NewEraCulture

A high-society romance where pretense turned into reality.
 
Van, the heir to a top-tier fortune and a regular on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, had been mocked for being perpetually single, with even rumors swirling about his "dysfunction."
 
Winnie, a Hollywood superstar desperate to escape her constant barrage of scandals, encountered this billionaire worth tens of billions. To her surprise, Van presented her with an unexpected proposal:
 
"Pretend to date me for a year. You won't have to do anything else. I'll pay you $100 million after taxes."
 
She planned to laugh it off but couldn't ignore the man's chiseled features—the way his shadowed face was lit up as he casually raised an eyebrow and lit a cigarette in the glow of firelight, his voice steady and laced with danger.
 
She remembered their first meeting in a torrential downpour—the man reclining in a silver Maybach, eyes half-closed, exuding charm yet utterly unattainable. She also remembered later, when everyone had believed him to be unshakable and untouchable, he had appeared alone, worn and weary, at her remote desert film set, quietly asking:
 
"Do you really have to shoot this kiss scene?"
 
Behind this contract lay something far deeper than money—a fixation, a love that had turned real, or perhaps an irresistible force neither of them had recognized.
 
$100 million had set the stage for a high-stakes battle of love and hate that would ultimately unravel.

A Love Confession from Las Vegas

"Yeah," Yulia nodded. "I saw you were asleep, so I told Mr. Marlowe you were already asleep. He said he knew, and that you had just fallen asleep."


Winnie's eyes widened to the point of being unable to get any bigger. She vaguely caught on to a possibility, her face turned pale, then flushed again. "I—I—I didn't snore, did I?"


Yulia finally saved her this time. "No, but you had a lot of red leaves in your hair. I took a picture and posted it on Instagram. Mr. Marlowe saw it."


Winnie moaned and buried her face in the blanket, not saying a word, just pounding the bed.


"I've told you before—your alcohol tolerance isn't great, so it's better to drink less. I didn't expect you'd actually have the nerve to find him after drinking." Yulia didn't comfort her at all, digging a hole for her and burying her in it, and even patted the dirt with a shovel. "You're done. What if he blacklists you?"


Chapter 41