Billionaire Boss Pretends To Be Broke On Every Blind Date — Until He Meets A Single Mom Who…
A Day Among Butterflies
The butterfly exhibit was spectacular—a climate-controlled conservatory filled with hundreds of species. Sophie’s eyes went wide as a blue morpho landed on her shoulder.
“Mom, mom, look!”
She stood perfectly still, afraid to breathe. Rachel had her phone out instantly, snapping photos.
“You’re a butterfly perch, baby.”
Marcus watched them, something unfamiliar settling in his chest. Rachel’s joy in her daughter’s happiness was pure and uncomplicated.
There was no performance here, no angle, no attempt to impress anyone. Just a mother and daughter having a simple, perfect day.
“Look at that one!”
Sophie pointed to a monarch butterfly feeding on flowers.
“They migrate thousands of miles, you know. All the way to Mexico!”
“How did you get so smart?”
Marcus asked.
“Books,”
Sophie said matter-of-factly.
“And Miss Peterson at school. She knows everything about insects.”
They spent two hours in the exhibit, Sophie narrating facts about every species they encountered. Rachel took what must have been a hundred photos, her face glowing with happiness.
Marcus found himself relaxing, almost forgetting the elaborate deception that made this moment possible. Until they left the butterfly exhibit and Sophie spotted the gift shop.
“Mom, can we look? Please?”
Rachel hesitated, and Marcus saw the calculation cross her face—the eternal parental math problem: budget versus daughter’s happiness.
“Just looking, Soph. We can’t buy anything today.”
The gift shop was full of butterfly merchandise—plush toys, books, educational kits. Sophie gravitated immediately to a butterfly growing kit, complete with caterpillars and everything needed to watch them transform into butterflies.
“This is so cool,”
she breathed, holding the box like treasure. Then she carefully read the price tag and put it back on the shelf without being asked.
Marcus felt something break inside him. The kit cost 45 dollars—pocket change, literally nothing to him.
He could buy every item in this shop without blinking. But Rachel had said they couldn’t afford it, and Sophie, at five years old, understood and accepted that without complaint.
“Sophie,”
he said gently.
“What if I got that for you as a gift for being such a great butterfly tour guide today?”
Sophie’s face lit up, but Rachel stepped in immediately.
“Mark, that’s really sweet, but we can’t accept.”
“Please,”
Marcus said, meeting her eyes.
“It’s just a gift, nothing more.”
Rachel looked torn, pride warring with her daughter’s hopeful expression. Finally, she nodded slowly.
“Okay. But Sophie, what do you say?”
“Thank you!”
Sophie hugged the kit to her chest, beaming.
Marcus paid for the kit, and they walked outside into the afternoon sunshine. Sophie chatted about the butterflies the whole way to Rachel’s car, a Honda Civic with a dented bumper and a child seat in the back.
“Thank you for today,”
Rachel said softly while Sophie climbed into her car seat.
“Really. She hasn’t been this happy in weeks.”
“Neither have I,”
Marcus admitted, and it was the most honest thing he’d said all day.
Rachel smiled, stepping closer. For a moment, Marcus thought she might kiss him, and he desperately wanted her to, while simultaneously dreading it because it would all be based on a lie.
Instead, she squeezed his hand.
“Same time next week, maybe? Just the two of us? Mrs. Chen offered to watch Sophie, and there’s a nice restaurant downtown I’ve been wanting to try. Nothing fancy, just good food.”
“I’d love that,”
Marcus said, even as his mind cataloged all the ways a restaurant date could expose him.
As Rachel’s car pulled away, Sophie waving enthusiastically from the back window, Marcus stood in the parking lot feeling like two different people were fighting for control of his life. He had no idea which one deserved to win.
The Look of Love
The restaurant Rachel chose was a small Italian place called Angelo’s, tucked into a neighborhood Marcus had never visited despite living in the city his entire life.
It was the kind of establishment with checkered tablecloths, Chianti bottles used as candle holders, and a menu handwritten on a chalkboard. The smells of garlic and fresh bread filled the air, and every table seemed occupied by families who’d been coming here for generations.
