POV Emilia
Three days later, and my phone starts buzzing at 7:23 AM like it’s having a seizure.
First notification: Gossip Girl NYC Instagram.
Second: Page Six.
Third: some blog I’ve never heard of but apparently has opinions about my fake love life.
The headline makes my stomach drop through the floor:
Marlowe ENTERPRISES CEO Adrian Marlowe SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY BRUNETTE—ENGAGEMENT ALREADY ON THE ROCKS?
The photo loads and it’s Adrian, looking devastatingly handsome in a tux, with some impossibly gorgeous brunette practically draped over him at what looks like a charity gala. Her hand’s on his chest, his arm’s around her waist, and they’re both smiling like they just discovered the meaning of life together.
My breath catches, which is fucking ridiculous because this is a fake engagement. I shouldn’t care if he’s been playing tonsil hockey with half of Manhattan’s socialite population.
But I do care. Because this makes me look like an idiot.
My phone won’t stop. Text after text, call after call, notification after notification until I want to throw the damn thing out the window and watch it shatter on the street below.
Melanie: BABE WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS THIS
Unknown number: Is the engagement fake? Sources say…
Another unknown: Comment on your fiancé’s affair?
Another: How does it feel to be cheated on so publicly?
Each message is a fresh slap across the face. I’m sitting in my kitHicks in yesterday’s pajamas, hair looking like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, processing the fact that the entire internet thinks Adrian Marlowe played me like a cheap violin.
The worst part? I don’t even know if this photo is recent or ancient history. Could be from last week, could be from before we ever shook hands on this fake engagement bullshit. The timestamp’s been conveniently cropped out.
My phone rings with Dad’s ringtone – because of course he’s seen this trainwreck already.
“Emilia.” His voice sounds rough but sharp as a blade, hospital machines beeping in the background.
“Dad, I can explain—”
“You cannot let this stand.” He cuts me off with that commanding tone that used to terrify board members. “Do you understand me? Never let anyone treat you like you’re disposable – not in business, not in life.”
“It’s not what it looks like—”
“I don’t care what it looks like. I care what it is. You influence Adrian. Make him fix this. Whatever’s between you two, put it aside and get control of this mess.”
The line goes dead before I can respond, leaving me staring at my phone like it holds the secrets to the universe.
My pulse spikes with equal parts fury and adrenaline. This fake engagement was supposed to give us both breathing room, not turn me into tabloid fodder before my morning coffee.
I throw on the first clothes I can find – jeans and a sweater that’s probably inside-out but I’m beyond caring – and storm out of my apartment like I’m headed to war.
Which, honestly, I probably am.
Adrian’s building is one of those ridiculous Manhattan towers where the doorman probably makes more than teachers and the elevator buttons are made of actual gold or some equally absurd rich-person material. I march through the lobby like I own the place, which technically I might if this fake engagement turns into a real merger.
His apartment is on the top floor because of course it is. I knock hard enough to echo down the hallway, my knuckles probably leaving dents in his obscenely expensive door.
When he opens it, I almost lose my ability to form coherent thoughts.
He’s shirtless.
Completely, devastatingly, unfairly shirtless.
The man looks like he was carved by Renaissance sculptors who had serious daddy issues and channeled all their sexual frustration into creating the perfect male torso. Defined abs that could probably deflect bullets, shoulders broad enough to land small aircraft, and that trail of dark hair disappearing into his pajama pants that makes my brain temporarily malfunction.
His phone’s still in his hand, screen showing the same damning photo that’s been haunting my morning. His hair’s messy like he’s been running his fingers through it, and there’s something in his expression that might be guilt or exhaustion or both.
He doesn’t speak, just holds the door wider and waits.
I step inside, forcing myself to focus on his face instead of the fact that his chest is right there, practically glowing under his apartment’s probably-custom lighting.
The place screams expensive bachelor pad—floor-to-ceiling windows, furniture with numbers you only see at auctions, art that probably belongs in museums.
“You fix this,” I say, closing the space between us with deliberate calm even though every nerve ending in my body is firing alerts about his proximity and state of undress. My voice comes out low but absolutely unshakable. “We may be having a fake engagement, but I will not publicly be embarrassed by you, Marlowe.”
The words hang between us like a challenge, and I can see him processing the fury in my voice, the way my hands are clenched into fists at my sides, the fact that I showed up at his apartment at barely eight in the morning looking like I’m ready to commit justifiable homicide.
His jaw tightens, and for a second I think he might actually apologize. But this is Adrian Marlowe—apologies aren’t exactly in his corporate vocabulary.
“Emilia—”
“No.” I cut him off because I’m not interested in excuses or explanations or whatever bullshit corporate damage control he’s about to attempt. “Fix it. I don’t care how, I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care if you have to personally call every gossip blogger in the city. But you fix this mess before it destroys both our reputations.”
I’m standing close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, close enough to smell his cologne mixed with something that’s purely him.
Close enough to be very aware that he’s half-naked and I’m furious and there’s something crackling in the air between us that has nothing to do with fake engagements and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“This photo makes me look like an idiot,” I continue, my voice getting sharper with each word. “It makes our entire arrangement look like a joke. And I refuse—absolutely fucking refuse—to be humiliated because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself at some charity gala.”
His expression shifts, something that might be understanding or respect flickering across his features. “The photo’s from six months ago.”
“I don’t care when it’s from. I care that it’s everywhere and everyone thinks you’re cheating on your fiancée three days after announcing our engagement.”
The silence stretches between us, loaded with tension and unspoken complications. He’s still holding his phone, still shirtless, still looking at me like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect.
And despite every rational thought in my head, despite the fury and embarrassment and fake nature of everything between us, I can’t ignore the fact that standing this close to Adrian Marlowe while he’s half-dressed is doing things to my pulse that have nothing to do with anger.