My Fake Daddy Billionaire

The New York night rain blurred the glass facades of Chelsea’s galleries into streaks of light.

Vivian Zhao stood before her graduation piece, Wild Growth, her fingertips cold. The installation—steel rebars, torn canvas, neon tubes—was the culmination of four years of work. Raw, angry, brimming with primal vitality. And it had earned her an olive branch from the prestigious “White Cube Project.”

“Mr. Parker is very interested,” her mentor whispered. “The contract is tonight.”

She watched the gallery owner approach, his smile one of practiced appreciation. Almost there. The thought made her palms damp.

Then, the air at the entrance shifted.

The murmur of conversation ebbed away. A man entered—Ethan Qi, thirty-eight, emperor of the art world. Impeccable charcoal suit, silver cufflinks glinting coldly, each step measuring territory that was already his. Several gallery owners clustered around him, speaking in hushed, eager tones. He offered only slight nods.

His gaze swept the room like a scanner assessing value. It passed over Wild Growth without pause.

“Mr. Qi!” Mr. Parker immediately abandoned Vivian, rushing forward. “We’re honored…”

Ethan Qi was guided to her work. Silence descended. One minute of scrutiny stretched into an eternity.

“Whose work?” His voice, though not loud, cut with crystalline clarity.

Parker quickly presented Vivian. “Vivian Zhao, one of RCA’s finest this year…”

Ethan turned his head. His eyes were a deep, almost black brown, holding no appreciation, only cold appraisal—as if examining flawed merchandise.

“Emotional garbage.”

Six words plunged the hall into dead silence.

Parker’s smile froze, then faded into awkward pallor. The surrounding gazes turned from envy to pity, even schadenfreude. Vivian felt blood rush to her head, then freeze solid. She saw the contract being torn to shreds, invisibly.

“Unskilled technique. Superficial expression.” Ethan continued, his tone as bland as a weather report. “Mistaking adolescent angst for artistic creativity.”

He accepted a champagne flute from a waiter and looked away, as if she and her work had already been discarded.

Rage, in that moment, burned through the shame.

Vivian moved.

She walked through the petrified crowd, straight up to him, and under the collective astonished stare, reached out and took the glass from his hand.

Then she turned and flung the entire contents onto the center of Wild Growth.

Liquid dripped down the steel rebars like a violent full stop.

In the silence, she turned back, shoved the empty flute into his hand, her voice trembling but clear: “Since you call it garbage, Mr. Qi, let it live up to the name.”

She looked at no one else, straightened her spine, and walked out of the gallery into New York’s cold, rainy night.

Rainwater seeped into the seams of her cheap pumps.

Hours later, Vivian stood before her shabby Brooklyn apartment building, dragging a suitcase. The landlady blocked the doorway. “Sorry. Got an offer for double the rent. You’re out tonight.”

She didn’t argue. After leaving the gallery, every opportunity had vanished. Her mentor’s phone went unanswered. Ethan Qi’s single sentence had welded shut every door to the city’s art scene.

Seventy-two dollars in her wallet. She bought a Greyhound ticket out of New York.

Returning to the apartment near midnight for a final pack-up, a knock came—three measured, calm raps.

A man in a black overcoat stood outside, expressionless. “Miss Zhao? Mr. Qi wishes to see you. Now.”

The black car slid into Manhattan’s steel canyons. In the penthouse, Ethan Qi stood with his back to her before the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of water in hand, his posture erect as a pine.

“Sit.”

“Your proposal. Say it and I’ll leave.”

He turned. The city lights cast dramatic shadows across his face. “Pretend to be my daughter. Twelve months.”

Vivian thought she’d misheard.

“My father’s trust requires the heir to ‘possess stable family ties.’” He walked to the desk, pushed a document forward. “My board opponents are leveraging this. I need a daughter at public events.”

“You ruin me, then want me to act for you?”

“I’ll pay you.” His tone remained even. “After the agreement, I fund a global solo exhibition tour for you. Starting at MoMA. Top-tier representation, unlimited budget. You’ll get a hundred times what you lost tonight.”

Global tour. MoMA. Top resources. Each word was poison, sweet and lethal.

“Why me?”

“You need an opportunity. You hate me—that avoids unnecessary attachments.” He paused, his voice growing colder. “And you have nothing left, do you? Seventy-two dollars. Where will you go?”

He’d had her investigated. Knew her desperation.

Shame burned, but a dark thought took root: Get close to him. Get inside his life. Understand the man who broke you. Maybe… make him pay.

The contract was thick. She picked up the pen. Her hand shook.

The nib descended: Vivian Zhao.

Ethan approached, handed her a velvet box. Inside, a brass key.

“Be here tomorrow at three p.m. From tomorrow, you are Vivian Qi.” His dark eyes held hers. “Perform well, daughter. Don’t disappoint me.”

As the elevator descended, Vivian leaned against the cold wall. Hatred, fear, confusion, and a thread of wild excitement churned inside her.

The doors opened to the midnight street. She dragged her suitcase out and looked up. High above, the lights of that penthouse hung alone in the night sky, a distant throne.

And she had just, in the most absurd way, been given a key to enter it.

The game had begun.