Chapter One How to Love the Rich Without Loving Them
Chapter One How to Love the Rich Without Loving Them
I have always hated rich men, which is inconvenient, because most of the things I love most in this world require at least one of them standing nearby with a signature pen.
It isn't a cute personality quirk or one of those ironic little statements women make at dinner parties to sound complicated and interesting. It isn't the kind of hatred that dissolves after a glass of champagne or a charming smile across a white tablecloth. It's older than that. Deeper. Bone-deep and stubborn and strangely principled. I hate the way they enter rooms like gravity tilts in their favor. I hate the lazy certainty in their posture, the unconscious assumption that doors will open, that seats will be offered, that people will adjust themselves to accommodate their existence. I hate the inheritance boys who mistake luck for intelligence and the loud ones who think volume is a substitute for character. I hate the ones who believe buying you dinner counts as personality and the ones who talk about "hard work" with trust funds sitting quietly behind their teeth like unpaid interns. I hate rich men.
Which would be noble, almost admirable, if I weren't currently standing barefoot in a forty-two-floor glass penthouse worth more than a small country, sipping vintage champagne at eight in the morning while the Manhattan skyline unfolds outside my windows like a private performance staged exclusively for me.
Hypocrisy, unfortunately, looks spectacular on me.
From this high up, the city doesn't feel real. It feels curated. Composed. Like a film set waiting for actors to hit their marks. The sunrise spills between the buildings slowly and luxuriously, gold light pouring over steel and glass until the river ignites and the windows across the skyline flash like a thousand discreet signals. Steam rises from the streets in soft white ribbons. Traffic murmurs instead of roars. Everything looks quieter, prettier, more obedient, like distance has filtered out the ugliness.
It feels almost illegal, the beauty of it.
Like I bribed the sky.
The apartment behind me is silent in that distinctly expensive way that only money can manufacture. No humming pipes. No neighbor arguments bleeding through drywall. No footsteps overhead. Just stillness. Thick, velvety stillness, the kind that exists when everyone around you owns three properties and is never actually home long enough to make noise in any of them. The marble floors stay cool beneath my feet, smooth and indulgent. The air smells faintly of citrus and polished stone. Every surface gleams as though it's being photographed at all times. Cream limestone. Chrome fixtures. Sculptural furniture that looks less like seating and more like a warning that poor decisions are not allowed here.
Nothing in this apartment is sentimental.
Sentiment creates clutter.
Clutter creates weakness.
And weakness is expensive.
I prefer control.
I pause in front of the window and catch my reflection layered over the skyline, my body superimposed against towers of glass and light like I personally own the horizon. My hair falls loose down my back in dark, heavy waves, still warm from sleep. My mouth is soft, but my eyes aren't. My eyes are sharp and observant and a little dangerous, like I'm constantly calculating something no one else can see.
People always tell me I'm beautiful like it's an accident, like I tripped and fell into symmetry.
They never understand.
Beauty isn't luck.
Beauty is leverage.
Beauty is watching powerful men lose their train of thought mid-sentence. Beauty is security guards opening doors without asking questions. Beauty is waitlists disappearing and reservations appearing and people assuming you belong exactly where you are. Beauty is influence without paperwork. It's not a gift.
It's a weapon.
And I have never once been careless with weapons.
Behind me, on the long marble kitchen island, sits the real center of my universe.
My planner.
Cream leather. Gold-edged pages. Immaculate.
Some women keep journals filled with feelings. Messy ink and tear stains and midnight confessions about boys who don't text back.
I schedule mine.
Because when you're dating one powerful man, you have romance.
When you're dating eight, you have logistics.
I open the planner and the week unfolds with the precision of a military operation. Times staggered across boroughs. Drivers arranged through different services so no one recognizes patterns. Charity galas carefully separated. Restaurants rotated. No overlapping neighborhoods. No suspicious coincidences. No chance encounters that could implode my life like a badly timed bomb.
It looks less like a love life and more like air traffic control.
Honestly, the CIA should hire me.
People assume women like me stumble into luxury. That we're lucky. That some billionaire tripped over our heels and handed us a black card out of destiny or divine intervention.
Please.
Men like these don't fall.
They're hunted.
Carefully. Patiently. Strategically. With excellent lighting and better timing. Every single one of mine was selected like an acquisition. Vetted. Studied. Evaluated for long-term stability and projected returns.
I didn't choose them because they were hot.
That was a bonus.
I chose them because they were useful.
Powerful.
