POV Emilia
I’m still processing Adrian’s bombshell about moving in when I walk up to my apartment building and see a fucking moving truck parked outside.
“What the hell,” I mutter, staring at three guys in uniform carrying boxes down the front steps. My boxes. With my stuff. Without my permission.
One of them approaches with a clipboard like this is totally normal. “Miss Hart? We’re almost done with the bedroom. Should have everything loaded within the hour.”
“Excuse me?” My voice hits that pitch that usually makes grown men reconsider their life choices. “Who authorized this?”
“Mr. Marlowe’s assistant called this morning. Full packing and transport service to his penthouse.”
Of course she did. Of course Adrian just decided I’m moving in and made it happen without bothering to ask if I actually wanted to cohabitate with his control-freak ass.
I watch them load my coffee machine—my precious, life-sustaining coffee machine—into their truck like they’re kidnapping my firstborn child.
“This is insane,” I tell nobody in particular, because apparently I talk to myself now. “This is actually fucking insane.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in Adrian’s ridiculously expensive lobby, furious and homeless simultaneously. The doorman recognizes me.
“Miss Hart! Mr. Marlowe said you’d be moving in. Congratulations on the engagement.”
I smile the kind of smile that could cut glass. “Thanks. It’s a real fairy tale.”
The elevator ride to the penthouse feels like ascending to my own execution. I’ve got my key—when did he get me a key?—but I knock anyway because barging into someone’s home feels like crossing a line I’m not ready to cross yet.
Adrian opens the door, unfairly handsome in jeans and a button-down that looks custom.
“I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“Your movers kidnapped my belongings,” I say, pushing past him into the apartment that’s about to become our apartment. “Care to explain?”
“You said you’d move in.”
“I said no such thing. You told me I needed to move in, then hung up before I could tell you to go fuck yourself.”
He closes the door and leans against it like he’s blocking my escape route. “The press will figure out we live separately. They’ll start digging, asking questions, making up stories about trouble in paradise.”
“So?”
“So you want this fake engagement to succeed, right?”
The question hangs between us like a challenge. Do I want it to succeed? Yesterday I was ready to burn down the entire corporate world rather than be anyone’s pawn. Today I’m wearing his three-carat ring and considering cohabitation.
“Yes,” I admit, hating how reasonable he sounds. “Fine. But we need ground rules.”
“Name them.”
I count on my fingers because this needs to be official. “First, I get my own space. Bedroom, bathroom, whatever. No walking in on each other accidentally or otherwise.”
“Done. You get the guest suite. It’s bigger than most people’s entire apartments.”
“Second, I do my own cooking. I’m not playing house wife for appearances.”
“I have a housekeeper. She can cook for both of us.”
“Third—” I pause because this one feels important. “You better not bring girls over here while I’m living here.”
Adrian stares at me like I just suggested he commit federal crimes for fun. “Are you crazy? What do you see me as?”
“A rich playboy with commitment issues who’s fake-engaged for business reasons?”
“As long as you’re wearing my ring around your finger, I’m all yours, Hart.”
The words hit like a slap and a caress simultaneously. The way he says it—like it’s obvious, like it’s non-negotiable—makes something twist and flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with fake engagements or business arrangements.
I’m all yours.
Not “we need to maintain appearances.” Not “for the sake of the arrangement.” Just… all mine.
Which is ridiculous because this is Adrian Marlowe, corporate prince and emotional ice cube. He doesn’t belong to anyone, least of all his fake fiancée who he barely knew existed three weeks ago.
But something in his voice, something in the way he’s looking at me right now, makes the line between fake and real blur until I can’t tell where the performance ends and whatever this is begins.
My pulse does something erratic. “Adrian—”
The apartment door opens without warning, and Richard Marlowe strides in like he owns the place. Which, knowing the Marlowe family’s real estate portfolio, he probably does.
“Hope you two are ready for the family dinner to celebrate the engagement,” he announces, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between Adrian and me.
I blink, trying to shift gears from whatever moment we were just having to dealing with the man who orchestrated this entire corporate marriage scheme.
“Family dinner?” I manage.
“Tomorrow night. The whole family wants to meet Adrian’s fiancée properly.” Richard’s smile is all corporate charm and hidden knives. “My wife is particularly excited. She’s been planning the menu since the press conference.”
Adrian runs a hand through his hair, and I catch something that might be panic in his expression. “Dad, maybe we should—”
“Eight o’clock. Formal dress. Don’t be late.” Richard heads for the door like this conversation is over. “Oh, and Emilia? Welcome to the family.”
The door closes behind him, leaving Adrian and me staring at each other in the aftermath of whatever bombshell just dropped.
“Family dinner,” I say slowly.
“Family dinner,” he confirms.
“With your entire family.”
“Yep.”
“Who think we’re madly in love and planning a real wedding.”
“That’s the general idea.”
I sink onto his ridiculously expensive couch and put my head in my hands. “This fake engagement is getting complicated fast.”
“Yeah,” Adrian says, sitting beside me close enough that I can smell him. “It really fucking is.”