Faking it: Billionaires and Their Fake Brides

Chapter One Sunny

I don’t realize I’m crying until the taxi driver flinches at the sound of my breath hitching.

“Miss, you sure this is the right address?” he asks, looking at me in the rearview like I might bolt out of the car and disappear into the rain.

I stare up at the glass tower stabbing at the Manhattan sky, lights glittering against the storm. Dylan’s building. Dylan Knight: Wall Street’s favorite villain and my brother’s best friend. The man who once scared off a guy at a bar just by looking at him.

It’s the last place I should be.

It’s the only place I have left.

“Yes,” I say, my voice small, shredded. “Here is good.”

My fingers shake as I fumble with my wallet. I drop my card, curse under my breath, and scramble to grab it from the floor. My jeans are soaked through, my sweater clings to my skin, and my shoes squelch when I move. I’m one wet sneeze away from falling apart.

The driver takes the card, glances again at the looming building. “You gonna be okay?”

No.

“Yes,” I lie. “Thank you.”

I don’t wait for the receipt. I don’t wait for courage. I just shove the door open and step into the storm. The rain is a wall, needling my skin, flattening my hair to my cheeks. I hitch my duffel bag higher on my shoulder, clutch my purse to my chest, and run for the awning. Lightning flashes, turning the wet pavement silver.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I don’t have to look to know who it is.

Trevor.

My stomach flips. For a second, I almost reach for it. Some pathetic, bruised part of me still wants to see his name, wants to see something softer than the threats that lit up my screen before I blocked him… and then unblocked him… and then blocked him again. A sick loop I can’t seem to stop.

Not tonight.

I ignore the buzzing and yank open the glass door. Warm air hits me, scented with expensive cologne and fresh flowers. The lobby looks like a magazine ad—marble floors, gold accents, two identical white orchids, and a man in a dark suit behind the desk who immediately clocks that I do not belong here.

“Good evening,” he says, eyes scanning my dripping hair, my bargain-store coat, the duffel slung over my shoulder. His tone is polite, but wary. “May I help you?”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe. My heart bangs against my ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out. “I’m here to see Dylan Knight.”

The concierge’s brows twitch. “Mr. Knight is expecting you?”

No. Definitely not. The last time I saw him was at my parents’ house at Christmas, and he’d spent half the night glowering at his phone and the other half glowering at anyone who tried to talk to him.

“He, um… he knows me. I’m his… friend’s sister. Sunny Emerson.” My voice cracks on my name. Great. Very convincing.

The man’s expression doesn’t change, but something sharp flickers in his eyes—recognition. Of Dylan’s name, not mine. Of trouble.

“Let me check with Mr. Knight, Miss Emerson.”

He makes a quick call, speaking in low tones. My fingers twist in the strap of my bag until they ache. What if Dylan says no? What if he tells them not to let me up? What if the last bridge I thought I had is already burned and I just didn’t get the memo?

The concierge hangs up, stands, and gives me a suddenly respectful nod. “Mr. Knight said to send you up. Penthouse. Elevators to your left.”

My knees almost buckle with relief. “Thank you.”

I stumble toward the elevators, leaving a trail of rainwater behind me. My reflection in the polished doors is a horror-movie extra—runny mascara, tangled hair, swollen eyes. The girl who swore she’d never be back here, asking for help from a man who scares her almost as much as the one she just left.

The doors slide open. I step inside, press the button for the top floor. The elevator glides upward, smooth and silent, as my brain plays every terrible what-if I’ve been trying not to think.

What if Trevor follows the GPS on my phone and finds me here?

What if Ethan finds out I went to Dylan instead of calling him?

What if Dylan looks at me the way he did when I was eighteen and he told me I was “too sweet for men like me”? Like I’m breakable. Like I’m a problem he doesn’t want.

I press my back against the cool mirrored wall and squeeze my eyes shut.

You had to leave, I remind myself. You left. You did it.

Trevor’s face flashes behind my eyelids, smug and furious. “You think anyone else will put up with you?” he’d hissed earlier tonight, when I’d finally said the words out loud: I’m done.

I’d waited until he stormed out. Waited until I heard his car peel away. Then I’d grabbed the bag I’d secretly packed two nights ago and run.

Now I’m here. In an elevator going up, up, up into a world that isn’t mine.

The doors slide open with a soft chime.

The penthouse hallway is quiet, hushed, like it’s holding its breath. There’s only one door—the one at the end, black and imposing with a sleek silver handle. Of course it’s dramatic. It’s Dylan.

My feet feel heavy as I walk down the hallway. By the time I reach his door, my hands are trembling so hard I can barely lift them. I knock anyway.

For a second, there’s nothing. Just the echo of my knuckles and the roar of my heart.

Then I hear it.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

The lock clicks.

The door swings open, and there he is.

