The Disgraced Star is My Billionaire

I’ve always been able to see the numbers hanging above people’s heads—their moral debt laid bare in glowing digits of gold and crimson.

When you’re the most hated girl on the internet, though, your own numbers don’t matter much.

My agency had practically blackmailed me into joining "Wilderness Trials", a livestreamed celebrity survival show.

My only job was to be the pathetic, incompetent foil to the network's golden girl, Tiffany.

During team selections on the rainslicked soundstage, Tiffany made a big show of recoiling when Beck Cameron walked past.

Beck had been Hollywood royalty once—an Oscarwinning darling whose career had imploded overnight after a brutal assault scandal. Now, he was a pariah.

Tiffany wrinkled her nose, physically shoving him away, and pivoted to throw herself into the arms of Taylor, the latest popstarturnedinfluencer. “I am not partnering with a violent predator," Tiffany sighed into her lapel mic, loud enough for the millions of live viewers to hear. "We’re heading into a dense, unmonitored forest.

What if he loses his temper and kills me?" "Honestly," Taylor chimed in, throwing a smirk toward the cameras. "A washedup piece of trash like him belongs with a social reject.

Hey, Cassie—looks like you found your match." I didn't hear him. My eyes were locked on the space above Beck's head. Most people’s Karma hovered in modest, faint yellow numbers.

But Beck’s? His was blinding. A brilliant, incandescent halo of pure gold, radiating like a miniature sun.

And right beside it, floating in shimmering, elegant text, was a system prompt: [Billionaire heir to the Cameron Media Empire.

Undercover to root out a massive corporate embezzlement scheme.

Acquiring this entire streaming platform tomorrow.] [Whoever partners with me today: I will not only pave her way to a clean sweep of the Academy Awards, but I will also make her the coowner of the entire empire.] I didn't even blink.

I lunged forward, throwing my arms around Beck's leg, clinging to him like a lifeline. "Pick me!" I cried, looking up at him with utter devotion. "I’m lowmaintenance, I don't complain, and I can take a hit!" Bad press is still press.

And besides, who in their right mind turns down a chance to marry the man who owns the printing press? … I held onto Beck's leg with a grip of iron.

The studio went dead silent for two agonizing beats before erupting into a wave of cruel, mocking laughter.

Tiffany pressed the back of her manicured hand to her lips, her voice dripping with sugary malice. "Oh, Cassie. Thank you for doing the heavy lifting.

I suppose every dump needs a garbage collector." Taylor smirked, pulling Tiffany against his side.

He jerked his chin toward us, his eyes scanning my desperate posture with lazy disgust. "A toxic washedup actor and the internet's favorite punching bag. Match made in heaven.

I hope you two stay locked together forever." On the massive studio monitors, the live chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur of vitriol. I didn't look back.

I didn't need to see the screen to know what they were saying. Beck looked down at me.

His eyes were incredibly cold—like dark glass reflecting winter—as he scanned me from head to toe, dissecting my sudden desperation. I didn't let go.

I just grinned up at him, baring my teeth in a sharp, determined smile. He didn't speak. But he didn't push me away, either.

When the production staff rolled out the equipment carts, Tiffany trotted over in her pristine designer hiking boots.

She pointed immediately to the largest, most polished silver case. "Director," she cooed, looking back at the crew. "I'm taking the multiroom dome tent.

Oh, and the Swiss firestriker kit!" Gary, the associate director, practically bowed as he pushed the gear toward her.

When he passed by me, he casually dropped a dusty, gray canvas sack on the concrete floor. Inside, something clanked heavily. I unzipped it to find a rusted, cheap folding knife.

Taylor let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Seriously? You’re going into an oldgrowth forest with a piece of scrap metal?

The bears are going to eat you alive." The live feed was flooded with comments like 'Desperate clinger gets what she deserves' and 'Wild boar bait.' I ignored them, testing the weight of the heavy, neglected blade in my palm.

When the transport helicopters dropped us onto the high mountain plateau, the wind whipped up a freezing gale, turning everyone’s hair into a wild mess.

Tiffany, clutching her highend gear, immediately headed down the gentle eastern slope with Taylor.

Beck and I were relegated to the western sector—a sheer, untamed drop of briars, dense brush, and loose shale.

