Marla’s POV…
I thought signing the contract would give me time to breathe. No, It didn’t. The next morning, I walked into Mercer House and people actually looked up from their desks when I passed. Not because they knew me. Because they Googled me. Overnight, the engagement announcement hit the press.
A photo of me standing beside Ives at yesterday’s meeting, blurry, awkward, caught mid-blink and was now splashed across every finance gossip site with the headline:
“Mercer House CEO Off the Market: Who’s the Mystery Fiancée?” Mystery my ass.
My inbox flooded. My phone buzzed nonstop. Dana sent me five skull emojis and a voice note screaming, “WHY DIDN’T YOU WARN ME YOU WERE BECOMING AMERICA’S NEW CORPORATE CINDERELLA?” I ignored it.
I just stared at the headlines until I finally found myself screaming into my pillow. What the hell?! Why hasn't he told me first? Before I could scream into my pillow again, my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Be ready by 11. Press conference. Dress is outside.
I blinked. WHAT? PRESS? I scrambled to the door, and there it was, a designer garment bag just hanging there like it was dropped off by some Fashion Week fairy godmother. It was navy blue with the tag still on. I looked classy, yet expensive, and way too calm for the chaos I felt in my chest. And by 11:47 a.m., a black SUV pulled up. Ives was inside, calm and dead silent. Staring at his phone like the day wasn’t imploding. I climbed in, slamming the door harder than necessary.
“You wanna explain what the hell is happening?”
He didn’t look at me. “You got the message.”
“Yeah, I got the message. Would’ve been cool to get one yesterday before you told the entire board I was your fiancée and let it hit the press.”
“You signed the contract.”
“Stop saying that like it’s a magic spell that excuses everything!”
He finally looked up. “It’s a press appearance, not a hostage situation.”
“How about a ring?”
“Let’s buy after this. No sweat.” I parted my lips in so much shock. He is really stupid.
“Oh my God, I swear if you say ‘it’s being handled’ one more time-”
“We’ll handle questions as they come.”
“That’s your plan? Just... vibe it out?”
He gave the tiniest shrug. “It worked for the board.”
“Ives, I am not a trained actress, okay? I answer phones and cry over tax deadlines. This is not the same.”
He went back to scrolling, like we weren’t on our way to publicly fake a whole engagement. He’s so fucking stupid. I thought he was a CEO?! We were able to arrive on time, the Mercer House lobby was a circus. There were cameras, lights, and reporters. The whole velvet rope setup was like we were about to drop an album. We stepped out, and I barely had both feet on the ground before the questions flew.
“Marla! When’s the wedding?”
“How did he propose?”
“Where’s the ring?”
“How long have you two been together?”
I blinked, while Ives just stood there like a robot in a suit. Hands behind his back, face blank. Just letting me burn, I end up panicking. “Uh, we met at work?” I said. “And… we’re keeping things private for now.”
Someone shouted, “But why aren’t you wearing a ring?” I looked down at my bare hand like it betrayed me.
Ives finally spoke. “We’re not sharing personal details at this time.” Cool, now he speaks. He grabbed my elbow and walked me off like we didn’t just give the worst engagement reveal of the decade. Two days later, the damage was done: “No Ring, No Story: Is Mercer’s Fiancée Real?”
When afternoon came, my phone rang again. No name, just a number I now fully regret memorizing. I answered with a sigh. “What now?”
“Pack a bag,” Ives said.
“What? Why?” I asked, confused.
“You’re going to live here now. If we’re going to sell this, you need to know more than just my schedule.” He paused before speaking again, “And you… you will sleep in my room.”