Weeks of waking at the crack of dawn had me yawning, my eyelids twitching throughout the day as I tried to stare at my computer screen, and my body demanding a reprieve. It didn't help that I was stressed over my move, too. Leo had bought me a new, oversized studio apartment in the Upper East Side, which was still pretty far from him, but much closer than my wrecked pad in Hamilton Heights.

All it took was three clicks and two phone calls. And just like that, I was the owner of a spanking new place with views on Central Park and appliances that functioned.

Well, he was the owner.

I'd spent nights panicking over the move, worried about hiring a good moving company that wouldn't break my shit. At the last minute, when I thought I'd figured all the details out, Leo caught me scrolling through Yelp reviews and took my phone from me, telling me, "I'll handle it all." And he did. In less than a day, everything I owned had been moved from my small studio to my larger, spacious, light-filled loft, and I'd barely batted an eyelash. I woke one morning to the banging from my neighbor's apartment, and fell asleep that same night in the same bed, but with a blissful silence from living fifteen floors up.

I was grateful, but nervous, too. We'd only been officially dating for a few weeks, and he'd already purchased a new home for me? Money was great, stardom was convenient...but it was a little much.

He caught on to my anxiety, though, and promised me it was for logical purposes. "So we can be closer; after all, we may be dating officially, but this is still a gig to clear my reputation, yeah? Just so happens it works in both our favors now."

I wasn't sure how to interpret that. Being used? Being an accessory, a means to an end? He showed me daily how much he truly cared for me, worshiping my body like the temple it was. And yet that tiny thump in my heart kept reminding me something was slightly off.

This morning, I woke to him sitting on the edge of his bed—he'd finally allowed me to spend the night at his West Village brownstone mansion—pinching the bridge of his nostrils, hunched. Someone was talking—I heard the high-pitched voice from across the way—and he was grumbling in response. Sunlight swept over his defined back muscles, and his hair slipped forward, curtaining his face from view.

God, he was so fucking hot, and he was mine.

There I lay, swathed in his expensive silk sheets, towards him, lying on my side, my spine to the window that beamed in bright morning light. The way he basked in that light, glowing and gorgeous? Scrumptious. Mine for the taking.

I started to scooch closer, reaching my arm out to touch his delicious skin—

"Yeah," he said, saying a word I recognized, at last, which gave me pause. "Wait, what?" He sat up ramrod straight, every muscle in his back taut. "Are you serious?"

The person on the other line kept rambling, and I stayed where I was. For him to react like that, something must have happened. He was tight, his voice strangled with that early morning rasp and the last traces of slumber.

Had our ruse been discovered? Was he being sued over something? Did he get a bad review on a song? A nasty critique from another rockstar?

What the fuck even stresses people like him, with all their money?

"When?" He looked at his wrist, where his diamond watch would have been; of course, at that moment, it was securely tucked into its case, in his fancy watch drawer in his enormous walk-in closet. "Yeah, okay, I mean you manage my schedule right now, so you tell me." He rubbed the back of his neck, prompting me to want to give him a massage. "Fine. Yeah, I'll be there. Send me the dress code deets and all that stuff."

He hung up, blew out his breath, and even from the tiny part of his profile I could see, I noticed the corners of his lips curving up.

"How much did you hear?" He veered towards me, his hazel eyes turned to molten gold in the sunlight.

"Only what you said on your end," I said, unable to stop myself from smiling at the sight of him. Bare-chested, his pectorals so perfect it was like they were plastered on, his abs painted, for sure, and that little dip near his boxer's waistband—

He crawled towards me and made me turn to the window so he could hold me from behind. I felt his erection, sensed him rubbing against me; but I was exhausted and unsure my legs could spread apart another time. We'd spent a hefty part of the night fucking, and as much as I loved it, I needed a break.

"That was Petra." He sighed, and his breath billowed over my neck as he moved my messy morning hair out of the way, and left feather-light kisses on my skin. "I've been invited to some charity event in a few days. One with a super heavy guest-list and a red carpet that'll be broadcast around the world."

"Oh." I fidgeted in his embrace, fighting the urge to grab his hardness, against my body's wishes.

"Think Met Gala, but oriented towards...technology, scientific research, I think she said? Anyway." His arms snaked around my middle and he squeezed me closer. "It's totally last minute, which means I was totally a second choice, and that's fucked up, but...Petra said this was good. Going to that thing...it'll be great publicity. I'm not known as a philanthropist, though I donate a shit-ton of money to a shit-ton of causes. But this would put me in that kind of spotlight."

