Billionaire With Benefits

Chapter 1

Caroline

I hated these charity events.

Wait. That sounds bad. I don’t mean it like that.

To clarify: I love the causes these events support. I understand the importance of raising money for people in need.

But these events? Blegh. Tuxedos and ball gowns, circling waiters with trays of champagne, mini sliders that you could devour in a single bite. All of it was a waste. An extravagance that took away from the people who needed the money the most.

It was also commandeering my Friday night.

“You could look like you’re having a good time,” Eddie, my editor, whispered.

“I’m not,” I replied.

A grin pushed its way onto his face, but he smothered it so quickly I wondered if it was my imagination. “Let me rephrase. You could pretend like you’re having a good time.”

I flashed a big, fake smile. “How’s this?”

Now Eddie laughed in earnest. “Your low tolerance for bullshit is what makes you a good journalist, but not a good party guest.”

I touched my champagne flute to his. “Cheers to that.”

Eddie’s gaze drifted over my shoulder to something behind me. “Speaking of good party guests…”

I turned to see what he was looking at. There was a wave of excitement through the crowd of standing guests, who were beginning to part for some unknown person. But I knew who it had to be.

Harrison Blackstone.

Of Blackstone & Moreau, the youngest, fiercest investment firm in New York.

And the subject of at least two dozen finance articles written by yours truly.

“This,” I pointed with my glass, “is why I hate these things.”

“Really? I thought you’d enjoy smiling to their face while stabbing them in the front.”

“I don’t stab anyone,” I replied testily. “I just report the truth, no matter how inconvenient it may be for men like Mr. Blackstone.”

“I know, I know. Relax, Caroline. I’m on your side.” His eyes gazed beyond my shoulder again. “Also, it’s time to start pretending again.”

A deep, commanding voice spoke behind me: “Eddie.”

I took a moment to fix my fake smile into place before turning around.

And there he was, standing with a glass of champagne in his hand like a real human in the flesh, rather than the billionaire god of Wall Street that he was.

Young, devastatingly sharp, and already a legend in the world of finance.

He was the kind of man who made boardrooms go silent the moment he walked in—and based on the commanding nature of those slate-gray eyes, I could see why.

A large man in a suit stood next to him, eyes quickly analyzing me and Eddie before deciding we weren’t a threat. A bodyguard, probably.

Mr. Blackstone’s gaze settled on me a heartbeat after his bodyguard. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your lovely colleague.” He smiled that insanely charming smile.

Ugh. Kill me now.

“This is our financial news lead, Caroline Fairfax,” Eddie replied.

There it was. A flash of recognition glowing behind those hard eyes. “The Caroline Fairfax?”

“It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Blackstone,” I said.

His smile deepened. “Please call me Harrison.”

“I’d rather not call you anything.”

“Ouch.” Mr. Blackstone glanced at his bodyguard. “She has as much bite in person as she does in ink.”

“There’s very little bite in the articles I write,” I replied curtly. “Just the truth about Blackstone and Moreau.”

“That,” he said, pointing a finger at me, “is something I would disagree with.”

“I’m sure you would.”

He chuckled. He actually had the audacity to chuckle! I really hated this guy, and not just because his firm was a skyscraper-sized leech on the Dow Jones Industrial Average. The urge to throw my champagne in his face was stronger than I would have liked to admit.

The guy—bodyguard?—next to him glanced down at my champagne, then narrowed his eyes like he knew what I was thinking.

“Let’s just lower the tone,” Eddie said, patting the air soothingly. “We’re all here for a good reason. Surely we can put political differences aside for one evening?”

Mr. Blackstone’s gaze was still locked onto me, a half-smile curling his lips. “I’m sure we can. If only for an evening.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I believe the auction is beginning soon. It was good to see you, Eddie. And a pleasure to meet you, Caroline.”

“Ms. Fairfax,” I said more hotly than I intended. “And I wish I could say it was a pleasure for me, too.”

He laughed again, glanced at his bodyguard, then disappeared into the crowd.

Eddie let out a deep breath. “That could have gone better.”

“It could have gone worse,” I replied. “It’s rare that I’m close enough to spit on one of these finance bros.”

“You wouldn’t spit on someone at a charity event.”

“No,” I agreed, “but Janice would have if she were in my place!”

“Which is why my wife isn’t here tonight.” He smiled. “Someday, when I’m ready to throw my job away, I’ll bring her to one of these and let her do her worst.”

