off. Every time I set it down, someone pushed it back toward me.

I wasn't stupid. I'd seen this movie.

"Bathroom," I said, standing up. "Be right back."

In the hallway, I texted Priya. *Emergency. Come get me. Sending location.*

*On my way. 20 min. Don't drink anything!!!*

Too late for that, but at least I'd mostly pretended.

The hallway branched left. Then right. Then into a corridor of dark wood that looked exactly like the last corridor. I walked in a circle twice and ended up at the same marble statue of a naked guy holding a fish.

On the third try, I passed a door that was halfway open.

A voice drifted out.

"No. Tell them the offer stands until Thursday. After that, it's gone."

I stopped dead.

I knew that voice. I knew it whispering in my ear at two in the morning. I knew it singing happy birthday off-key.

I leaned toward the gap in the door.

Ethan sat at the head of a long table.

Not in his hoodie. Not in his Target tie. A charcoal suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his body. One arm draped over the back of his chair. Legs stretched out, relaxed, almost bored.

And bending over him, flicking a gold lighter to the cigarette between his lips, was Daniel Brooks.

*The* Daniel Brooks. Forbes cover Daniel Brooks. The man every girl in my office had a screensaver of.

Around the table, five men in expensive suits sat very still. Nobody touched their drinks. Nobody spoke unless Ethan looked at them.

I blinked hard. Maybe there'd been something in that champagne after all.

I shifted forward to get a better view.

My heel knocked the tall vase by the door.

*Clink.*

Every head in the room turned.

Ethan's eyes landed on mine.

His face went white. Then, before I could even open my mouth, he plucked the cigarette from his lips and shoved it straight into Daniel Brooks's hand.

He shot up from his chair, palms raised.

"Baby, I wasn't smoking. That was *his* cigarette."

Daniel stood there, holding the cigarette like someone had handed him a live grenade.

Nobody moved.

Then Daniel cleared his throat. His eyes flicked between us, and his voice came out on pure reflex.

"Mr. Whitmore, should I have your driver bring the car around?"

Ethan's smile cracked down the middle.

I turned my head very slowly toward Daniel Brooks. The man who'd been on the cover of every business magazine at the newsstand on my block.

Then I turned to my boyfriend. The one who ate my cheesecake.

The room was silent. Five men in suits sat watching him. Waiting. Like none of them would dare breathe until he said so.

On the table, Daniel's phone lit up.

A news alert slid across the screen.

*Billionaire Ethan Whitmore Named Among New York's Most Influential Business Leaders.*

Under the headline was a photo.

I stared at it.

The man in the picture was the same man who wore a faded gray hoodie every morning and stole the last slice of toast off my plate.