Ten minutes after landing, I was crouching beside a flat river stone, scraping the rusted edge of the folding knife against the wet rock, grinding away the oxidation.

Flakes of rust fell away, revealing a surprisingly decent steel edge underneath. Beck stood a few paces away, hands tucked into his pockets.

He didn't offer to help, but his intense gaze never left my hands. Once the blade was sharp enough, I stood up and sliced through a thick, hanging vine overhead.

A milky white sap dripped from the cut.

Within an hour, using five strong vines, seven thick branches, and a mountain of broad palm fronds, I constructed a sturdy, offtheground Aframe shelter large enough for two.

The palm leaves provided waterproofing, the raised platform kept out the damp ground, and the entrance faced away from the wind. It was textbook wilderness survival.

When Beck watched me use a handdrill technique to coax a spark from dry wood, his posture shifted. He leaned in, just an inch.

The moment a tiny orange flame caught the tinder, I heard him let out a soft, almost imperceptible breath. "Where did you learn that?" he asked.

I didn't look up, threading wild mushrooms onto a shaved stick and positioning them over the crackling embers. "College elective. Wilderness Survival 101.

Got an Aplus." It was the truth, and the only skill keeping me alive in this trainwreck of a show. The live chat began to shift slightly.

A few comments popped up saying, 'Wait, she actually knows what she's doing,' though the majority still accused me of desperate cloutchasing and trying to force a romance angle.

As the mushrooms began to release a rich, earthy aroma, I handed the skewer to Beck. He took it, but he didn't eat. He just stared at me, searching my face.

I lowered my voice, leaning in close enough that only he could hear, my words fast and deliberate. "Eat up, Beck.

You'll need your strength to catch the ghosts." His hand froze midair.

The icy armor in his eyes cracked for a split second, replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. "What do you know?" I didn't answer directly.

Instead, I smiled and nodded toward his pocket, where the brass rim of an oldfashioned compass peeked out. "Survival gear doesn't usually include a vintage military compass, does it?" Beck slowly nudged the compass deeper into his pocket.

He stared at me for a long, heavy moment. Finally, he took a bite of the mushroom, chewing thoughtfully. His voice was low when he spoke. "Not bad." I took that as his confirmation.

Before sunset, the temperature plummeted. I estimated it would hit below freezing tonight. The fire inside our shelter burned brightly, radiating perfect warmth.

I had even woven a soft mattress out of extra palm leaves. Beck sat by the flames, absentmindedly turning the brass compass in his hand.

I noticed the needle was twitching erratically.

Then came the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, clumsy, and accompanied by Tiffany's shrill whining. "Are you completely useless, Taylor? How hard is it to set up a tent?

My hands are turning blue!" The two of them, followed by their cameraman, stumbled into our camp’s firelight. Tiffany was shivering, her face pale.

The highend multiroom tent was dragged behind Taylor, halfunpacked, its carbonfiber poles clattering uselessly on the ground.

The moment Tiffany saw our roaring fire and beautifully constructed shelter, her eyes lit up.

She marched right over, the red light of the camera following her every move. "Cassie, the rules say we have to cooperate in emergencies.

You can't just leave us out here to freeze." Without waiting for an invite, she sat down on my carefully woven palm mattress and patted the space next to her, gesturing for Taylor to join. "This place is decent.

We can all squeeze in for the night." Taylor barged in, his heavy boots kicking straight through the ring of wood ash I had painstakingly laid around the perimeter.

He scattered half of it. My expression went cold. I had spent forty minutes gathering that ash from the fire pit.

It was our primary barrier against nocturnal insects and snakes. "That ring you just ruined," I said, "keeps the vipers away." Taylor waved his hand dismissively, leaning back closer to the warmth. "Oh, relax.

It's winter. There are no snakes out here." Tiffany crossed her legs, flashing a sweet, photogenic smile at the lens. "Look, everyone! We're all getting along so well.

Survival of the fittest can still be cozy." I stared at the Sin score floating above Tiffany's head. It had ticked up another 0.3 in the last hour. I didn't say a word.

I simply reached out and tugged Beck's sleeve. He rose immediately, stepping out of the shelter with me. Taylor called out behind us. "Smart move.

Glad you know your place." I led Beck toward an upwind spot about two hundred yards away, keeping my eyes glued to the forest floor.

