Knocked Up by a Billionaire

Chapter 1 Rhea

ONE

RHEA

This dress.

Clingy. Strapless. Secondhand. Cleavage spilling out in a way that says, please objectify me, while I smile like I don't notice.

The shoes hate me. And the only real upside to this whole getup? No bra required.

“Champagne?” A waiter glides past with a silver tray.

“No, thank you,” I murmur, already clutching a glass I don’t want. It was handed to me the moment I walked in, like an accessory required for entry.

Around me, the ballroom buzzes—laughter too loud, cologne too rich, heels too high.

A group of women huddle near the ice sculpture, hands glittering with cocktail rings, whispering like it’s part of the dress code.

The Paper & Pixel Foundation is funding six rural library projects this year, and ours made the finalist list. They’re even paying my way to attend. So I let my best friend zip me into a dress that doesn’t belong to me and paint a little color onto my lips. Just for one night.

Laney suggested I bring someone. Anyone. She even offered her husband, with a wink. “Or I could tag along. We could even pose as a couple.”.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I’ve not been in a relationship since junior year of college. And I’m not going anywhere with a fake date. Man or woman.

I figure, how hard could this be, anyway? Get through the event, get back to my room, bury myself in a book, and catch my flight back home by 6:00 a.m.

I sip the champagne, hoping to calm my nerves. Soften the edges. It’s dry. Like this whole evening.

Across the ballroom, Spencer Devereaux stands near the bar—tall, devastatingly handsome, and perfectly at ease in a charcoal tux.

He’s old-money East Coast, but his billions weren’t inherited. They were built—luxury real estate, private equity, and just enough tech holdings to keep Forbes guessing.

He’s the founder of the Paper & Pixel Foundation and the man everyone in this room seems to be orbiting.

The foundation isn’t his job—it’s his passion project.

A love letter to the power of stories. He’s a voracious reader, rumored to have entire walls of his Manhattan penthouse lined with first editions.

“He’s richer than God,” a woman murmurs beside me, smooth as satin and just as cold. Her hair is perfect, her smile wry as she adds, “But he only answers to himself.”

She’s older than me. Effortlessly elegant. Clearly enjoying my discomfort.

“I’ve heard he doesn’t date,” she goes on, eyes flicking toward the bar. “Not unless there’s a merger involved.”

Before I can reply—or decide whether I want to—she steps closer, fingers brushing the back of my dress.

“Sweetie,” she says, all faux affection. “Your tag’s sticking out.”

And just like that, she glides away on stilettos that cost more than my flight.

A burst of laughter breaks through the music, and everyone turns.

Spencer Devereaux.

Billionaire. Book lover. The reason I’m here tonight—and the man every woman in this room seems to be orbiting.

He turns his head in my direction, and for a moment, I assume he’s looking at someone behind me.

But then, I realize, he’s looking at me. Directly at me. Eyes as brown as coffee.

And I can’t seem to look away.

My throat tightens. I swallow. Hard.

He steps out of the circle of admirers, and he’s walking toward me. Straight toward me.

A thousand thoughts pinball through my brain. Is this ridiculous red lipstick smeared? Is my tag still sticking out? Should I duck behind the ice sculpture?

But then he’s here. In front of me. All dark eyes and tailored confidence.

“Hi,” he says, extending a hand as if this were a networking mixer and not a ballroom full of billionaires and wannabes. “Spencer Devereaux.”

As if everyone in this room doesn’t already know.

I take his hand. His touch sends a current through my palm and up my arm—electric and unexpected. I almost forget to speak.

“Rhea,” I manage, my voice thinner than I want it to be. “Rhea Sinclair.”

His mouth curves into a genuine smile. “Ah, yes. You’re one of our grant finalists. Maplewick Public Literacy Initiative.”

I’m shocked.

“You read it?” I blink.

“Of course I read it.” His gaze sharpens—not just polite interest, but real engagement. “Your proposal was smart. Scalable. Powerful case for expanding digital and physical media access in underserved rural areas. I was especially taken by your analysis of book deserts and community dignity.”

I feel myself straighten. This is my thing. My passion. The topic I want to corner every dinner guest and Lyft driver to talk about.

But instead of speaking, I just… inhale. Because now he’s closer. And he smells like cedar and sandalwood and a hint of danger. His mouth moves, he’s still talking, but I’ve forgotten every statistic I’ve ever memorized.

Then the lights dim.

“Looks like they’re nudging us to our seats,” he says, gesturing toward the stage with an easy elegance that makes it impossible not to follow. “Let’s talk more later, Rhea.”

And he’s gone.

I watch him stride toward the stage—utterly composed, perfectly fitted in what’s probably a ten-thousand-dollar tux. And yet it’s not what he said that sticks with me. It’s the warmth in his handshake. The curiosity in his eyes.

A woman at the next table fans herself with her program. I’m not the only one watching him.

He steps up to the mic. Lights brighten. The room quiets. And then he speaks.

He’s not just rich. He’s articulate. Smooth. Funny. Unpretentious in the most calculated way. He makes the men laugh, the women swoon, and the idealists lean forward.

“We need to protect what’s tactile,” he tells the room, voice like velvet. “Not just the words, but the way we hold them. In a child’s hands at bedtime. In a hammock under the sun. Between lovers, trading lines of Hugo by candlelight.”

The foundation’s rural library grant program is one of his newest initiatives—funding six projects this year, with tonight’s gala serving as both celebration and suspense. He’ll announce the winners at the end of the evening. Which means—for now—I smile, sip champagne, and pretend I belong.

Then he shifts—leans closer to the mic like he’s letting us in on something sacred.

“Aimer, c’est agir.”

The syllables roll off his tongue, soft and unhurried. Even if you don’t speak French, the words land with weight, rich as velvet.

The room stills for just a beat.

He doesn’t offer a translation.

But I know it. To love is to act.

And I swear—right then—he looks at me like he knows my love of Hugo.

Dead-on eye contact. Soft but intense.

My breath hitches. A flush creeps up my throat, blooming across my chest. I know my telltale blush is giving me away—every inch of exposed skin turning traitor.

The room erupts in applause. He smiles, thanks the crowd, and steps off the stage.

And I—librarian, book nerd, introvert in a borrowed dress—find myself doing the most unexpected thing.

Undressing him with my eyes.