The thing about being a professional girlfriend was that after a while, it stopped feeling glamorous. People always assumed it was champagne flutes, rooftop dinners, and luxury gifts every night, but most of the time? It was coffee shops, karaoke nights, Netflix marathons, or playing “arm candy” at events for guys who didn’t want to be questioned about their dating life.

A job was a job, and honestly, you’d gotten good at it. The Velvet Arrangement—that was the name of your agency—marketed itself as exclusive companionship, not some cheap date-finder. They were polished, expensive, and picky about who they took on. Their clientele were usually lawyers who didn’t have time to date, workaholic surgeons, hedge fund guys, and occasionally a lonely tech bro with too much money to burn.

And you? You’d been killing it. Your profile on the app was one of the most requested, which meant you were making good money—better than you’d ever expected when you first signed up. Enough to pay rent comfortably, upgrade your wardrobe to something chic and “high-girlfriend-aesthetic,” and still tuck away a serious savings account.

But even with all that… when you saw the newest booking request, you almost spat out your coffee.

Jeremy James Hunt.

Yes. That Jeremy Hunt. CEO of Hunt Shipping. Twenty-six years old. The heir. One of the richest young men in New York. A man who could, theoretically, have an actual girlfriend—or twenty—without paying for one.

At first, you assumed it was fake. Some bored guy with a sick sense of humor pretending to be a billionaire on your agency’s app. But nope. You triple-checked. The Velvet Arrangement confirmed it themselves: Jeremy Hunt had paid—paid in full—for the Girlfriend Experience Package.

You sat there staring at your screen like: Is this real life? Did this man just confuse us with an escort agency? CEOs didn’t rent girlfriends. CEOs had mistresses, secret wives in Paris, models who flew in on private jets. Renting a girlfriend was for normal rich people. Not… him.

Still, money was money. And if The Velvet Arrangement vouched for it, you weren’t about to say no.

So there you were, on a crisp Manhattan evening, heels clicking against the pavement as you walked toward the meet-up point. The city buzzed around you—yellow cabs honking, neon signs glowing, couples spilling out of upscale restaurants with laughter on their lips. You’d done this a hundred times, but your nerves were on high alert.

And then you saw him.

Jeremy Hunt was… not what you expected. Not at all.

You had pictured some older man with thinning hair and a face shaped by spreadsheets, the type who drank black coffee and thought “fun” meant checking market shares. Instead, the man waiting casually by the black town car looked like he’d stepped straight out of a GQ spread.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His suit was cut so perfectly it looked like it had been poured onto him, sharp lines hugging his lean, athletic frame. His dark hair was artfully tousled, just messy enough to look like he hadn’t tried too hard, and when he glanced up to spot you—his green eyes hit you like a spotlight. Sharp, intense, observant.

And then he smiled.

God help you, that smile should have been illegal.

“Hi there,” he said, his voice a low baritone that vibrated more than it spoke. Smooth. Confident. The kind of voice that said he was used to getting exactly what he wanted.

You tried—tried—to play it cool, but your brain had fully short-circuited. This was not an accountant. This was not a surgeon. This was the heir to Hunt Shipping, looking at you like you were the only person on the street worth noticing.

“You must be the infamous rent-a-girlfriend,” he said, lips tugging into a smirk. His eyes flicked over you, quick but deliberate, the kind of look that felt like an assessment. “I was expecting… well, I don’t know, but not this.”

There was a tease in his tone, a subtle curve of amusement, like he wasn’t sure if he’d just walked into a business arrangement or a date he might actually enjoy.