Bite Me, Billionaire (Billionaire Vampires #1)

CHAPTER 1

POPPY

I shake off the thought and settle into frame. Three takes to nail the yawn that looks natural. Five for the stretch that shows off my silk pajama set without looking like I’m trying, which of course I am.

I’m always trying.

“Good morning, my radiant friends!” I beam at the camera, voice pitched to that sweet spot between perky and relatable. “Welcome back to PoppyRoseGlows. Today we’re doing my Sunday reset routine, and I’m so excited to share—”

My phone buzzes. I ignore it. Rule number one: never break the fourth wall.

“—my new favorite matcha blend. It’s from this amazing small business owned by—”

Another buzz. Then another.

I keep smiling, but my stomach tightens. Multiple texts in rapid succession means either my agent landed a brand deal, or my mother’s having a crisis. Given that it’s Sunday morning and Mom does nothing before her 10 AM Pilates class—

My phone rings.

“Cut,” I mutter to no one. I live alone.

Violet’s face fills my screen, FaceTiming me with aggressive cheer. My older sister does nothing by halves. Cardiac surgeon. Perfect posture. Townhouse in Beacon Hill. The kind of bone structure that photographs well without ring lights.

I answer because ignoring Violet only makes her more persistent.

“Poppy! Oh good, you’re awake. I can see your ring light—are you filming? Oh, don’t let me interrupt, I just have the most amazing news—”

“I’m not filming anymore.”

“Perfect! So, Chris proposed!” She flashes her left hand. The diamond catches the light.

“Congratulations.” I push warmth into my voice. “That’s wonderful, Vi.”

“We’re thinking of a destination wedding in the Bahamas.” She’s talking at her usual velocity, which means I’m supposed to absorb information, not take part in the conversation. “Small, intimate. Just family and close friends. Which brings me to why I’m calling—”

My stomach drops further.

“—we’re thinking late January. I know it’s soon, but Chris has a conference in the Bahamas in February, so we’d combine it with—” I look down at the ground while taking a deep breath, forgetting she can still see me. “Are you listening?”

“January,” I repeat as I turn back to face the camera. “That’s this month.”

“Three weeks! Plenty of time. Mom’s already freaking out about flowers, but I told her we’re keeping it simple. You know how she gets.” Violet rolls her eyes. “Anyway, she’s being Mom about it, you know.”

“She is great at that, isn’t she?”

“She is. But I told her it’s only fifty people, max,” Violet continues. “You’ll be a bridesmaid. I’m thinking emerald green for the dresses? It’ll look gorgeous with your coloring.”

I’m still processing “fifty people” and “bridesmaid” when she says it.

“Oh, and Preston’s coming. With Serenity. I know it might be weird, but Chris and Preston work together, and it would be stranger not to invite them, don’t you think?”

Preston. My ex-fiancé. The one who left me eight months ago for a yoga instructor named Serenity—Serenity!

I mean, if you’re going to ditch me, please don’t do it for a Serenity.

Especially someone who doesn’t believe in processed sugar or monogamy—that is until she met her perfect match.

And it turns out, his perfect match, too.

Not mine, despite the ring and the wedding venue deposit and the two years I spent pretending I didn’t notice him pulling away.

“Poppy? You there? The connection’s weird—”

“I’m here.” My voice sounds normal. I’ve had plenty of practice squashing down all my feelings about him. It’s all I’ve been doing for the past eight months. “That’s fine. Of course, you should invite them.”

“Really? Because Mom said you might be upset, but I told her you’re totally over it. You’ve been posting all those amazing travel photos and that whole Glowup series—you look incredible, by the way. Have you been seeing anyone?”

The question’s casual. The answer isn’t.

I could tell the truth. The words are right there: No, Vi. I’m single. I’ve been single for eight months, and I’m doing okay. I don’t need a boyfriend to face Preston.

But I can see how that plays out. The pity in Violet’s voice.

Mom hovering over the entire wedding, introducing me to Chris’s single cousins, making comments about how some people find love later in life, which I could’ve handled, but there’s one thing I couldn’t handle—Preston’s face when he realizes I’m still alone.

“Actually, yes.” The lie slides out. “Someone new. It’s still early, but it’s going well.”

Violet’s eyes light up, which means I’ve made a terrible mistake. “Oh my gosh, really? Who is he? How did you meet? Is it serious?”

“We met through—” I grab for something plausible “—mutual friends. He’s great.”

“Bring him to the wedding! I’d love to meet him. And it’ll be so much better than showing up alone, right? Especially with Preston there.”

The trap closes.

“Sure,” I hear myself say. “I’ll bring him.”

We talk for another five minutes about dress fittings, travel arrangements, and whether I can take time off from my “little internet thing” to help with planning. Smiling at the camera, I nod and “uh, huh” as she talks—performing the whole time.

The moment she hangs up, I text Sage—my best friend and closest confidante.

