Page 8 of Milk For The Billionaire's Little

The chain motel? Less security, yes, and possibly a little gross, depending on who’d used the room before. But it was anonymous. Forgettable. And if the goal was to keep James, andanyone else, from guessing my real identity, this was the smarter bet.

So I went with the latter, opting for a place that James had picked out.

I hated the feeling that I was exchanging money for milk. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be about. I didn’tneedmoney. I didn’t rely on it to get through the day. I wasn’t choosing between gas and groceries, or scraping by to pay rent. I could, if I wanted to, put in a marble bathtub, fill it with oat milk and fresh lavender flown in from France, and soak in it like a ridiculous wellness ad without feeling the expense.

But something told me that if I didn’t listsomeamount on the app—if I didn’t put a number in the “rate” box, it would look like a red flag. Too generous. Too good to be true. And nobody would bite.

So I picked a reasonable, middle-of-the-road number. Not high. Not low. Just enough to make it seem like I was a normal guy with something to offer.

I’d already decided I’d refund James when this was over. Quietly. Maybe anonymously. Maybe not. Who knew—maybe this would even become a regular thing and I’d need to wait until the end. But one thing was for sure, I didn’t want the money.

I kept telling myselfnotto get ahead of myself.

I dressed carefully, not to impress but to disappear. A soft, plain navy T-shirt. A pair of jeans that looked like they came off a clearance rack. Both cost more than the hotel room, of course, but nothing with a logo. Nothing that would make anyone look twice.

The mask I chose was a leftover from a charity event—an elaborate masquerade where understated wasn’t even on the menu. It was a deep, smoky blue with metallic accents and subtle feathering at the temples. More than a little over-the-top for tonight’s purposes, but it was what I had. And honestly? It looked good.

I drove to my first stop but planned to take a rideshare rather than drive one of my own cars to the actual hotel. None of my vehicles were exactly subtle, and I didn’t want anything that could be traced or recognized.

I handed my keys to the valet at the luxury hotel that was my cover. I’d booked a room at the hotel where the gala had been, just to have a legitimate place tied to my name for the night. After checking in, I left through the side entrance and called the car to the alley, keeping myself as distanced as possible.

I slipped on the mask during the ride and stared at myself in the reflection of the car window. It suited me. It would’ve looked better with a tux, a flute of champagne in hand, a hot man on my arm. But for tonight?

It worked.

The hotel wasn’t a hotel at all. It was a motel and far worse than I expected. The neighborhood, too. It shocked me, given the sign that claimed it was a 3-star hotel. Branding, I guess. A stretch or an out-and-out lie. One of the two.

I climbed out of the car, ignoring the flickering “Vacancy” sign. A man was already standing there, close to the parking lot, looking around with nervous energy. He had wavy light brown hair and brilliant green eyes, and in his hand was an old-school metal keyon a huge plastic ring, not a card like was standard. The number on the fob was half-faded.

“Are you here for James?” he asked.

I blinked. “You’re not supposed to be paying for this,” I said automatically, walking toward him. “You from the app?”

He looked startled and nodded. “Yeah, I’m James.”

“I don’t understand whyyou’rehere. Or why we’re atthisplace. And… you’re alone?” My heart was racing. Did not see how dangerous this could be?

I took his hand gently and plucked the key from his other one. I held it up, squinting.

“Is this… eight?” I asked. “Three?”

“Eight,” he said. “I think.”

“Well, let’s find out.”

I led him across the cracked pavement toward the door marked8, then slid the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened with a groan. Either it was ours for the night, or the numbers were suggestions and they all worked for every door. I shivered at that thought.

Inside, the room was bland and dated. There were two beds, cheap art on the walls, and a CRT TV. One lamp flickered before settling, and the other never even pretended to work. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and something sweet, like maybe someone had spilled soda on the carpet a few tenants ago. Or maybe fresh vapes.

James hovered in the doorway. “I’ve never done this before,” he said quietly.

I could believe that. There was a nervous energy about him, but also a surprising kind of trust.

I turned to face him. “You thought it was agoodidea to hang out in a motel like this alone? Outside? In this part of town?” Yes, I was still on that.

His eyes widened. “I—I just… it seemed like the right thing, I didn’t think?—”

“Next time,” I said firmly, “we’re meeting someplace nicer.”

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