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

The room was stuffy, filled with the heavy scent of various aromatherapy oils, making it almost hard to breathe. Winnie felt dizzy, her cheeks flushing red as if she might faint at any moment. She couldn't take it anymore and pleaded, "Mr. Marlowe, please let me go."


She had barely rested these past few days, especially those nights in the desert; her body was at its limit. Last night, she was so irritable and ashamed that she didn't dare to have the servants change the sheets. Finally, after her vague plea, Van relented and carried her to the bathroom.


The bathroom was bright and spacious, with a 16-feet-long marble countertop and a mirror of the same length reflecting her image clearly. In the mirror, her hair was a mess, her clothes disheveled, looking nothing like her usual delicate and elegant self. Meanwhile, Van was still in his neat black robe, expressionless, his cold gaze carrying an undeniable intimidation.


Chapter 117