Matched to my Billionaire Boss (Matched Married and Marketed #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Lindsay

"No way!"

The laundry basket sits overturned by my feet, a sock draped over the edge like a surrender flag.

I can't stop staring at the television, even though the numbers are gone—replaced by weather graphics and an anchor's too-white smile.

My hands shake when I reach for the remote to rewind, but I don't press anything. I just hold it, thumb hovering.

The ticket burns against my palm, creased from how tightly I've been holding it. I smooth it out on my thigh—careful, reverent—and compare again. Six numbers. All mine. All matching.

Two point six billion dollars.

The words don't fit in my mouth. They're too big, too foreign, like trying to swallow something unchewed. I say them anyway, out loud this time, testing how they sound in my empty living room.

"Two point six billion dollars."

My voice cracks halfway through.

I laugh again, breathless and disbelieving. It turns into a sob before I can stop it.

Happy tears streak down my face and I swipe at them with my sleeve, leaving dark spots on the pink fabric. My hoodie. The ridiculous, sparkly one I only own because it was seventy percent off.

I can buy a thousand of these now. A million.

The thought makes me dizzy.

I sink back onto the couch, ticket still pressed between both hands like a prayer.

My student loans flash through my mind first. The crushing number I've been chipping away at for six years, the one that dictates every budget, every decision, every "maybe next month" when friends suggest dinner somewhere nice.

Gone.

The credit card balance from when my car died last winter and I had no choice but to fix it.

The medical bills from when I didn't have insurance for three months between jobs.

All of it, the weight that has been sitting on my chest since I graduated—erased.

My breath comes easier just thinking about it.

And work. Oh my—

The realization hits me so hard I actually gasp. No more alarm at six-thirty.

No more break-room coffee that tastes like burnt plastic.

No more scheduling meetings for people who don't say thank you, organizing travel for executives who forget my name, smiling when someone asks if I can ‘just quickly’ handle something that takes three hours.

I can walk away and never look back and it won't matter because I don't need the paycheck. I don't need the health insurance. I don't need any of it.

Freedom tastes like champagne bubbles in my throat. Bubbly and delicious.

My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to pick it up.

I scroll to my mom's contact photo. The image of her laughing at last year's Fourth of July barbecue, sparkler in hand fills the screen when I tap her name. The dial tone pulses once. Twice.

"Hey, honey! I was just thinkin' about you. How was—"

"I won."

Silence.

"Lindsay? Won what?"

"The lottery. Mom. I won the lottery."

The scream that comes through the speaker is so loud I yank the phone away from my ear. It's pure, unfiltered joy—the kind of sound I haven't heard in years.

"Are you—Lindsay Marie Smith, are you messin' with me right now? Because if you are—"

"I'm not! I'm not, I swear. I've got the ticket right here. All six numbers. Two point six billion."

Another scream. Then laughing. Then what sounds like crying but happy, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and relieved.

"Oh my heart. Oh my heart. Baby, are you sure? Have you checked? Are you—"

"Three times. Four. I keep checking and it keeps matching."

She's throwing out questions about lawyers and financial advisors and whether I've told anyone else and where I'm keeping the ticket and if I'm safe and—

"Wait." Her voice shifts, drops into something playful. "Does this mean I'm finally getting' that house in Hawaii?"

"Only if I get my own wing."

Her laughter rings bright and clear, and I can picture her in her kitchen, hand pressed to her chest, eyes wet and shining. Proud. So proud it makes my throat tight.

We talk for twenty more minutes. She wants details—where I bought the ticket, what I was doing when I checked it, what I'm feeling.

I tell her about the laundry basket, about how I knocked it over and haven't picked it up yet.

She laughs at that, warm and fond, and tells me to leave it. "Start as you mean to go on," she says.

When we finally hang up, my face hurts from smiling.

My sister answers on the first ring like she's been waiting by her phone.

"What's up?"

"I won the lottery."

"Shut up."

"Two point six billion."

"Shut up."

I laugh, giddy all over again. "I'm serious!"

"Oh my gosh—Lindsay! LINDSAY!" She's whooping now, loud enough that I hear her boyfriend ask what's wrong in the background. "My sister just won the actual lottery!"

More noise. Cheering. Her boyfriend's voice joining in. She comes back breathless.

"Okay. Okay, I need details. All of them. Right now."