Me: Violet’s getting married

Me: January

Me: Preston will be there

Me: With Serenity

Me: I told Vi I have a boyfriend

Sage: Oh honey

Sage: OH HONEY

Sage: Why would you do that

Me: Panic?

Sage: Okay deep breaths

Sage: We can fix this

Sage: I know a guy who does improv, he could probably—

Me: I’m not bringing an improv actor to my sister’s wedding

Sage: Then what’s your plan?

I stare at my phone. At the apartment behind me, styled for content. At the life I’ve built that looks good in photos and feels hollow everywhere else.

Me: I’ll figure something out

I say, knowing I won’t be able to figure something out in time.

By noon, I’ve filmed three segments I’ll never post, eaten a sleeve of Oreos (off-camera, of course), and googled “how to fake a boyfriend” fourteen times.

The results don’t help. Other people’s fake boyfriend problems involve high school reunions and nosy aunts, not destination weddings where your ex will be with his tantric sex partner under the tropical sun.

I’m two glasses into a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc when Mom calls.

“Poppy, darling. Violet told me the wonderful news—you’re seeing someone!”

Of course, she did.

“It’s new, Mom. I don’t want to jinx it.”

“But you’re bringing him to the wedding, right?

Violet said you were bringing him.” There’s an edge in her voice.

Catherine Gable doesn’t do subtle. “It would be so nice for you to have someone. Especially with Preston there. You know, I always thought you two were perfect together, but these things happen, and Violet says this new man is lovely—”

“Mom, I’m in the middle of filming—”

“Of course, I don’t want to interrupt your little internet thing.

” A pause. When she speaks again, her voice has softened.

“I just want you to be happy, Poppy. I know I don’t always say it right.

But when things fall apart...” She trails off, and I know she’s not talking about me anymore.

“Well. It matters to have someone in your corner.”

It’s the closest she’s come to acknowledging the fallout over Dad and his disappearance from our lives.

“I know, Mom.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you. I just wanted to say how proud I am of my daughters. Both of you are so successful. Violet saving lives, and you with your... um... internet presence.”

The pause before “internet presence” says everything.

She hangs up. I pour another glass.

By 10 PM, I’ve hate-scrolled through Preston’s Glowstagram (he’s grown a beard, which looks stupid), Serenity’s Glowstagram (she’s teaching a workshop on “conscious uncoupling”), and Violet’s feed (her engagement photos look like a J.Crew ad).

By midnight, I’ve finished the bottle.

By 2 AM, I’ve made choices I’ll regret.

What was that app called? Spell-something or another.

Then it hits me: Spellbound Dates. I’d seen it in my Glow feed—even more so since I became single again. Turns out that targeted ads seem to know my pain. I hadn’t downloaded it. Honestly, I never thought I would need a dating service. But here I am, thinking maybe the algorithm knows how to help.

And what better algorithm could there be than a vetted, very exclusive, dating service app, right? It’s the kind of service that doesn’t call itself an escort service. But it is—just with better branding.

So I pull out my phone and download the app.

“Professional companionship for any occasion,” the app declares. “Fully customizable arrangements. Discretion guaranteed.”

I’m drunk enough that “discretion guaranteed” sounds appealing instead of suspicious. But even now, my brain does what it does: strategize. This isn’t desperation. It’s problem-solving. I’ve built a career on optics, on curating experiences, on knowing what story to tell.

I open my notes app.

Objective: Convince family the relationship is real.

Audience: Critical mother, overachieving sister, smug ex

Duration: 4 days, close quarters

Success metrics: No one suspects. Dignity intact.

Goal set, now all I have to do is fill out Spellbound’s intake form—which feels super long and super intrusive.

Event type: wedding. Duration: four days.

Location: Bahamas, probably. Relationship backstory needed: yes.

Physical affection required: minimal. We’ll need to look comfortable together, but I’m not paying for anything that crosses lines.

Special requirements: Looking for someone who can navigate complex family dynamics.

Event involves extended time with immediate family, ex-fiancé, and his new partner.

Must be comfortable with media presence (847K followers, may need to post).

Must maintain a believable relationship narrative under scrutiny.

Cultural sophistication preferred—event is in the Bahamas, wine knowledge helpful.

Should seem successful but not flashy (needs to be believable we met through friends).

Most important: a good actor who can project real affection without making it weird.

I read it back. It sounds like a job posting. Somehow that helps. I’m not drunk-ordering a fake boyfriend at 2 AM. Nope, I’m solving a problem.

I add:

I need someone who can help me get through this with my dignity intact.

Delete it. Too honest.

Discretion essential. Professional demeanor required.

Final question: Budget?

I think about my savings, and the brand deal money I’d set aside for a new camera.

But then I consider the 16,000 followers I lost in the past two months.

The sponsorships are slowing down. The math of building a life on the internet wasn’t adding up to spending this type of money on a fake boyfriend.

Then I think about four days of performing for my family alone.

I type a number that makes me wince and hit submit.