The sun spilled in through floor-to-ceiling windows like it belonged there more than I did. I sat up slowly in the guest room—if you could call it that. The bedding was all cream and expensive thread count, untouched by personality. Like everything else in Jason Blackwood's world.
I pulled the covers off and stepped onto the polished hardwood floor. Cold. Quiet. Too perfect.
It was easy to forget, just for a second, that my entire life had shifted under my feet. That I was no longer just Emma Carlisle, freelance designer and full-time guardian. Now, apparently, I was engaged to a billionaire.
The reality of it caught up to me way too fast.
Lily's latest round of tests had been paid in full. I saw the confirmation last night. I should've felt relief. Instead, it settled in my chest like guilt. Like I'd sold myself, not to the highest bidder, but to the coldest one.
I brushed my hair back and stared at myself in the mirror. I looked… the same. Which somehow made it worse.
I changed out of my nightgown, threw on a grey sweatshirt with matching sweatpants, and stepped into the hallway.
Jason was already at the dining table, knife and fork cutting into eggs like he was interrogating them. He didn't look up.
"You're late," he said.
"It's eight in the morning."
"I said we eat at eight."
"Um...since when? You also said this was a marriage, not a dictatorship."
He raised his eyes, cool as ever. "A marriage that includes scheduled appearances and strategy. Today's your first test."
I crossed my arms. "Can I have coffee first, or is that only allowed on even-numbered days?"
Jason gestured toward the coffee machine on the marble counter. "Help yourself. You'll need it."
I poured a mug and sat across from him.
"So?" I asked after a sip. "What's today's 'test'?"
"We're announcing the engagement. Montreux Foundation Gala. You'll wear something appropriate. Vi is on her way with the team."
"The team," I repeated. "As in, I'm getting a full-on makeover?"
"You're getting polished."
"Same thing."
Jason looked down at his phone. "Don't fight me on this. You agreed to the terms. That includes fitting into my world."
"Your world looks like it eats girls like me for breakfast."
He didn't argue. Just kept reading emails like they were war declarations.
Ten minutes later, the door buzzed. Vi swept in like a storm system, trailed by two assistants rolling racks of clothes, a makeup artist, and a hairstylist with a man bun and a judgmental stare.
"Darling, you look… awake," Vi said, eyeing my sweatshirt. "We'll fix that."
I was ushered into the master bathroom. The assistants laid out dresses, heels, and jewelry I could never afford, even on credit. I sat still while brushes dusted my cheeks, lips, and eyes. They curled my hair into soft waves, pinned a few pieces up, and started debating between two sets of earrings like I wasn't even there.
"This isn't my life," I muttered under my breath.
Vi heard me. "It is now. Keep your chin up, shoulders back. Smile with your eyes, not your teeth. And whatever you do, don't mention your freelance work. You're a philanthropist now."
"Is that what I am?"
"It's what the press will believe if you say it confidently enough."
Two hours later, I looked like a woman who belonged on the arm of Jason Blackwood. That woman wasn't me. But she would have to do.
We arrived at the gala in a sleek black car that probably cost more than my college tuition. Jason didn't speak the entire ride.
The venue was glass and marble, glowing with chandeliers. Cameras flashed the second we stepped out.
"Just smile," Jason said under his breath, his hand brushing mine. "Don't freeze."
He reached for my waist and pulled me close. The photographers ate it up.
"Emma Carlisle, Jason Blackwood's fiancé!" someone shouted.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled.
Inside, the noise was deafening. High heels clicking, champagne flutes clinking, laughter that sounded like it cost money. Jason's hand stayed at my back as we moved through the crowd.
We were stopped every few steps.
"Jason! Congratulations. And this must be…?"
"Emma," he said smoothly. "My fiancé."
The word felt foreign. Heavy.
I shook hands. Nodded. Smiled. Repeated our lie like it was truth.
"You're glowing," one woman said, lips stretched in a tight smile. "How did you two meet?"
Jason opened his mouth, but I jumped in.
"Gallery opening," I said. "He was looking to commission a piece for his office. I told him his taste was tragically corporate."
Jason's brow lifted slightly, amused.
"And?" the woman asked, clearly fishing.
"And he showed up the next week with six architecture books and a bottle of wine, claiming he needed 'inspiration.' Took him two months to admit he just wanted my number."
She laughed, clearly not expecting that. "Well, I suppose even sharks fall in love."
We both shared a short laugh. Jason didn't say a word, but I felt his gaze on me the rest of the night.
The worst part? I liked that I'd caught him off guard.
He introduced me to investors, his CFO, and—of course—his ex, who also happened to be the CEO of a rival firm. She was tall, thin, and surgically perfect.
"So this is the mystery fiancé," came the voice behind us, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.
I turned just as Celeste Vaughn approached—six feet of stilettos, designer confidence, and glinting hostility. Her gown was crimson, sharp and precise, like a warning sign. Diamonds dripped from her ears and collarbone like she bled privilege.
Her eyes raked over me slowly, head to toe, with that polite disgust only the rich had perfected. "You clean up well," she added, a smirk teasing the corner of her glossed lips. "Wasn't expecting Jason's taste to take such a... casual turn."
Jason's hand, firm on the small of my back, shifted. Not away, but closer. Tighter. He didn't look at Celeste, nor speak. He just took a slow sip of his drink and exhaled, the air between us suddenly thinner.
I gave her a smile. Soft. Harmless, almost. "Thanks," I said. "You look... expensive."