I spun around, gritting my teeth at the difficulty—he held me super tightly—and faced him, planting a kiss on his nose. I couldn't bear the feeling of his dick against my ass anymore, and the wetness starting to pool in my underwear meant my body did want this. But I, on the other hand, wasn't mentally prepared for another high-intensity round.

"Well, that's wonderful news, isn't it?" I didn't want to kiss him on the mouth, knowing full well what would happen if I did. This was part of our morning routine when I woke up next to him; kisses on cheeks and noses and foreheads were fine, but the instant our lips connected, we were on fire. But today we couldn't be on fire. He had rehearsals later, and didn't like being spent from sex to play and sing. "A night out, say a few well-placed words, and the press will eat that up, yeah?"

His eyes creased as he teased a strand of hair from my face. The sun turned it blonde, which made me cringe; I'd stopped being a blonde ages ago, for a reason. "They'll eat it up more if you come with me."

I jerked backwards, eyes widening. "What?"

"You, coming with me to this event...it'll be important for fixing my reputation. A final touch, you know? Showing up at something like this with a girlfriend...it shows we're serious." He wetted his lips, his gaze going down to my breasts, that had been unleashed from where I'd been hiding them under the covers.

Uh oh; seeing those would trigger him.

I hurried to cover them up. "Is it allowed?"

He chuckled. "What do you mean is it allowed? I can bring whoever the fuck I want to any event I'm invited to."

While I'd attended many events with him, a few of them considered red carpets, this one was different. Charity events, from what I understood, were all about clout and who showed up with who and wearing what. Most of the time, the guests had already donated hundreds of thousands of dollars behind-the-scenes, and came to the gala for posing and pictures. None of them actually continued inside for the charity or auction portion.

These were highly televised functions—and we'd yet to show ourselves in such a space. Especially now that our relationship status had become more than real.

"So?" He caressed my cheek, sending spirals of shivers down my spine. "Do you want to go with me? You don't have to, but it'd be an awesome stunt for me. For us."

"I..." I propped myself up on my elbow, using my other arm to keep my boobs sheltered. "I mean, I'd love to, wow. But I don't have anything to wear to something like that, not this out of the blue."

I thought of all the dresses and shoes and purses and other random things he'd bought me since we started our fake-dating gig. And how that number had multiplied since we'd made things official. He'd loaded my new place with expensive plates and bowls, fine cutlery, fancy as fuck cutting knives—that'd I'd never use—decorated mugs, and the most upgraded appliances he could fit in the kitchen and pantry. He'd enhanced all my bedding, though I'd insisted he not buy me a new bed; I loved my old queen-sized mattress and its quirks. And then he'd went on a rampage through my closet and replaced half of my wardrobe with outfits he deemed fit for the queen he was dating. If he was the king of rock, then I needed to look like his goddess, didn't I?

I appreciated it, as invasive as it had felt at first. In fact, I'd been hoping to toss out a bunch of clothes, but I couldn't afford to replace them. My old dish set was chipped and about ready to crack into pieces, and my cookware was so worn I wondered how I'd cooked anything in recent times.

No one had ever treated me like this. Like I was a princess to be revered, respected, like I deserved the sky and more. Not that I'd dated only assholes or bitches, but no one I'd been with had been in this tax bracket: billionaire.

I had to admit, it wasn't unpleasant.

His snort drew me out of my thoughts. "That's the only thing bothering you? Not having something to wear?" He pulled me closer and the warmth of his torso against mine stopped my heart. "I'll have my dressing assistant go to your place today to help you. Measure you, go over options, brands, all that shit."

"Whoa," I blinked up at him, "you have a dressing assistant?"

Money, man. To have someone to help fit you, dress you, shop for you? Fuck.

He smirked at me. "I'm a spoiled rockstar, so I have assistants for everything." He flinched; something dark flickered over his features, but it was gone so quick I decided I'd imagined it. "I'll make sure this gets done today, while I'm rehearsing. You'll have something fabulous to wear, I promise."

He kissed my forehead again, and next I knew, he was out of bed, hopping into the shower, leaving me to lie there in bewilderment.

A huge, publicized charity event, as his girlfriend. As his actual girlfriend, that he'd then bring back home with him and fuck until the moon was high in the sky and we were drunk on each other.

I had no idea what I'd been missing by faking this lifestyle. Being really in it was something else; something I could get used to.

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