Fake Mistress, Real Heiress: How to Seduce the Billionaire

I posted a message in the Luxury Splits group chat.

"Gucci's new black stockings—anyone want to split? I'll wear them first, snap a few photos, then pass them along."

Three girls jumped in fast, so the cost for these stockings on my legs came out to less than two hundred bucks.

I adjusted the straps of my slip dress in the mirror—collarbones exposed just right.

Tonight, my target was Raymond Cross.

Top-tier in the investment banking world. IQ 180. Six-foot-two. No bad habits.

Most importantly, three years of celibacy—his face screamed "superior genes."

I'm Irene Lancaster. Sole heiress of the Lancaster family—the wealthiest in the country.

I lack neither money nor status. Only a perfect heir.

As for men? They'd only slow me down.

Rumor has it Raymond's first love—Serena Cole, the one who got away—just announced her engagement. He'll definitely drink too much tonight.

This is my best chance to "borrow his seed."

The banquet hall reeked of glamour and perfume.

I held my champagne and circled past Raymond Cross three times.

On the fourth pass, I pretended to stumble and threw myself into his arms.

Instead of the warm catch I expected, a large hand pressed coldly against my shoulder.

Raymond looked down at me with disdain.

"Your Gucci stockings have a run."

His voice was deep, laced with undisguised mockery.

"And this cheap perfume is giving me a headache."

Low laughter rippled around us.

Someone whispered:

"Isn't that Lucy, the 'Budget Socialite' who snuck into the circle?"

"Desperate to climb the ladder, huh? Doesn't she know who Mr. Cross is?"

"Just a pigeon trying to pass as a swan."

Little did he know—the woman he dismissed as a pigeon

would later become the nightmare he'd go bankrupt just to catch another glimpse of.

My smile froze for a second, but I recovered fast.

I was here to get what I needed, not to save face.

Dignity? Worthless in the face of top-tier genes.

"Sorry, Mr. Cross. My carelessness."

I crouched down and pulled a wet wipe from my clutch.

A drop of champagne stained his leather shoe—spilled by me on purpose moments ago.

I knelt on the floor and wiped his shoe meticulously—humbling myself to the dust.

The laughter around us grew louder.

Raymond didn't recoil. He swirled his wine glass, relishing the display.

"How much do you want?" he asked.

I looked up at him, eyes glistening.

"Mr. Cross, I don't want money. I've just... admired you for a long time."

The lie rolled off my tongue with convincing sincerity.

Raymond scoffed—clearly unconvinced.

But he was drunk.

The alcohol amplified his heartache over Serena and clouded his judgment.

I seized the moment, steadying his swaying frame.

"Mr. Cross, let me take you back to your room."

This time, he didn't push me away.

He gripped my chin, studying me through narrowed eyes.

"The profile... somewhat resembles her."

I sneered inwardly but wore a look of flattered shyness.

It didn't matter who I resembled—as long as the sperm quality was good.

That night, Raymond Cross was rough.

He used me as a stand-in for Serena Cole—calling out her name, every thrust laced with hatred and possessiveness.

I gritted my teeth and endured.

Meanwhile, my mind raced—calculating ovulation windows and conception odds.

To maximize my chances, I discreetly propped my hips up after he finished.

What was a little pain if it meant conception?

A necessary price for superior genetics.

Morning came. The sunlight was harsh.

Raymond woke up, and his gaze turned icy again.

He signed a check and tossed it onto my bare body.

"Get out."

"Don't let me see you again."

I picked up the check and counted the zeros.

Five hundred thousand.

Not bad—superior genes and a generous payout.

I feigned delight, kissed the check, and scrambled out of the room.

The moment the door closed, my smile vanished.

My best friend texted: "Did you get pregnant?"

I replied: "Should be close. Guy's technique was mediocre—decent genes though. Use and discard."

At the end of the hallway, I overheard Raymond on a call.

His voice dripped with tenderness: "Serena, you're back? Let me pick you up."

Then he turned and coldly ordered his assistant: "Send that woman the morning-after pill. Watch her take it."

I touched my belly. A cold smirk curled my lips.

The pill?

Oh, I'd take it—the vitamin tablet I'd already swapped in.