Who Is Mr. Prince's Next Girl?

I was Olivia Hayes, working as the ever-efficient secretary to Julian Grey. To most people, he was a modern-day prince charming—charismatic, wealthy, and unattainable. My responsibilities extended far beyond managing his schedule; I was also tasked with handling his endless string of girlfriends.

When Julian set his sights on someone, it was my job to ensure she ended up in his arms. And when he grew tired of her, I had to make sure she quietly vanished from his life.

After years of working so closely with him, I couldn’t help but let fantasies creep into my mind. I wanted to be Julian’s girlfriend, too.

Apart from his fleeting affection, Julian was extravagantly generous with the women he dated. He lavished them with jewels, designer bags, luxury homes—anything they desired. When the inevitable breakup came, he compensated them with a parting gift of one million dollars.

Take Eveline, for example. She held the record for Julian’s shortest relationship—a mere seven days. I never found out what caused her downfall, but she disappeared as swiftly as she had arrived, with a hefty payout.

It didn’t take long for me to realize the pattern. Even a one-night stand with Julian could secure someone a seven-figure goodbye gift.

Julian Grey, the billionaire tycoon, was an enigma. To his employees, he was an unrelenting capitalist who demanded everything. To his ex-girlfriends, he was a charming philanthropist who handed them fortunes for their time.

The real question was: who wouldn’t want to be Julian’s woman?

I wasn’t immune to the temptation. I, Olivia Hayes, his hardworking assistant, had dreamed of being one of those lucky women. But unlike Lena Albright, a coworker who openly pined for Julian’s love, I didn’t want romance. What I wanted was his money.

I didn’t think of myself as greedy. I didn’t need mansions or yachts—just enough to buy my dream villa at the base of Peretti Hill. Was that so much to ask?

I wasn’t a gold digger, not really. I simply thought of it as fair compensation for all the sleepless nights, the constant demands, and the emotional stress Julian’s life placed on me. Not to mention the personal injuries. His girlfriends had spilled hot coffee on me, insulted me, and treated me like their personal servant.

If I became Julian’s girlfriend, the arrangement would be practical. Sure, there’d be sex—but that, too, would feel like overdue compensation for the emotional damage I’d endured. And to be honest, I’d been secretly attracted to Julian for years.

I still remembered the first time I visited his penthouse to deliver some urgent documents. Julian had just stepped out of the shower, a towel slung loosely around his waist.

I could never unseen it—his chiseled chest, those broad shoulders, the sculpted V-line abs that could make any woman weak in the knees. From that moment on, I was hooked.

But there was one glaring problem: after three years of working for Julian, I still couldn’t figure out his type.

His dating history was as diverse as it was baffling. He’d been with slender women, curvy women, cheerful extroverts, and shy introverts. Some were drop-dead gorgeous; others were so plain you wouldn’t notice them in a crowd.

Sometimes, I wondered if Julian was conducting some kind of personal research project on the variety of women in the world.

The usual rule that men loved beautiful women didn’t seem to apply to him. He’d dated two women so astonishingly ordinary that I had to double-check to make sure they were real contenders. And yet, they’d been chosen.

This unpredictability gave me hope. If Julian could fall for someone so unremarkable, then why not me?

His generosity was as random as his taste in women, and I was determined to be patient.

By any means necessary, I was going to climb into his bed.

And I would get that million dollars.