Fake Married To My Rockstar (Billionaire Rockstars #1)

Chapter 1

OLIVE

A Half-Naked Encounter

Isink lower into the bathwater until the bubbles nearly reach my ears, the warm water lapping against my collarbones as if trying to soothe the ache that’s taken up permanent residence in my chest.

The tub is old, stained a little pink around the edges where the grout lost the battle years ago. The faucet drips in a slow, rhythmic tick. The window lets in the sound of a distant siren, then the rumble of a passing car. Still, it’s the quietest moment I’ve had in weeks.

The water smells like fake lavender and something vaguely medicinal, but I don’t care. I need the illusion of peace. I need this moment where the world feels soft and contained—where I’m not thinking about death certificates and cardboard boxes and how quickly life can collapse.

Two months ago, I was still in our apartment.

The one with the crooked bookshelf and the yellow-tiled kitchen.

The one that always smelled like chamomile and cinnamon because Grandma swore it kept the neighbors sweet.

The one we’d shared since I graduated college and moved in to help her after her second fall.

I never planned to stay long. But we fell into a rhythm—me with my lesson plans and library books, her with her humming and tea and the way she always had a sweater ready when I forgot mine.

Now I’m crashing on my brother’s couch, missing everything about the life I lost. Don’t get me wrong—Liam’s been great, in his own chaotic way. He spends most of the year touring with bands and still thinks Pop-Tarts count as dinner, but when it really matters, he shows up.

He didn’t hesitate when I called.

But this isn’t my space. It’s not ours. And no matter how kind he is—he’s not Grandma.

She used to say, 'There’s nothing a hot bath and a good cry can’t fix.'

She said the same about chocolate cake and old movies, too—but the bath part stuck.

Except she’s not here anymore.

One moment she was standing in her kitchen, swaying to jazz in her slippered feet, trying to make lemon cookies from memory. The next, she was in the hospital. A stroke. Fast. Unexpected. Unfair.

I barely had time to say goodbye. I held her hand and tried to act strong, like I wasn’t completely unraveling. But she knew. She always knew.

And just like that, it was over.

I stayed in the apartment as long as I could. Pretended nothing had changed except the silence.

But grief isn’t just loss. It’s math. Rent. Utilities. Food. Things I could almost afford when it was the two of us.

Alone? Not even close.

The landlord was sympathetic—for about five minutes. Then came the warning notice. Then the thirty days. Then the day I handed over the keys to a place that had always smelled like home.

So here I am.

Twenty-seven. Evicted. Broke. Alone.

Living in my brother’s apartment, sleeping on a couch that eats my spine during the night, and trying to pretend I haven’t failed at adulthood in record time.

I think about my work.

I love those kids. Every single sticky-fingered, glitter-covered, snack-demanding one of them. Teaching kindergarten is messy, exhausting, and occasionally sticky in ways that defy science—but it’s mine. My tiny kingdom of finger paints and story time and “Miss Hart, I think I swallowed my crayon.”

It’s the only place I’ve felt useful since Grandma passed.

But love doesn’t pay rent.

And even if I somehow found a new apartment tomorrow, I couldn’t afford it on my salary. Not in this city. Not with how rent’s been climbing like it’s in a race with inflation and basic human dignity.

I run a hand through my wet hair, watching water drip from my fingers like the hours slipping through my day planner.

I’ve crunched the numbers a dozen times.

They never add up. My income is adorable in the way small woodland creatures are adorable—harmless, well-intentioned, and utterly unqualified to fight the landlord-industrial complex.

Maybe I need to get a second job.

Something in the evenings, maybe. Bartending? I don’t even drink. Dog walking? I love dogs, but I’ve seen the aggressive ones at the park—I’m not trying to die before thirty. Cleaning? Honestly, I just wish I could get paid to read books. Now that would be the dream.

I hug my knees to my chest, the water cooling around me, the bubbles starting to fade. But maybe I can postpone facing the real world for a bit longer. I’m not ready. I don’t wanna deal with applications, loans and an apartment search that feels impossible.

Instead, I’ll do something just for me.

My blog.

My little corner of the internet—just me, my thoughts, and a bunch of strangers who love yelling about fictional characters in the comments.

I started it during the pandemic, when everything felt too big, too loud, and way too lonely. When the days blurred together and my brain wouldn’t shut up.

Writing helped. Sharing helped. Connecting helped.

Now it’s where I ramble about books and tropes and fictional kisses that make my chest ache.

Maybe I’ll write a post about comfort reads. Or how loss hits hardest when you don’t see it coming.

Or maybe I’ll just make a list of the best fictional men who fall first.

That feels like the kind of content I need right now.

I sit up in the tub, bubbles sliding down my shoulders, already drafting opening lines in my head.

I reach for a towel without opening my eyes—only to grab air.

My hand flails. I sit up straighter. Look around.

No towel on the hook.

No backup towel on the edge of the sink. Just one more reason crashing at your brother’s place is a nightmare—no laundry schedule.

I blink at the empty bathroom like it personally betrayed me. “Oh, come on,” I mutter, water dripping off my nose.

I could’ve stayed at Nina’s, but I don’t want to be her permanent houseguest, turning every week into an emergency sleepover. She’d say it’s fine—she always does—but I hate feeling like a bother.