Untouchable.
Men whose lives came with infrastructure.
And then, extremely inconveniently, they turned out to be wonderful. Which frankly feels unfair.
My finger taps the first name on the page, written in neat black ink.
Adrian Wolfe.
Sebastian Hale.
Roman Kade.
Elliot Park.
Victor Lang.
Matteo Cruz.
Theo Laurent.
Dr. Alexander Vale.
Captain Lucien Moreau.
Eight men.
Eight empires. Eight entirely different kinds of power orbiting me like planets that somehow believe I'm their sun.
And the most ridiculous part?
Every single one of them thinks this is fate. That I'm simply charming.
Simply lucky.
Simply irresistible.
No one suspects the truth.
That every smile was calculated.
Every encounter engineered.
Every relationship negotiated like a merger.
I lift my champagne and watch the city glitter below, the glass cold against my fingers, the morning light catching the gold bubbles like tiny, rising stars. I still hate rich men.
I hate their confidence and their ease and the way the world rearranges itself for them.
But I love being rich.
I love the quiet. I love the marble. I love the view.
And if mastering eight of them makes me a villain?
Fine.
At least I'll be a very well-dressed one.
Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Adrian Wolfe, or The Man Who Builds Foundations Instead of Fireworks
By the time Adrian texts me, the morning has fully ripened into that particular brand of quiet only expensive neighborhoods seem capable of producing, the kind where even the traffic sounds curated and the sunlight looks filtered, as though reality itself passed through a designer lens before touching anything I own. The city hums far below, distant and softened, like someone turned the volume down on the world out of respect for my sleep schedule, and I'm leaning against the marble counter with a cup of black coffee warming my palms, watching reflections slide across the glass towers outside like slow-moving currency.
His name lights up my phone with no fanfare.
No emojis. No theatrics. Just two clean words.
Adrian Wolfe.
There are names that feel like people.
And then there are names that feel like institutions.
Adrian is the second kind.
You don't date Adrian Wolfe.
You interface with him.
Tech empire. Venture capital web. Silent partnerships in half the startups currently pretending they're self-made. The sort of man senators "happen" to have lunch with and reporters "can't quite confirm" owns certain things. He's not flashy rich. Not yacht-and-fireworks rich.
He's infrastructure rich.
The kind of rich that quietly builds the world and lets everyone else think it appeared naturally.
Dating him isn't romance.
It's urban planning.
His message is exactly what I expect from him.
Polite. Precise. Almost annoyingly considerate.
Good morning. I'm at the new building. Would you like to come by later? I can send a car, or you're welcome to come on your own. Whatever's easier for you. No rush.
I read it twice, my mouth curving slowly.
God.
He does this every time.
The choice.
Always the choice.
Men at his level usually assume. They dispatch drivers like summons. They treat women like calendar blocks to be confirmed.
Adrian asks.
Would you like.
If it's easier.
No rush.
Like my time belongs to me.
Like seeing him would be a favor.
Which, strategically speaking, is genius.
Because nothing makes me show up faster than a man who acts like I don't have to.
Of course I'm going.
Not because I'm eager.
Not because my heart flutters.
Because Adrian Wolfe is essentially a walking expansion plan.
One afternoon with him equals three introductions, two investment opportunities, and a table I'd otherwise wait six months to sit at.
Romance is adorable.
Access is currency.
I type back that I'll come myself, that I prefer arriving on my own schedule, and he simply replies:
I'll be waiting.
No follow-up.
No tracking.
No "text me when you leave."
Just trust.
Quiet confidence.
Perfect.
Dressing for Adrian is less about looking desirable and more about looking formidable, which sounds counterintuitive until you understand men like him. He doesn't respond to glitter or sweetness or anything that feels like it's trying too hard. He notices structure. Intention. Clean lines. Competence. He likes women who look like they could run a board meeting, not chase a boyfriend.
So I give him architecture.
A silk blouse the color of fresh cream that skims my skin like water. Tailored black trousers that lengthen my legs and sharpen my silhouette. Heels that click decisively against marble. Gold jewelry minimal enough to whisper instead of shout. My hair straight and glossy down my back, makeup precise and restrained.
When I look in the mirror, I don't look soft.
I look expensive.
There's a difference.
Soft invites protection.
Expensive demands respect.
Men like Adrian don't fall for dolls.
They fall for equals.
Which is infinitely more useful to me.