Marcus arrived first, his anxiety reaching new heights. He’d spent the past week deflecting calls from his attorney about a merger, missing two board meetings, and generally behaving like someone having a sustained mental breakdown.
His assistant, Karen, had actually asked if he needed to see a doctor.
“I’m fine,”
he’d insisted.
“Just dealing with some personal matters.”
“Personal matters don’t usually involve researching middle-income neighborhoods and reading articles about single parent dating,”
Karen had replied, gesturing to his browser history that she’d accidentally seen.
“But okay, boss. Whatever you say.”
Now, sitting at Angelo’s waiting for Rachel, Marcus wondered if Karen had been right. Maybe he did need professional help.
Normal people didn’t construct elaborate lies to date someone. Normal people didn’t buy burner phones to avoid their real contacts.
Normal people didn’t have their COO cover for them at charity galas where they were supposed to give speeches.
The door opened, and Rachel walked in wearing a simple navy dress that probably cost 50 dollars but looked perfect on her. Her hair was down for the first time since he’d met her, falling in soft waves around her shoulders.
She spotted him and smiled, and Marcus felt his doubts evaporate like morning fog.
“Hi,”
she said, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Sorry, I know I’m a few minutes late. Sophie decided she absolutely needed to give me a makeover before I left, which involved a lot of lip gloss and her opinions on my eyeshadow choices.”
“You look beautiful,”
Marcus said, meaning it completely.
Rachel blushed slightly.
“Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself, construction guy.”
They ordered pasta for Rachel, chicken parmesan for Marcus, and fell into easy conversation.
Rachel told him about Sophie’s butterfly caterpillars, which had arrived in the mail and were already growing at an alarming rate. She described work—the difficult cases, the small victories that made the long shifts worthwhile.
“What about you?”
she asked, twirling pasta on her fork.
“Tell me about your family, your work. I feel like I’ve been monopolizing all our conversations with Sophie stories.”
Marcus had prepared for this, rehearsed his constructed backstory. Parents who’d passed away—true. No siblings—also true. Working his way up in construction—complete fiction.
But sitting across from Rachel, seeing the genuine interest in her eyes, the lies felt heavier than ever.
“My parents died when I was in college,”
he said, sticking to the truth where he could.
“Car accident. After that, I threw myself into work, built up my career, focused on success.”
He paused, choosing his next words carefully.
“Maybe too focused. I look around sometimes and realize I’ve built this life that looks good on paper, but feels empty.”
“I get that,”
Rachel said softly.
“After Sophie’s dad left—she was only six months old—I felt like I had to be everything. Perfect mom, perfect nurse, perfect at keeping it all together. It took me a long time to realize that being perfect wasn’t the same as being happy.”
“What changed?”
“Sophie did. One day, she asked me why I never smiled anymore. She was three years old, and she noticed something I’d been trying to hide from everyone.”
Rachel’s eyes glistened slightly.
“That was my wake-up call. I started letting things be messy, started accepting help from neighbors, started remembering that I’m allowed to want things for myself too.”
“Like what?”
Marcus leaned forward, genuinely curious.
“Small things, mostly. Coffee with friends, a night out occasionally. Maybe going back to school eventually for my nurse practitioner degree, though that feels impossible with the costs.”
She laughed self-consciously.
“I know it’s not exciting compared to most people’s dreams.”
“It’s real,”
Marcus said.
“That makes it more valuable than most dreams.”
They talked through dinner, through dessert, through two cups of coffee each. The restaurant began to empty around them, other diners finishing their meals and heading home.
Angelo himself, an elderly man with a thick Italian accent, came by to personally box up their leftovers.
“You two are good together,”
he said with a knowing smile.
“I can always tell. 43 years I’ve been watching couples in this restaurant, and you got that look.”
“What look?”
Rachel asked, amused.
“The look that says you forget anyone else exists when you talk to each other.”
Angelo winked at Marcus.
“You hold on to this one, young man. She’s special.”
“I know she is,”
Marcus said quietly.