Dylan Knight, in all his bare-chested, sleep-ruffled, pissed-off glory.

My brain blanks.

He’s wearing nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, exposing a hard stretch of stomach and a chest that looks like it was sculpted specifically to make women forget their own names. His dark hair is mussed, as if I’ve woken him up—or dragged him from some late-night deal. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, and his blue eyes are sharp and ice-cold.

“Sunny?” he says, frowning like he’s not sure I’m real. His gaze drops, taking in the soaked clothes, the duffel, the way I’m hugging myself as if that might hold me together. “What the hell?”

The words slam into me. Not gentle. Not warm. Just pure Dylan.

I force my throat to work. “Hi.”

He stares. “It’s after midnight.”

“I know.”

“Why are you—” His gaze sharpens, laser-focused. “Did something happen?”

The kindness is buried, but I hear it. A thread of something softer under the steel. It almost undoes me.

My eyes sting. I swallow. “I… I didn’t know where else to go.”

For a moment, everything in him goes still. His face, his body, even his breathing. Then he steps back, just enough to open the door wider.

“Get in,” he says, voice low, no argument allowed. “You’re dripping all over the hallway.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up, but I choke it down. I step inside.

The penthouse is exactly how I remember it from the one time I was here for Ethan’s birthday: huge, glass everywhere, clean lines and dark furniture, like a magazine spread on “How to Look Like You Rule the World.” City lights spill in the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off polished surfaces. Everything feels expensive and cold, like Dylan built his own fortress in the sky.

I stand on the rug just inside the door, afraid to move, water pooling beneath me.

He shuts the door and locks it, then turns to face me, arms crossing over his chest. The muscles in his shoulders shift, and I have to drag my eyes back up to his face.

“Talk,” he says. “Now.”

The word cracks like a whip. Normally it would make me bristle. Tonight, my knees wobble with relief. Someone else is taking control. Just for a minute.

“I… left Trevor,” I whisper. Saying it out loud here, in this place, makes it feel real. “We had a fight. It got bad. I couldn’t stay.”

His jaw tightens, tendons jumping. “He hit you?”

I flinch at the edge in his voice. “No. Not—” My throat closes. I remember his hand on the wall beside my head, the venom in his eyes, the way he leaned in and hissed things that burrowed under my skin. “Not this time. He just… he…”

I trail off, feeling small and stupid and so, so tired.

Dylan rakes a hand through his hair, inhales slowly, like he’s reining something in. “Did he touch you?”

The memory of his fingers digging into my arm flares sharp and ugly. My silence is answer enough.

A muscle ticks in Dylan’s cheek. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

“I grabbed my bag when he left,” I rush on, words spilling out in a breathless tumble. “I didn’t think, I just… I called a cab and the only address I could remember was yours and Ethan’s office building, and then I panicked and gave the driver your home address instead, and I know this is crazy, and you’re probably furious, and I’ll go if you want me to, but I just—”

“Sunny.” His voice cuts through my rambling like a knife.

I clamp my mouth shut.

He looks at me for a long beat. The intensity of his gaze makes my skin prickle. He’s assessing damage—like I’m one of his companies that’s just crashed on the stock exchange.

“First,” he says slowly, “you’re not going anywhere.”

The words slam into my chest.

“Second, you’re freezing. Take off the coat.”

My fingers fumble with the buttons. I shrug out of the soaked fabric, teeth chattering now that the adrenaline is dropping. He grabs the coat from me and disappears for a second down the hall, returning with a towel and a hoodie that looks like it could double as a tent on my frame.

“Here.” He thrusts the towel at me. “Dry your hair.”

I scrub at my face and hair, the rough cotton scratching my skin. When I’m done, he nods at the hoodie. “Put that on before you catch pneumonia and your brother murders me.”

The mention of Ethan makes shame twist in my gut. I pull the hoodie over my head anyway, drowning in the warm, faintly cologne-scented fabric. It’s so big I could curl into myself and disappear.

“Better,” Dylan mutters, eyeing me with a frown that looks suspiciously like concern. “Sit.”

He gestures toward the plush couch. I hover. “I’m going to ruin it.”

“It’s a couch, not a holy relic. Sit down, Sunshine.”

The nickname makes my chest ache. He used to call me that when I was a teenager, half teasing, half annoyed that I followed Ethan and him around like a stray puppy. Hearing it now from his rough, sleep-rough voice almost undoes me.

I sit. Slowly. My duffel bag thuds to the floor.

“Start from the beginning,” he says, taking the armchair across from me. He doesn’t lounge; he perches on the edge, forearms on his knees, body angled toward me like I’m the only thing in the room. “What happened tonight?”

I tell him. Not everything. I can’t give voice to all of it yet. But enough. Enough that he understands the pattern, the escalation, the way Trevor chipped away at me piece by piece until I barely recognized the girl in the mirror.

