Chapter 3: New Reality
2019words
Like its owner, I thought, as I followed Alexander through the vast open space. Beautiful, expensive, and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Your rooms are this way," he said, leading me down a hallway where my footsteps echoed on marble floors. "I had them prepared according to the information in your file."
The casual reference to my "file"—the dossier he'd compiled before ever meeting me—sent a chill down my spine. How long had he been watching me, studying me like a specimen before making his offer?
He opened a door to reveal a suite that was larger than my entire apartment. Soft cream walls, a king-sized bed with an ocean of white bedding, and windows that framed the Manhattan skyline like living artwork.
"The bathroom is through there," Alexander continued, gesturing to a door on the right. "Walk-in closet to the left. I've taken the liberty of providing suitable attire for your new position."
"My new position?" I echoed, moving toward the closet door.
"As my fiancée. Your current wardrobe is... inadequate for the role."
I bristled at his assessment but swallowed my retort as I opened the closet door. Rows of clothing—dresses, suits, casual wear—hung in perfect color coordination, price tags still attached. Designer names I'd only seen in magazines. Shoes lined the bottom in a rainbow of leather and suede.
"You bought all this? Without even knowing my size?" I couldn't keep the edge from my voice.
"Ms. Chen handled the details. If anything doesn't fit, it will be replaced." His tone suggested we were discussing office supplies rather than a personal wardrobe.
I fingered the sleeve of a silk blouse that probably cost more than a month's rent at my old apartment. "This isn't necessary. I have clothes."
"Not for the life you'll be living now." Alexander checked his watch—platinum, I noticed, probably worth more than my car. "Dinner is at seven. The housekeeper, Mrs. Rivera, prepares meals Monday through Friday. Weekends you're on your own, though she stocks the kitchen."
The clinical way he described our living arrangement made it clear this was just another business transaction to him. I was a component being slotted into his carefully ordered life.
"Is there a manual I should read?" I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. "Rules for being the perfect fake fiancée?"
Something flickered in his gray eyes—annoyance, perhaps, or amusement. "Actually, yes. On the desk you'll find a schedule of upcoming events, expected protocols, and information about key people you'll need to know."
Of course there was a manual. I shouldn't have been surprised.
"One more thing." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a black credit card. "For expenses. Your allowance will be deposited monthly into the account we've established for you."
I stared at the card, my pride warring with practicality. "I don't need an allowance."
"You need to look the part of a billionaire's fiancée. That requires resources." He placed the card on the nightstand when I didn't take it. "This isn't charity, Elena. It's part of our arrangement."
The way he said my name—soft yet precise—sent an unexpected shiver through me. I crossed my arms, suddenly aware of how close we were standing in this room dominated by a bed I would sleep in alone.
"Is there anything else I should know about my new role?" I asked, taking a step back.
Alexander's expression remained impassive, but something in his posture shifted—a subtle tightening, as if he too had become aware of our proximity.
"Yes. The charity gala tomorrow night will be our first public appearance. The story is that we've been dating quietly for six months. We met when you consulted on a financial matter for Blackwood International."
"That's close enough to the truth," I murmured.
"Indeed. The best lies contain elements of truth." He moved toward the door. "A stylist will arrive at four tomorrow to help you prepare. I suggest you rest until then."
With that, he was gone, leaving me alone in a stranger's idea of luxury.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, running my hand over the impossibly soft duvet. Everything in this place was perfect, pristine, and completely impersonal—like living in a high-end hotel suite. There wasn't a single photograph, no books or mementos, nothing to suggest a real person lived here.
Did Alexander Blackwood even have a life beyond his empire? Did he have friends, hobbies, passions? Or was he as empty as this beautiful shell of a home?
---
"Perfect," Paolo declared, adjusting a final curl. "You will break hearts tonight."
The stylist had transformed my usually straight brown hair into soft waves that framed my face. My makeup was subtle but flawless, enhancing my eyes and cheekbones without looking overdone.
And the dress—a deep emerald silk that matched my ring, cut to skim my body in a way that was sophisticated rather than revealing. The back dipped low, exposing my spine in a suggestion of vulnerability that contrasted with the high neckline in front.
I smiled weakly, wondering if I still had a heart to break after what I'd agreed to.
When I emerged from my room, Alexander was waiting in the living area, his back to me as he looked out over the city. The black tuxedo he wore emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength of his body.
"I'm ready," I said softly.
