Page 12 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

She stares, "Says the woman who is a walking talking encyclopedia of trivia that's largely useless."

"That..." I rub my forehead, "That's different."

"Right." She snorts. "How many other twenty-one year-old women can give trivia nerds a run for their money?"

I wrap my arms around my waist. "I'm not sure that's something to be proud of," I mumble.

"You made enough money winning pub quizzes and TV game shows."

"It was one show—"

"That earned you £100,000." She raps her knuckles against the door frame. "It’s kept us going this far."

That's how we've survived since I left the homeless hostel at nineteen.

It was because of the money that I'd been able to take on responsibility for Karma and pull her out of the care system. I'd also used a portion of it to launch my marketing consultancy.

I'd expanded the scope to supply quizzes to pubs, bars, parties and to my growing list of online subscribers who love to receive a daily trivia quiz from me... For a fee.

My dream job.

I thrust out my chest. I had defined it, created it, pursued it. I bite the inside of my cheek. What had I been thinking? Following my intuition? Thought I could earn a living from my passion for movies?

Why did I have to turn down the job of marketing manager for the—ugh! —accounting firm? I hunch my shoulders.

It would have paid well, allowed for specialist medical consultations for my sister. I'd been bloody selfish, that's what.

I'd held onto some stupid notion that I could have whatever I wanted without compromising on my dreams. Except, I'd lost the client who contributed to 80% of my business.

I twirl a lock of my hair, bring it to my mouth and chew on it.

"Horrible habit." She frowns.

"It helps me think." I push off from the counter, begin to pace. "I have a big meeting tomorrow. If I get the account…"

"You will."

My phone dings. I stare at my bag.

"You going to see who it is?"

I shake my head.

"Want me to?"

I raise my shoulders, and let them drop, "How much worse could it get, huh?"

She reaches for my bag, pulls out my phone, reads the message.

"Who is it?"

She drops the phone into my bag.

"It’s nothing."

"Karma!" I scowl, then flounce over to her and check the screen. There's a new text message.

SmellyGuy: You have one week to pay the rent or else...