“As long as you bring me so I can watch!” I nodded to my right. “Let’s go sit down.”

We were seated at a twelve-person table with other members of the press. It wasn’t in the front row, but it was one row back from the stage, and smack in the middle of the room. Working for the Wall Street Journal had its perks sometimes.

Once everyone was seated, a pre-set meal was brought out. Wagyu filet slivers and vegetables in a red wine sauce. It was delicious, but I couldn’t help but think about how all this money could go to the charity itself rather than a single meal.

When dinner was winding down and dessert was being served, a man in a tuxedo approached the podium on stage and welcomed everyone for being here.

He launched into a speech about all the good the charity does in the city.

A slideshow played on the screen behind him, showing smiling volunteers at homeless shelters and food kitchens.

When the slideshow was over, he spent a few moments highlighting some of the charity’s largest donors.

Blackstone & Moreau had made a very sizable seven-figure donation, the largest of the evening.

When Blackstone stood up and nodded to the crowd in recognition, I clapped politely along with everyone else.

“These guys get off on all the attention,” I whispered to Eddie. “They pillage the market during business hours, then expect applause when they give a tiny fraction of that money back while everyone sips wine.”

“Maybe I should bring Janice next time,” Eddie whispered back.

I glared at him, but it was all playful. Eddie was like an older brother to me. Or an uncle. I wouldn’t do anything here to actually make the Journal look bad.

After a few more speeches, it was time for the main event of the night: the auction.

No, it wasn’t one of those “auction off a date with some poor woman who was coerced into it” events.

Those were outdated. The kind of thing you’d see in a cheesy romance novel.

This auction was for a wide variety of prizes and experiences.

There were the normal kinds of things you saw at these auctions: signed memorabilia from athletes and celebrities, or artwork that was changing hands for the hundredth time.

Those items took an hour to get through.

Then came the exciting auction items. Experiences donated by people with power. A private tennis lesson with Coco Gaff. A jam session with Harry Styles, who was apparently seated at the table to our right with Blackstone. A one-week Mediterranean trip on a mega yacht.

I groaned when I realized Blackstone had made that donation. It was his mega yacht. Gross.

“Why is our auction item after all these expensive ones?” I asked Eddie.

“I don’t make the rules, Caroline.”

“Before we get back to the yachts and international trips,” the auctioneer announced, “we have an item that’s a little closer to home.

Good press is hard to get, but the winner of this lot will have a much easier time.

You’re bidding on a feature article in Wall Street Journal.

I’m starting the bidding at thirty thousand dollars. ”

I hated this. We were selling access. Even if it was for a good cause, it damaged our journalistic integrity. I opened my mouth to say as much, but Eddie stopped me with a stare. He felt the same way I did. This auction had been the idea of someone much higher up the rung at the Journal.

There were a few bids to start. One from the owner of the New York Jets, and another from some young woman I didn’t recognize. Probably an influencer.

“Some more details for you on this lot,” the auctioneer paused to say.

“The piece will be three pages long, and doesn’t have to be about you!

It can be about any subject you want, so long as it’s related to finance or the financial world.

I think we can get a bid of one hundred thousand, don’t you agree everyone? ”

The influencer girl raised her bidding paddle. A hundred grand. For a single article. Sometimes I thought the world had lost its mind.

“One final piece of information to inform your bids: the article will be written by none other than Pulitzer Prize nominee Caroline Fairfax.”

The auctioneer gestured toward my table, and the room applauded.

“Stand up,” Eddie whispered.

“No,” I hissed back.

“They’re clapping. Stand up. Just for a second.”

Sighing, I stood up and graciously nodded to both sides of the room. I hated attention. That’s why I loved working in journalism—it allowed me to hide behind my writing, rarely going out in public.

There was a new bid to my left. Some gray-haired man I didn’t recognize. The influencer quickly countered, and there was a small bidding war. Eventually, the influencer lowered her paddle and shook her head.

“Two hundred thousand!” Eddie said to me. “Worth putting on a dress, huh?”

“I’m happy we’re selling our soul for the proper number of zeroes,” I replied.

“Going once,” the auctioneer said. “Going—”

A paddle raised to my right, along with a new voice.

“Two million.”

Every head in the room swiveled toward the new bidder. I had to lean back to see around Eddie, but when I did, I cursed.

The man with the raised paddle was Harrison Blackstone.

And he was smiling directly at me.