Jason choked mid-sip and looked down to cover a smirk. Celeste's smile didn't waver, but her eyes turned colder. More focused. Now she was listening.
"Well, quality does cost," she said coolly. "Though I suppose Jason's been slumming it for a while now. It's refreshing he's decided to settle."
Jason finally looked at her, expression unreadable. His jaw ticked once, barely. But it was there.
I tilted my head, like I hadn't heard the insult buried beneath the pearls. "True," I replied, sipping my champagne. "But labels don't always mean value. Sometimes they're just… loud."
Celeste's lashes flickered. Jason's fingers gently tapped the rim of his glass, his version of a laugh held back.
She stepped in closer, clearly not done. "Jason always had a thing for strong women," she said, low enough that the nearby crowd couldn't hear. "Driven. Elegant. Ones who knew how to command a room—not just follow someone into one."
I blinked, slow and calm. "And I'm sure he enjoyed that," I said. "Until he realized edge isn't the same as depth. Some women sparkle like glass—shiny, fragile, and easily replaced."
Jason turned fully now, his face angled toward mine. He wasn't hiding his amusement anymore. Just watching—curious, maybe even impressed.
Celeste stiffened. Her smile had all but evaporated.
"I'm just saying," she went on, regaining composure. "Be careful. Jason doesn't believe in fairy tales. He'll say the right lines, wear the perfect suit, but in the end, he'll remind you—none of it's real. Not the man. Not the moment. Not the marriage."
Jason's face darkened at that. A flicker of something cold passed behind his eyes—regret, perhaps, or memory. But he didn't interrupt.
I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice just enough that only the three of us would hear. "Good," I said, letting the smile in my voice curl like smoke. "I'm not interested in fairy tales cause I'm not the princess."
Celeste blinked, confused. "No?"
Jason was watching me now, completely still.
I took one step closer to her, my heels silent on the marble floor, never breaking eye contact. "I'm the plot twist. The one the story nor the reader saw coming. And the best part of a plot twist? It's the only thing that changes the ending."
Celeste's jaw tightened, her perfect composure slipping for the first time.
Jason turned his face slightly away, and I caught it—an unmistakable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was faint, but real. He was trying not to show it, but he was… proud. Or amused. Or maybe just finally entertained.
I wasn't sure if he was surprised that I defended myself—or surprised by how good I was at it.
Celeste gave a small, bitter laugh. "We'll see," she murmured, stepping back. "It's cute, though. How confident you are."
I tilted my glass toward her in a mock toast. "Confidence isn't cute. It's contagious. You should try it sometime."
Jason coughed again, fully covering a laugh this time. His hand found the small of my back once more, but now it lingered longer. Firmer.
Celeste turned and walked away, her heels slicing the silence behind her like stilettos on a runway, her spine stiff.
I felt Jason's gaze on me as we watched her disappear into the crowd.
"You have a mean right hook," he said finally.
I sipped my champagne. "That wasn't my right hook."
He glanced at me. "No?"
I smiled sweetly. "That was just the warm-up."
The ride back was quiet, but not heavy. Tense in a different way. Jason sat beside me, one arm stretched along the backrest, fingers grazing the edge of my shoulder without touching. We were close, but distant. Familiar, but strangers.
I pulled off the heels and let out a sigh, rolling my ankles. "Note to self: next time, sabotage the guest list."
Jason huffed a breath, half a laugh. "I thought you handled Celeste rather... eloquently."
I looked at him sideways. "You mean brutally."
"I mean effectively." He paused. "That gallery story—good cover."
"I've told better lies for worse men."
He turned to face the window again. "Still. Quick thinking."
I leaned my head back against the seat. "Thanks. I figured if I'm already selling my soul, I might as well be entertaining."
Jason didn't respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was low, unreadable. "Don't get used to it."
I cracked an eye open. "What? The lying or the limo?"
He didn't smile. "The attention."
I scoffed softly. "Don't worry, Jason. I know exactly what this is. I play the perfect partner. You keep Lily in a bed that doesn't smell like bleach. No one's confusing this for love."
His jaw flexed slightly. "It's not about love. It's about remembering the terms."
I arched a brow. "You mean the contract, or the charade?"
His eyes flicked to me. "Both."
The rest of the ride blurred by in streetlights and silence.
At the penthouse, I didn't wait for him. I walked barefoot down the hallway, heels dangling from one hand. But before disappearing into the guest room, I checked my phone out of habit.
Notifications exploded across the screen—photos from the gala, me and Jason mid-laugh, eyes locked, hands too perfectly placed. The media was eating it up.
Emma Carlisle: From No-Name to Blackwood Bride?Who is this woman?Cinderella, or Contract?
At the top of the screen, one message glowed.
Lena (Client): EMMA—You're marrying Jason freaking BLACKWOOD???
I didn't open it. Just hit delete.
I set the phone down, slowly peeled off the gown, and sat on the edge of the bed in one of Jason's oversized shirts from the drawer. He hadn't told me I could wear them. I didn't ask.
Across the room, the mirror caught my reflection. Hair curled to glossy perfection. Lips stained in a red I would've never picked myself. The kind of woman men noticed when she walked into a room.
She looked like she belonged.
She looked like she won.
But underneath the perfect posture and flawless makeup, my eyes looked tired. Not from the night—but from holding up the version of myself I'd agreed to sell.
I used to think the hard part would be pretending.
But the real battle? It was not forgetting who I was before I became someone else's fantasy.
And tonight... I almost liked it. That scared me most of all.