The Billionaire Paid Me to Be Their Mom

I've been a try-hard my whole life. When you grow up in foster care, nobody's coming to save you. You save yourself.

Then Malcolm Sterling offered me $1.5 million a year to marry him and run his house.

Okay. Fine. Everyone has a price. Mine just had a lot of zeros.

Instant mom of three, no labor required. A husband who paid for everything and was never home.

Honestly? I could live with that.

"Sloane Kessler. Twenty-seven. Top of her class in math and science. Currently chief engineer at Walsh Dynamics."

Malcolm looked up from the file on his desk. We were in his Boston office, and he'd just recited my entire life without asking me a single question.

"Smart. Driven. I think we can do business."

I waited. After an intro like that, there had better be an offer.

"Be my wife. Run my household. One and a half million a year, all expenses covered, no cap on bonuses."

I used to roll my eyes at women who married for money.

Then someone slid a number across the desk.

The rest went fast. He had three kids from his first marriage. My job was simple: handle their day-to-day lives and never, ever bother him with family drama. He'd cover the money and stay out of my way.

We recorded the whole conversation so neither of us could argue later about who'd promised what. Then we went through the prenup.

"Ms. Kessler." He rested a hand on the contract. "I want to be clear about one thing. This offer isn't an insult. I respect what you can do. That's exactly why I'm handing you my home."

I nodded. Fair enough. A man who makes millions before lunch doesn't want to spend his afternoon on the phone with a principal.

He didn't even pretend otherwise.

"Even if my kids grow up totally useless, they'll never have to worry about money. Neither will their kids."

They kept acting out to get his attention. He was sick of it. I was his solution.

The day the license came through, we got married at City Hall. The whole thing took ten minutes. Malcolm looked less like a groom than a man who'd just closed a deal.

He gave me a quick hug.

"Sorry. I've got a flight to catch. Business overseas. Ethan will drive you to the house. Everything's ready, and the kids are home from school so you can meet."

His phone was already out. He headed for the car, stopped, came back, and kissed my cheek.

"I appreciate your hard work, Mrs. Sterling."

I bit back a laugh. He sounded like an automated thank-you email.

His assistant, Ethan Cole, drove me out to Weston in a car I couldn't afford, to a mansion I couldn't afford to heat.

The house manager, Mr. Whitaker, met us at the door.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Sterling."

He took my bag and led me into the living room.

All three kids were waiting.

Owen, the oldest, was in a crisp private-school uniform and a pair of lensless designer frames. High school. Perfect posture, hands in his pockets. He looked me up and down without a word.

The quiet ones are always plotting something.

Tessa, the middle kid, was in middle school and trying way too hard to look like a rebel. Tiny strappy dress, smoky eyeliner, enough sparkly jewelry to blind oncoming traffic. She smacked her gum and stared at me like I was a bad smell.

My guess? Boy-crazy, and terrible at picking them. We'd see.

Milo, the youngest, was standing on the couch with his hands on his hips. Still in elementary school, but he'd already mastered the face of a landlord about to evict someone.

Malcolm's kids with his ex-wife, Celeste Arden. All three had been told I was coming.

"Hi," I said. "I'm—"

"Who's that lady?" Milo pointed right at me. "Mr. Whitaker, get her out of our house!"

Mr. Whitaker gave me an apologetic look. "Milo, this is your new stepmom. Be polite."

"Nuh-uh! Dad never said that!"

Their dad had called before his flight. Milo knew exactly who I was. He just wanted to watch me squirm.

I pulled the marriage certificate out of my bag.

"Signed, sealed, and legal. Call me Mom."

Milo jumped off the couch and stomped over.

"No way! I'm calling Dad. He'll make you leave!"

"Milo—" Mr. Whitaker started.

I held up a hand. "Let him."

Milo stabbed at his smartwatch. "You think I won't?"

Straight to voicemail. He tried again, then held the watch right up to his face, like that would make his father pick up.

"Boring," Tessa said.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder and headed for the stairs.

"Hold on."

She turned. "What?"

"That outfit isn't okay for school."

"My dad doesn't even tell me what to wear. Who do you think you are?"

She flipped me off and kept climbing.

"Also," I called after her, "it's ugly."

She stopped dead at her bedroom door.

Bingo. She didn't care about the dress code. She cared a lot about looking bad.

Owen pushed his empty frames up his nose.

"Sorry about those two. They're a little spoiled. I'm sure you understand." His smile said he didn't care if I did. "So what do we call you? Ms. Kessler? Stepmom? Stepmother? Sorry, this is all just so awkward."

Every word was polite. Every word was a reminder that I didn't belong here.

I tapped the certificate.

"Call me Mom."

His smile slipped.