When we reached a massive, ancient oak tree, I stopped. I pulled a pouch of wild sulfurmusk powder I'd gathered earlier from my pocket and sprinkled it around the trunk.

Then, I scaled the trunk, finding a pair of thick, intersecting branches.

Beck leaned against the trunk, looking up at me. "You're not going to warn them about the ash?" I looked down from the branches and shook my head. "It would be pointless.

Tiffany wouldn't believe me anyway. She'd just accuse me of trying to scare her for camera time." Beck didn't argue.

He swung himself up onto the branch beside me with an athletic grace that caught me off guard.

He leaned back against a neighboring branch, less than two feet away. "How long are we waiting for the show to start?" I pressed a finger to my lips, whispering, "Just watch." At exactly 11:47 PM, a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the silence of the woods.

It was Tiffany. Shrill, panicked, and loud enough to wake the dead. It was instantly followed by Taylor's frantic shouting and the dull crash of camp gear being kicked over.

Peering through the leaves, I watched two silhouettes scramble frantically out of the shelter under the pale moonlight.

Tiffany tripped, faceplanting into a muddy bog, her screams echoing through the valley. Taylor was running in circles, flailing his arms and screaming, "Snakes!

Oh my god, snakes!" Without the protective ash barrier, the drop in temperature had driven several ground vipers straight toward the warmth of the fire.

They had swarmed the shelter. The cameraman's feed was shaking violently, the red recording light bobbing erratically.

Up in the tree, I reached into my jacket and pulled out the lightweight, thermal lining of Tiffany's Swiss tent, which I had quietly slipped from her gear pile during the chaos earlier.

It was ultralight, windproof, and ten times warmer than palm leaves.

I shook the fabric at Beck with a grin. "Looks like we got the luxury suite after all." In the shadows, Beck stared at me.

A faint, rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but I caught it. By morning, Tiffany and Taylor looked like swollen disasters.

Taylor's right hand was purple and swollen from a pair of bites, and Tiffany had a nasty puncture wound on her calf.

The show’s medical team talked them through basic field treatment over the radio, but they didn't send a rescue team.

This was a raw, unscripted survival show; nobody was getting evacuated unless they formally tapped out.

By late afternoon, a torrential downpour began, locking us in a relentless storm that lasted for two days and nights.

The satellite feeds flickered, and the production radios degraded into staticheavy chatter.

On the third morning, a crackling broadcast from camp announced an early emergency supply drop at random coordinates due to the severe weather.

I spent twenty minutes on a high ridge, studying the wind patterns and topography. In a heavy storm, helicopter drops always drift.

The wind shear through the canyon would push the crates northwest. After calculating the drift angle, I grabbed Beck’s wrist and ran toward the northwest river bend.

Sure enough, the metallic green crate was sitting right there.

Inside were two boxes of broadspectrum antibiotics, a sealed waterproof radio, three packs of emergency rations, and a thermal blanket.

I stuffed the medical supplies and the radio into my dry bag, then tossed half the rations to Beck. "Let's move.

Back to camp." We hadn't gone five hundred yards before we ran right into Tiffany and Taylor.

Taylor looked terrible, shivering from a raging fever, sweat pouring down his pale face as Tiffany dragged him along.

The moment Tiffany saw my waterproof bag, her eyes flashed with desperate fury. She let go of Taylor, lunging toward the camera crew, tears instantly welling in her eyes. "Cassie!

Those supplies are meant for everyone! How can you be so selfish? Taylor is burning up, and you're just going to let him die!" The lens swung to focus on me.

I knew the live chat was probably erupting with outrage. I couldn't see the screen, but the cameraman’s cold expression told me everything I needed to know. I was the villain again.

Tiffany sobbed dramatically, her voice rising to a crescendo. "You did this on purpose! You calculated the drop zone just to steal our medicine!

You want Taylor to die out here!" Over the radio, Gary's voice barked with forced authority. "Cassie, hand over the supplies immediately, or we will have the authorities waiting for you at extraction." Beck’s jaw tightened.

He took a step forward, but I reached out and gently caught his wrist. "Don't," I whispered.

Leaving him there, I walked over to a nearby pine tree and untied a small GoPro I had strapped high on the trunk the day before.