Frustrated, I shout, “Seriously, Liam?”

He’s not even home. I know he’s not home. He texted earlier saying he’d be back soon, but I never heard the door.

I glance at the bath mat on the floor.

It’s small. Fuzzy. Questionably clean. But… technically fabric.

I groan, stand up, and reach for it, water streaming down my legs in defiance.

Wrapping it around myself is like trying to wear a tortilla. It barely makes it around my hips. There’s gapping. There’s side-boob risk. There is no dignity.

Still, the hallway is only a few feet away. The linen cabinet is just around the corner.

No one’s home. Just grab the towel and retreat. Quick and painless.

I crack the door and peek into the hallway—just in case Liam came in and I didn’t hear it. Flashing my brother? Not on my list of life goals.

Silent.

Safe.

Barefoot and dripping, I dart out.

I’m halfway to the linen cabinet, tiptoeing across cold tile in my makeshift bath mat toga… when the front door creaks open.

The moment freezes in slow motion.

The door opens all the way.

A man steps inside.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Sunglasses. Black T-shirt stretched across his chest. Tattooed forearms. And he's carrying coffee and a paper bag of donuts like he owns the place.

Which he absolutely does not, because this is Liam’s apartment, and I am naked under a glorified dishrag.

He looks up.

I look up.

We collide.

I shriek. He curses. The donuts fly. The coffee carrier tips. I stumble backward—and the bath mat slips from my grasp.

Time actually stops.

The mat hits the floor.

I am completely naked.

There is a jelly donut on my foot.

Powdered sugar dusts the air like some kind of culinary smoke bomb.

I shriek again and dive behind the nearest piece of furniture—Liam’s sad little entryway table—and crouch like a war victim, grabbing the bath mat and clutching it to my chest with both arms.

Across the room, the man—this intruder—straightens, completely unfazed. He casually sets the coffee carrier upright, plucks a donut from the chaos, and bites into it like nothing just happened.

I stare at him. He stares back.

I scream, “OH MY GOD WHO ARE YOU?!”

He chews. Swallows. Lowers his sunglasses just enough to peer at me over the frames. “I’m Ash. Who are you and why the fuck are you naked in Liam’s hallway?”

I sputter. “Naked?! You—this—why are you here?! Are you—are you a burglar?!”

He arches a brow and gestures to the now-decimated donut bag. “Burglars don’t usually bring pastries.”

My mouth opens. Closes. I blink at him. “That’s not—! That doesn’t make sense! Why are you HERE?!”

Ash replies calmly, like I’m a bit slow. “I have a key. And Liam invited me.”

He pulls said key out of his pocket and dangles it casually between two fingers like this is the most normal Thursday morning of his life.

“I’m Olive,” I hiss, trying to keep the mat pinned over everything critical. “Liam’s sister. I live here now.”

“I know.”

That throws me.

“You—you do?”

Ash nods slowly, sipping his coffee. “Yeah. He mentioned you were crashing here for a while. Didn’t mention you’d be... air-drying in the hallway.”

Air-drying?! Okay. Deep breath. Just ignore him. This is fine. I can recover from this. People survive worse. Probably.

I huff. “He never mentioned you. Don’t you think he should’ve, considering you have a key and can just drop by on a random weekday?”

“You’ll have to take that up with Liam,” he says.

I scramble to my feet, heart pounding, skin on fire, still clutching the traitorous bath mat that bailed on me at the worst possible moment.

My foot lands on something soft and slippery—a donut.

I skid, arms flailing, nearly wipe out again, and come this close to taking out the hallway lamp on my way down.

A low laugh rumbles behind me.

I whip around, half-expecting sympathy, assistance, maybe even basic human decency.

Nope.

He’s still just standing there. Leaning casually against the doorframe, sipping coffee like this is his morning entertainment and I’m the show.

His sunglasses are pushed up on his head now, revealing eyes far too amused for the situation.

He looks like someone who’s never been embarrassed a day in his life.

Someone who eats chaos for breakfast—and apparently brings donuts to share.

I shriek something unintelligible and dive behind the kitchen island, dragging myself across the tile like I’m in an action movie, except the only thing under attack is my dignity.

My eyes dart around. I grab the nearest object: a cereal box.

Useless. I toss it aside and reach for a throw pillow on a nearby barstool.

Better. Still not enough. Finally, I spot a cat-shaped oven mitt hanging from a hook and slap it over my chest like it’s going to save me from total public nudity.

"Do you mind?" I shout, trying to hold the mitt in place with one hand and rewrap the bath mat with the other. "Turn around!"

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. His mouth curves into a lazy grin, and I hate how handsome he is when he’s being unbearable.

"I would," he says, sipping his coffee again, "but this is wildly entertaining."

I let out a strangled noise and stalk towards the bathroom with oven mitt and bath mat covering me.

I slam the door shut behind me and lean against it, heart pounding.

My face is on fire.

My entire soul is on fire.

Outside, I can hear him casually moving around the kitchen like nothing just happened.

Another bite of donut.

The sound of the fridge opening.

And then, through the door—his voice again, maddeningly calm:

“By the way... you’ve got powdered sugar on your butt.”