My Billionaire Roommate's Secret

I played the broke NYU art student, secretly Hailey Voss, tech empire heiress, tired of fakes.

My crush, Caleb, a famously poor artist, seemed different.

So, I lured him to rent a room in my lavish SoHo loft with a twisted, shirtless discount.

I reveled in this unusual power game.

Then my world imploded.

My stepfather, Richard, orchestrated a hostile takeover, bankrupting my mother's company overnight.

I lost everything-my fortune, identity, my home.

Suddenly, I was genuinely penniless; credit cards useless, trust fund frozen.

The next day, "broke" Caleb bought my multi-million dollar loft for cash, flipping our game.

He offered me a room, teasing I'd now be topless for rent.

Publicly humiliated by Brody, my old tormentor, I felt completely broken, cash thrown at my feet.

How did Caleb have millions?

Why play my charade?

How was Hailey Voss, the heiress, so utterly powerless and abandoned?

Blindsided and distraught, my life lay in ruins.

Then, alone and desperate in Washington Square Park, a black Escalade appeared.

Out stepped Caleb, in a tailored suit, flanked by security, not torn jeans.

He faced Brody, voice cold: "You just put your hands on my future wife."

My "broke artist" was Caleb Astor, heir to a real estate dynasty, and our unexpected story was just beginning.

I hate rich people.

Which is a problem, because I' m one of them. Secretly, anyway.

To everyone at NYU, I' m Hailey, the broke art history major with a scholarship and a bohemian vibe.

In reality, I' m Hailey Voss, sole heir to a West Coast tech empire my mother built from nothing. I keep it quiet because I' m tired of the fakes, the climbers, the ones who see a dollar sign instead of a person.

People like Brody.

He cornered me outside the library, leaning against his bright yellow Lamborghini. It was the kind of car that screamed "new money" and "small dick energy."

"Hailey, baby," he said, dangling his keys. "Stop playing hard to get. A girl like you shouldn't be taking the subway. Let me take you to dinner. Per Se, my treat."

I looked from his slicked-back hair to his stupidly expensive watch. He represented everything I ran away from.

"No thanks, Brody," I said, my voice flat. "I'd rather be publicly executed."

I walked away, leaving him sputtering.

My rejection of him was the talk of the campus gossip forums for an hour. But I didn't care.

Because as I walked away, I saw him.

Caleb.

The campus's tortured artist. A photography student. He was leaning against a brick wall, all quiet intensity and torn jeans. He was handsome in a way that felt real, not manufactured like Brody. He was also famously broke.

I' d had a crush on him for months.

And after the encounter with Brody, I decided I was done waiting. I wanted something real, or at least something that felt real.

I walked right up to him.

"I think you're hot," I said.

He looked up from his phone, his dark eyes showing a flicker of surprise, but no panic. He just stared at me.

"Okay," he said slowly, his voice a low rumble.

"I want to ask you out," I continued.

He raised an eyebrow. A small, almost invisible smile played on his lips. "You know I'm broke, right? I can't take you to Per Se."

The jab at Brody was subtle, but I caught it. He was sharper than he looked.

It made me want him even more.

"I don't care about that," I said, lying easily. "Your looks are enough."

He actually laughed, a short, sharp sound. "So you're shallow. Good to know."

"Honest," I corrected. "There's a difference."

He shook his head, a look of amusement in his eyes. "I'm not looking for a girlfriend."

"I'm not asking to be your girlfriend," I shot back, undeterred. "I'm just asking you out."

He was about to reject me again, I could see it. I had to change tactics.

I'd overheard his friends talking. He was getting kicked out of his dorm. He needed a place to live, fast.

An idea, a perfect, terrible idea, formed in my mind.

That night, I went home to my sprawling SoHo loft-a place no one from school had ever seen-and put up a rental ad. I made sure it only went to one place: the NYU student housing board, where I knew Caleb would be looking.

The next day, I had one applicant. Him.

I met him at a coffee shop near campus. He looked wary.

I got straight to the point. "I saw you need a place. I have a room."

He studied me. "I saw the ad. A loft in SoHo. I can't afford that."

"We can make a deal," I said, leaning forward. I felt a thrill, the familiar rush of being in control.

"The rent is three thousand a month."

He started to shake his head, but I cut him off.

"But, there's a discount system." I paused for effect. "It drops to two thousand if you agree to only wear gym shorts at home. No shirt, and it's fifteen hundred."

He stared at me, his face a perfect mask of shock. I could see the blush creep up his neck. It was delicious.

"You're serious," he whispered, like he couldn't believe it.

"Deadly serious," I said, my voice dropping to a purr. "So, do we have a deal, roommate?"

He was silent for a long moment. I watched the conflict in his eyes. The shame, the need, and something else... intrigue.

He let out a long, slow sigh.

"Fine," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Deal."