Oop's I Married The Billionaire Playboy

Never in my wildest, most caffeine-fueled dreams did I think I'd end up married to Art William Jr., the legendary billionaire CEO of Luxy Fashion Inc. The same Art William who graced the covers of Fortune, Forbes, GQ, and Womanizer 101 Weekly—okay, that last one was just a fan blog, but you get the point.

Me? I'm Emily Rowling. Age 23. Occupation: Professional nobody. Occasionally heroic. And very confused.

Let me rewind.

It all started on a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday where your coffee's cold, your rent's due, and your ex was liking your Instagram stories just to ruin your life. I was walking through Central Park—headphones in, therapy appointment on my mind—when I heard a strange choking noise behind me. I turned around to find an elderly woman clawing at her neck, her face turning the color of my student loan statements.

Without thinking, I sprinted over and gave her the Heimlich like my high school health teacher had taught us—he was obsessed with proper CPR. And just like that, out flew the biscuit, landing in a graceful arc right onto a jogger's pristine white tank top.

“Oh dear,” the old woman croaked, catching her breath. “Oh! That was my favorite biscuit.”

“Well,” I said, panting, “at least it didn't kill you, ma'am.”

She let out a small expensive laugh, raised her brow, and patted my hand. “Thank you, dear; you saved my life. Come with me.”

“Huh?”

“To the hospital, of course. I want you there while they run tests. Plus, I’m lonely. You saved me. It's the least I can do, dear.”

I was dumbfounded.

She smiled and asked like we were just neighbors. “What is your name, dear?”

“I'm Emily, ma'am.”

“What a lovely name. Call me Granny.”

I didn't know what to say. I was already late for therapy, broke, and she had eyes like every Disney grandmother ever drawn.

“Come with me.”

So I said, “Okay.”

Fast forward three hours later, one hospital IV, and two very awkward elevator rides later…

She turned to me, eyes gleaming like she had just found her new favorite plaything. “Emily, do you believe in fate?”

“Hmm, I believe in free Wi-Fi and free coffee.”

She giggled. “You’re kind and a smart one. Listen—I have a grandson. Single, handsome, rich. Very rich indeed, but terrible with women. I want you to make him fall in love.”

What the fuck?

I choked on my grape soda. “Excuse me?”

“I'm not asking you to be a spy, dear, or kill someone, you know. Think of it as a mission. From destiny. I've met so many girls, but none of them have spark and kindness. You are kind, beautiful, and you have spark.”

She leaned in. “I'll pay you handsomely, of course, and you'll live in my penthouse.”

I don't know what happened, but her words seemed like a blessing from heaven. Of course, because I'm broke, anything that sounded ‘money’ was heaven-sent. And I'm not stupid to decline Destiny…whatever you call it.

Did I mention she bought me a dress and shoes? Not just any dress—a classic cream, silky number that hugged my curves like it knew they had student loans. She gave me a ring too. Then she called a judge. Her golf buddy.

I should have run. I should've leapt from the limo and taken the subway back to obscurity. But I didn't. I was too shocked, too surprised, and too overwhelmed by the sheer command of an old woman who talk like she was the queen of Norway.

I should've run. But I didn't.

Because the thing I knew was I was standing in a stuffy judge’s office wearing borrowed sanity, and there he was.

Art William Jr.

The man. The myth. The walking arrogance in designer Italian loafers.

He stood by the window, thumbing his phone like it owed him rent. His face was sharper than my landlord's tone, and his jawline could cut glass. His bone structure was flawless, his skin pale, yet seemingly touched by moonlight or maybe by fairy. He moved with such manly fluidity, each step deliberate and graceful. Like a royal.

Comparing him to Arman, my British ex—the asshole who cheated on me—was like comparing a dog to a dragon. Arman might have been a formidable man, but he was nothing compared to the pure, primal intensity of the CEO billionaire standing before me. This man wasn’t just a monster in an Italian suit, he was a force of nature.

And I couldn’t help but envy that power. My own, poor limitations stung as I watched him, realizing I could never hope to wield such strength, such confidence.

His assistant, a glamazon named Serena, was standing nearby, balancing three phones and a Starbucks cup like her life depended on it.

“Can we make this quick?” Art said without looking up. “I have a flight to London in three hours.”

The uncertainty buzzed in the air, thick and oppressive and I couldn’t ignore him. Couldn't ignore his cologne. Not now, not when every part of me screamed for him to look at me and pay attention.

“Art, sweetheart,” his grandmother cooed, linking her arm with mine. “This is Emily. Your new wife.”

His head snapped up. His eyes raked over me like I was a suspicious refund. “Is this a joke?” His voice, smooth and dripping with disdain, carried a tone of authority that made my teeth grit. 

Jesus. This man could make any woman forget how to breathe without even touching her. He was rude but…His eyes—those eyes—twin pools of darkness that could trap you if you weren’t careful. And his voice? A sweet melody that could have pulled the moon from the sky.

“Oh, it's very real,” the judge said, already flipping open a dark leather-bound book. “Okay, everybody. Let’s get to it, shall we?”

I blinked. “Wait. We’re doing this now?” 

Mrs. William smiled, “Of course, dear. I said you'd marry someone today, didn't I, Artie?”

He sighed. Sighed. Like I was missed Uber. “Fine. But make it quick.”

“Excuse me,” I muttered and looked at him, really looking at him, “I'm not a vending machine. I'm a person.”

His brow rose. “Great. A person with sass.” He paused, the silence stretching between us thick with unsaid things. “My favorite.” When he looked at me again, his gaze was intense, rich and searching. It wasn’t a casual inspection—it was something else, something I couldn’t fully place. But it made my pale skin burn, and my breath hitched in my chest.

The ceremony took three and a half minutes. I didn't even hear half of it—I was too busy wondering if I’d accidentally joined a cult.

When it was time for the rings, he shoved one on my finger without looking. Then, like I was radioactive, he leaned in, kissed me on the cheeks so fast it felt like I’d been hit by a cold wind, and said—

“Granny, we’re good now. I'll send the prenup to your secretary.” His eyes raked me again and I swore it was the most unsettling thing about him—deep, dark pools with flashes of grey-green slivers. They were hot, predatory, demanding, expensive and I couldn’t look away.

Then he left.

I just stood there, blinking.

“Congratulations,” the judge said with a wink “You may now question all your life decisions.”

Mrs. William rolled her eyes at the judge and clapped. “Isn't he dreamy, dear?”

“Dreamy?” I echoed, “Granny, he kissed me like I was made of kryptonite!”

She just beamed. “Oh, dear. That's just how he shows love. Like a cactus.”

A cactus? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

And that's how I, Emily Rowling, a professional nobody with a talent for Heimlich and a legendary sarcasm, an orphan, poor as a slug, ended up married to the infamous Art William Jr. The playboy of the century.

So here I am now, in a penthouse bigger than my childhood neighborhood. With a last name I didn't even earn with sweat. And a husband who might actually be allergic to emotional warmth and humanity.

Ha! What could possibly go wrong?