I walk her through it, the whole story tumbling out easier the second time.

She interrupts with gasps and curses and makes me FaceTime her so she can see my face.

"You're gonna be set for life," she says, awe coloring every word. "Like, set set. You're never gonna have to worry about money again."

"I know. I can't—it doesn't feel real yet."

"It will." She pauses, and something shifts in her voice. Tentative. Hopeful. "Hey, so… this is probably bad timing, but… you think maybe you could spot me a few thousand? Just to get ahead of some stuff. I've been tryin' to save but it's been tight and—"

"Obviously."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really. I'll send it tomorrow."

Her relief is palpable, even through the phone. "Thank you. Thank you. I'll pay you back—"

"Don't. You don't have to. It's fine. I want to."

And I do. It feels good to say yes. Easy. Like there's finally enough to go around.

We talk until my battery hits fifteen percent. She makes me promise to be careful, to get a good lawyer, to not let anyone take advantage of me. I promise even though I don't know how to do any of those things yet.

When the call ends, the apartment feels too quiet again.

***

The lottery office is smaller than I expected. Cramped. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead while officials in suits guide me through paperwork that doesn't quite make sense. Tax forms. Release waivers. Legal documents with paragraphs so dense my eyes glaze over halfway through.

"Sign here. And here. Initial there."

I do what they tell me.

The check is comically large when they finally present it to me. Oversized, like something from a game show. I hold it with both hands under lights so bright they make my eyes water, smiling because that's what everyone expects.

Cameras flash. Questions come rapid-fire from voices I can't attach to faces.

"How does it feel?"

"Surreal. I'm still processing."

"What are you going to do with the money?"

"Help my family. Maybe travel. I haven't decided yet."

"Any big purchases planned?"

I laugh, shake my head. "Ask me again in a week."

They love that. More flashes. More questions. Someone asks me to hold the check higher. Someone else wants me to turn slightly to the left. The anchor loops her arm through mine like we're old friends. Her perfect hair and sparkling veneers make me feel underdressed.

"Congratulations, Lindsay. This must be life-changing."

"It is. Thank you."

The smile stays plastered on my face until it hurts.

By the time they let me leave, my hands cramp from holding the check and my head pounds from the lights. I slip out a side door heading to the parking lot, and the fresh air hits like a blessing.

My phone buzzes in my bag. Then again. And again.

I pull it out at a red light and my stomach drops.

Notifications flood the screen. Instagram. Facebook. Twitter.

Text messages from numbers I don't recognize.

Friend requests from people whose names sound vaguely familiar—maybe someone I sat near in college? Maybe a cousin of a cousin?

The local news has already posted a clip.

There I am, smiling, holding that ridiculous check. The comments are a mix of congratulations and speculation, people dissecting my clothes, my hair, my expression.

Someone says I look "sweet."

Someone else says I look "naive." A third comment warns me to get a lawyer before "the vultures descend."

I lock my phone and toss it onto the passenger seat.

***

There's a man outside my building when I pull into the parking garage. Tall. Well-dressed. Holding a briefcase like a shield.

He smiles when he sees me. Too familiar. Too confident.

Something about him makes my skin crawl.

"Lindsay Smith?"

I freeze with my key fob halfway to the door scanner.

"Do I know you?"

"Not yet." He extends a hand. "Marcus Brennan. Financial advisor. I specialize in helping people navigate sudden wealth."

I don't take his hand.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"Public records. Lottery winners are easy to find." He doesn't seem bothered by my hesitation. "Look, I know you're overwhelmed. Everyone in your position is. But the decisions you make in these first few weeks will determine your financial security for the rest of your life. You need guidance."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?" His smile doesn't falter. "Because this kind of money attracts mistakes. And people who'll take advantage of them."

He holds out a business card—thick stock, embossed lettering. I take it just to make him leave.

"Think about it," he says. "You'll want help. Trust me."

I don't respond. Just scan my fob and slip inside, locking the door firmly behind me.

Upstairs, my apartment feels smaller than it did this morning. The walls press in. My phone won't stop buzzing on the kitchen counter where I left it, screen lighting up over and over with names and faces I barely remember.

I sink onto the couch—same spot where this started—and stare at the overturned laundry basket still lying on the floor.

Twenty-four hours ago, I was invisible.

Now I'm a target.