Take My Billionaire She Is Broke

I came from nothing. A cracked linoleum apartment off the interstate, dinner stretched thin with canned beans, and a father whose only legacy was collection notices. But hunger teaches a boy how to watch people, how to bend himself into whatever shape they crave. Then the Interface unlocked in my mind—a cold, calculating cheat code for survival, whispering metrics and social cues directly behind my eyelids.

Under its clinical tutelage, I scrubbed away the grime of my past. I shed the scowl, grew out a tousled, sun-bleached fringe, leaned into that clean, effortless golden-boy aesthetic, and…