The Billionaire Playboy and Me

Ethan’s POV

The first thing I noticed was the sound. A constant, rhythmic beeping that drilled straight into my skull. Then came the smell—stale antiseptic, artificial cleanliness, like someone had tried to scrub away the possibility of death.

I cracked my eyes open, wincing at the overhead fluorescent lights burning through my retinas. Everything was blurry at first, the room shifting in and out of focus. White walls. Machines. An IV needle stuck in my arm.

Hospital.

A sharp pulse of pain throbbed at the base of my skull, and my fingers twitched against the scratchy sheets. My entire body felt like it had been run over by a freight train, which—judging by the wreckage flashing in my mind—wasn’t entirely off the mark.

Flashes of memory scraped their way to the surface. Headlights cutting through the rain. The screech of tires. The world flipping over in slow motion. A sickening crunch, metal folding like paper. Then—nothing. Just darkness.

And now, apparently, this.

A low murmur drifted through the room, pulling my attention to the small TV mounted in the corner. Some news anchor was talking in that solemn-yet-thrilled tone reporters used when something dramatic happened.

“…Ethan Steele, the billionaire pop sensation, miraculously survived a devastating crash late Sunday evening…”

Miraculously.

I let out a rough, humorless laugh that immediately turned into a pained groan. My throat felt like sandpaper, and my ribs protested the movement.

Right. Laughing? Bad idea.

I glanced down at my left hand, which was currently wrapped in so many bandages it looked like a badly made mummy. I flexed my fingers experimentally. Sharp pain shot through my wrist, like my bones were held together by nothing but hope and medical tape.

Well. There goes playing guitar anytime soon.

Just as the thought settled in, the door burst open with enough force to make me flinch.

Clara stormed in like a five-foot-four hurricane in heels, her auburn hair in complete disarray, mascara streaked down her cheeks—an absolute mess. Which was impressive, because Clara was always put-together. Even in a crisis, she usually had that cool, polished I-manage-a-superstar-and-my-life-is-perfect look.

Apparently, I had broken her.

“Ethan,” she breathed out, striding to my bedside, her hands hovering like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to shake me or strangle me.

She went with neither. Probably for legal reasons. Or maybe it was the fact that I already looked like I was hanging on for dear life. 

“You scared the hell out of me.” Her voice was sharp, but it cracked at the edges. “What were you thinking?”

I blinked at her, my brain still lagging a few steps behind reality. “Thinking?” My voice came out rough, hoarse. “That’s optimistic.”

Wrong answer.

Clara’s expression darkened, her brown eyes narrowing into a glare so sharp it could cut glass.

“You could have died,” she said, voice shaking. “Do you even understand that? You’re not allowed to die, Ethan. Not on my watch.”

I swallowed, my throat raw. “Noted.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but she reeled herself back in like she always did. A second later, the emotion vanished behind her usual businesslike mask. She straightened, squared her shoulders.

“Effective immediately, you’re on lockdown.”

I raised an eyebrow—or at least, I tried to. My face still felt like it had been through a meat grinder. “Lockdown?”

“No tours. No interviews. No social media.” Her tone was clipped, decisive. “You’re going to focus on healing, whether you like it or not.”

I opened my mouth to argue—out of instinct more than anything—but she cut me off with a glare that could set a building on fire.

“This is not up for debate.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind her.

I exhaled slowly, my gaze drifting back to the ceiling. The beeping of the monitors filled the silence again, an ever-present reminder that, against all odds, I was still here.

The news anchor’s voice echoed in my head.

Miraculously survived.

If only they knew, that I didn’t think it was a miracle and that I didn’t want to survive. 

⸻

Melody’s POV

“So let me get this straight,” Felix said, leaning back in his leather chair, the expensive material groaning under his weight. He folded his hands over his stomach, smirking like a cartoon villain. “You want more?”

I gritted my teeth, fingers tightening around the edges of my notebook.

“Melody, darling.” He stretched the word out, like I was some naive child asking for an extra piece of candy. “You already have everything. Recognition. Royalties. Platinum records. What else could you possibly want?”

My actual career, for starters.

I inhaled sharply, forcing my voice to stay even. “Recognition?” I repeated. “You mean writing hit songs for artists who couldn’t carry a tune if their lives depended on it? You mean royalties that barely cover my sister’s hospital bills? You mean being invisible while someone else gets credit for my work?”

Felix’s smirk faltered, just for a second. Then he sighed, shaking his head. “You should be grateful. Songwriters like you are the unsung heroes. You don’t need the spotlight.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Grateful doesn’t pay for Lila’s treatments, Felix. Grateful doesn’t stop you from stealing what’s mine.”

His jaw tightened. “Stealing?”

“You control everything. My songs. My contracts. My future.” I met his gaze head-on, the years of pent-up frustration rising to the surface. “But not anymore.”

I slammed my notebook shut and stood up.

“I’m done.”

His expression hardened, his smirk twisting into something colder. “You’ll regret this.”

I forced myself to keep my voice steady. “Maybe.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. “But not as much as I’d regret staying.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I walked out, my heart pounding like a drum in my ears. The second I stepped outside, the night air hit me—cold and sharp, seeping into my bones.

I was shaking. Whether from anger or fear, I wasn’t sure.

Felix wasn’t someone you crossed lightly.

But I couldn’t keep sacrificing myself.

Not for him. Not for anyone.

⸻

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and bad coffee. Lila’s room was quiet except for the soft hum of machines. She looked up when I walked in, her tired brown eyes lighting up.

“Did you write a new song?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

I pulled a crumpled napkin from my pocket. “It’s not finished, but I wrote this for you.”

I sang softly, the words filling the space between us. Her eyes fluttered shut, a small smile on her lips. When her breathing evened out, I pressed a kiss to her forehead and slipped out of the room.

I needed air.

The rooftop was empty. The city stretched below me, a sea of blinking lights and distant sirens.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

The voice startled me.

I turned—and froze.

Even in the dim glow of the rooftop lights, I recognized him.

Ethan Steele.

The gentle guitarist who once carried the poetry of forgotten constellations in his eyes and could make even the hardest of hearts melt. But that was Ethan at nineteen—wide-eyed, hungry, untouched by the weight of the world. The man before me now wasn’t that starry-eyed dreamer. He was a multiple Grammy-winning billionaire, a legend in his late twenties, stripped of innocence and carved from something colder, sharper.

He looked like hell. His hair was a mess, his face bruised, his body wrapped in bandages. But it wasn’t just his appearance. It was his eyes—haunted, hollow.

For a moment, we just stared at each other.

Two strangers.

Both standing on the edge.

Chapter 2 

Melody’s POV 

My pulse raced, drowning out the faint hum of the city below. The moonlight cast sharp shadows across Ethan Steele’s face, accentuating his chiseled cheekbones. His black hair was pulled into a loose bun, with a few strands caught in the breeze. But it was his eyes that held me captive—not the clear green I remembered him having when he was much younger and new to the music scene, but a stormy hazel, flecked with gold, like molten amber catching the last light of day. He stood tall, his broad shoulders straining against the thin hospital gown, exuding a quiet strength. Even with a cast encasing his right hand, there was an unmistakable air of power about him—a mix of raw talent and restrained danger.

But danger was the least of my concerns. My stomach clenched as I focused my attention again on the white cast, stark against his tanned skin. I'd seen the news articles weeks ago, the paparazzi photos of him bein