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

Ten minutes later, Van appeared at her bedside.


The room was dimly lit, filled with the heavy, sickly scent of alcohol. Winnie, in a dazed state, saw the person in front of her pull her into his arms. His hand pressed against her forehead, and he decisively said, "You have a fever. I'm taking you to the hospital."


"No," Winnie murmured weakly, her silk camisole tangled at her legs.


"Be good, you'll feel better soon." Van attempted to lift her.


Winnie clung to the bed, tears streaming down her face for no clear reason. "I don't want to."


She refused to get up, her body heavy and limp as she struggled weakly in Van's arms.


Van sighed, moved to the side, and pressed the speakerphone button on the bedside phone, dialing the exclusive concierge line. "I need a doctor, fever, yes, it's serious."


Winnie, not answering his question, sniffed Van's gray wool coat. "Mr. Marlowe, have you been drinking?"


Chapter 74