Dylan doesn’t interrupt. His face stays carved from stone, but his eyes burn. Every time I stumble over a word, he waits. Every time I gloss over a detail, his mouth flattens.

When I finish, the silence is thick. I realize my hands are clenched in the hem of his hoodie, knuckles white.

“So,” I say, attempting a shaky smile that no one is buying, “surprise. I left my awful boyfriend. Yay me.”

Something like pain flashes across his face. “This should’ve never gotten this far.”

“I thought I could fix it,” I whisper. “If I just tried harder, or didn’t say the wrong thing, or didn’t make him mad, then maybe he’d go back to being the guy he was in the beginning. The one who brought me flowers to my classroom and said I was his whole world.”

“The beginning is always an act,” Dylan says, voice low and dangerous. “You know that now.”

A tear slips free. I swipe it away, embarrassed. “I know. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

His gaze softens, just for a heartbeat. “You came to the right place.”

The words settle over me like a blanket. Warm. Heavy. Too good to be true.

“Ethan doesn’t know,” I admit. “I was going to call him, but he’s in L.A. for that pitch, and I didn’t want to screw it up for him, and he’ll freak out if he knows I’m here—”

“He’ll freak out,” Dylan agrees, eyes narrowing. “At him. Not at you.”

“At both of you,” I mutter.

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “He can add me to his list of disappointments.”

My heart squeezes. Dylan and Ethan have their own wounds—words said in anger, expectations pressed like bruises. I’ve watched their friendship stretch under the weight of adult life, but it’s never snapped.

“Can I stay here?” The question comes out small. I hate how small. “Just for tonight. I’ll figure something out tomorrow. I’ll look for a sublet or a roommate situation or—”

“You’re not going apartment hunting with a psycho ex on your trail,” he says flatly. He leans back, the alpha command snapping fully into place. “You’ll stay here until I say otherwise.”

My brows shoot up. “Until you—excuse me?”

His eyes flash. “You’re not safe, Sunny.”

“I will be.” My voice gains a little strength. “I will figure it out.”

“And in the meantime, he tracks you through your phone, or your card, or your stupid shared streaming account, and shows up at the door of some cheap walk-up with no doorman and no security cameras?” Dylan’s voice rises, roughening. “Not happening.”

“I can’t just move in with you,” I protest, heat creeping up my neck. “People talk.”

“People can talk to my lawyer if they have a problem,” he snaps. “This place is a fortress. Security downstairs. Cameras in the hall. Nobody gets up here without me knowing.”

His protectiveness is like a physical thing in the room, crackling off him in waves. It should scare me. Instead, it makes something tight and terrified inside me… loosen.

I sag back into the couch. “I don’t want to be a problem for you.”

His gaze pins me. “You’re not a problem. You’re under my roof.”

The words land with a strange weight. My lungs feel too small.

He exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face as if he’s catching himself being too soft and doesn’t like it. “I’ll have a guest room made up. You can use the en suite to shower. Tomorrow we’ll deal with the rest—locks, restraining order, whatever it takes. Right now, you need to sleep.”

The thought of a hot shower almost makes me cry again. “Thank you,” I whisper.

He nods once, curt, like I’ve just confirmed an action item in a meeting. He stands, muscles shifting under his skin, and pulls his phone from the coffee table. His entire posture changes—tall, coiled, lethal.

“Who are you calling?” I ask.

“Security,” he says, scrolling. “And my P. I. If Trevor Malone so much as breathes in your direction again, I want to know.”

My heart stutters at the cold steel in his voice. Trevor has always seemed untouchable, slipping past my boundaries, past my protests, like my no was just a suggestion. Dylan, on the other hand, looks like he could topple empires before breakfast.

He strides toward the windows, the city lights washing his bare back in pale gold. He presses the phone to his ear, waits. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the strain from here.

A man answers on the other end—I can’t hear the words, just the faint, tinny rumble. Dylan’s shoulders go even straighter.

“Yeah, it’s Knight,” he says, voice dropping into something dark and deadly. “I need a name flagged. Trevor Malone. I want eyes on him starting now. If he comes near this building, or near Sunshine Emerson, you call me first.”

My breath catches at the sound of my name. Sunshine Emerson, as if I’m something official. Something that matters.

There’s a pause. Dylan’s gaze flicks back to me, softening for the briefest second. Then it hardens again.

“No,” he says, and this time his voice is a growl that vibrates in my chest even from across the room. “Let me be perfectly clear.”

He turns away, staring out at the city like he’s addressing every threat it holds. The next words slice through the quiet, low and lethal—meant for the man on the phone, but they hit me like a physical touch.

“No one touches her,” Dylan Knight says. “Not while she’s under my roof.”

My heart slams against my ribs, my fingertips tingling.

For the first time in a long time, the fear in my chest shifts—making room for something else.

Something dangerously close to hope.