His building rises out of midtown like a blade, all glass and steel and quiet arrogance, sleek in a way that doesn't beg to be noticed because it already assumes you're impressed. There's no giant logo, no dramatic signage. It doesn't scream wealth.
It simply stands there, immaculate, like the physical embodiment of competence.
Inside, the lobby smells like espresso and polished stone. Everything gleams. Floors so clean they reflect the ceiling lights like water. Staff who move efficiently and speak softly. No chaos. No noise. Just money behaving itself.
The receptionist smiles the second she sees me.
"Good morning, Miss Liliene. He's expecting you."
Of course he is. I'm waved straight through to the private elevator without signing anything or explaining who I am.
I never asked Adrian to arrange that.
He simply anticipated it.
That's how he loves.
Not with gifts.
With friction removal.
Doors unlock before I reach them. Lines disappear. Problems quietly solve themselves.
It's so subtle it almost feels accidental. Which makes it infinitely more intimate.
Honestly?
More intimate than diamonds.
When the elevator doors open, he's already there.
Waiting.
Not at a desk.
Not on a call.
Not surrounded by assistants.
Just standing near the windows with two coffees in his hands like a normal man expecting someone he genuinely wants to see.
For a split second, the image almost makes me laugh.
This man commands thousands of employees and probably moved three markets before breakfast.
And yet here he is.
Waiting for me.
When he spots me, something shifts in his face, a softening so slight most people wouldn't notice it. His shoulders drop a fraction. His mouth curves gently. Like the day just improved.
"Hi," he says.
Just that.
No performance.
No charm routine.
Just warm and real.
It's disarming in a way that feels mildly unfair. "Hi yourself," I reply, accepting the coffee. It's exactly how I take it.
Black. No sugar.
A detail I mentioned once, months ago, while distracted.
He remembered.
Men who remember details are dangerous.
Anyone can buy you things.
Only invested men memorize you.
And investment?
Investment is leverage.
He takes me upstairs to the rooftop where the city stretches endlessly in every direction, all glass and light and movement, the wind lifting my hair as if the skyline itself is trying to touch me. There's a small table set up near the edge with breakfast laid out simply and beautifully, nothing over-the-top, nothing theatrical. Just two plates. Two chairs. Coffee. Fruit.
Intimate.
Intentional. "I thought you might want to see the place before the board does," he says, almost shy. "Before it gets loud."
I watch him while he talks through the plans, the pediatric wing he's funding, the research spaces, the equipment he's already paid for outright. He explains it like it's no big deal, like donating millions to children's healthcare is just something you do between meetings.
I'm not swooning.
I don't swoon.
I'm evaluating.
A man who builds hospitals quietly is a man with real influence. Real respect. The kind that lasts decades.
Long-term stability.
Excellent asset.
Still, there's something unfairly sincere about the way his eyes light up when he talks about it, like he genuinely cares, like he forgets he's supposed to be intimidating.
Perfect men are so inconvenient.
There's nothing obvious to exploit. They're just ... good. It's terribly annoying.
At some point the wind lifts a strand of my hair across my face, and before I can fix it, his hand rises instinctively. His fingers brush my cheek with absurd gentleness as he tucks it back, the touch careful, almost reverent, like I'm something fragile he doesn't want to mishandle.
He never grabs.
Never assumes.
Never pulls me closer.
Everything he does feels like a question.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
There it is.
The moment.
The gravity shift.
If I leaned in, he'd meet me halfway. Soft. Patient. Devastatingly tender. Most women would close the gap.
Most women would take the kiss.
But here's the thing about me.
If you give men everything they want immediately, they relax.
And relaxed men stop investing.
So instead, I step closer slowly, letting the space between us heat, my fingers smoothing the lapel of his jacket like it's absentminded, intimate, nothing at all. I feel his breath change. Feel his composure slip just slightly.
I love this part.
Watching powerful men unravel quietly.
Right when he starts to lean in, giving me every opportunity to meet him, I turn my head just enough that my cheek brushes his instead of my lips, a soft ghost of contact that promises everything and delivers absolutely nothing.
When I pull back, his expression is wrecked in the most beautiful way.
Not frustrated.
Not entitled.
Just ... wanting. "I can wait," he says softly.
Like it's the easiest decision he's ever made.
And that right there?
That's why Adrian Wolfe stays.
Not because he's rich.
Not because he's powerful.
But because he looks at me like waiting is a privilege. Which means by tonight, he'll still be thinking about the almost. And tomorrow, he'll want me more.
Desire compounds.
And I have always preferred my investments compounding.