He turned, and for the first time since we'd met, Alexander Blackwood looked genuinely surprised. His eyes widened slightly, his lips parting as if he'd been about to speak but had forgotten the words.
For several heartbeats, he simply stared, his gaze moving from my face to the dress and back again. I felt heat rise to my cheeks under his scrutiny.
"Is something wrong?" I asked when the silence stretched too long.
He seemed to collect himself, his expression returning to its usual controlled neutrality. "No. You look... appropriate."
Appropriate. Not beautiful or stunning or even nice. Appropriate. Like a correctly filed report or a well-organized spreadsheet.
I shouldn't have felt disappointed. This was a business arrangement, after all. Yet something in me had hoped for... what? A flicker of genuine admiration? Some sign that Alexander Blackwood was human beneath his perfect facade?
---
My heart hammered against my ribs as our car pulled up to the red carpet outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The grand entrance was illuminated by spotlights and lined with photographers.
"Ready?" Alexander asked, his voice low.
No, I wanted to say. I'm not ready to pretend I'm in love with you. I'm not ready for cameras and questions and scrutiny.
Instead, I took a deep breath and nodded. "Ready."
His hand found mine, fingers intertwining with a familiarity we hadn't earned. "Remember," he murmured as the car door opened, "you're mine now."
The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear.
Cameras flashed as we emerged, momentarily blinding me. Alexander's arm slid around my waist, steadying me, pulling me closer to his side. I felt the solid warmth of him against me, a contrast to the cool night air.
"Mr. Blackwood! Over here!" The photographers called out, their voices blending into a cacophony of demands. "Who's your date? Is that an engagement ring?"
Alexander's grip tightened slightly, a silent reminder of our roles. I looked up at him, forcing my lips into a smile that I hoped appeared loving rather than terrified.
To my surprise, he was already looking down at me, his expression softer than I'd ever seen it. For a moment—just a moment—I could almost believe the tenderness in his eyes was real.
Inside, the grand hall was transformed by flowers and candlelight. Alexander's grandmother—elegant in midnight blue with diamonds at her throat—approached immediately.
"Alexander, darling! I was beginning to think you'd stand me up."
"Grandmother." Alexander bent to kiss her cheek. "May I introduce Elena Winters, my fiancée."
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. "Fiancée? Well, this is unexpected." Her sharp eyes assessed me from head to toe. "Though I can't say I disapprove of your taste."
Before our conversation could continue, a tall, striking woman in a red dress approached, her expression a mixture of shock and fury.
"Alexander!" she called, her voice carrying over the murmur of conversation. "I was just hearing the most absurd rumor."
Alexander's posture stiffened beside me. "Victoria," he acknowledged coolly.
"Engaged?" Victoria's laugh was brittle. "You must be joking. You've never mentioned this... woman... before."
"Elena Winters," I supplied, extending my hand with more confidence than I felt. "And you must be Victoria. Alexander has told me about you."
She ignored my hand, her gaze fixed on the emerald ring. "Grandmother's ring," she said flatly. "How... traditional of you, Alexander."
"Some traditions are worth honoring," he replied, his arm sliding around my waist in a gesture that was both protective and possessive.
Victoria's eyes narrowed. "Indeed. Like family loyalty."
As she turned away, her arm swung wide, the golden liquid from her champagne glass arcing through the air—directly toward my dress. I gasped, instinctively stepping back, but not quickly enough to avoid the splash across the emerald silk.
"Oh!" Victoria's hand flew to her mouth in feigned dismay. "How clumsy of me. What a shame about your lovely dress."
Alexander's expression darkened dangerously. "That's enough, Victoria."
"It was an accident," she insisted, though her smirk suggested otherwise.
I should have been mortified. Instead, a strange calm settled over me. This woman thought she could intimidate me with a ruined dress? After everything I'd sacrificed to be standing here?
"Actually," I said, my voice steady, "champagne is mostly sugar and alcohol. It rinses out easily with cold water." I dabbed at the spot with a cocktail napkin. "But thank you for your concern."
Victoria's smirk faltered at my composure. Alexander's grandmother let out a short laugh.
"I like her," she declared, nodding at Alexander. "She has spine."
Alexander's hand pressed against the small of my back, a silent message of support. "If you'll excuse us," he said to his grandmother, "I'll help Elena clean up."
As he guided me toward the restrooms, I felt Victoria's glare burning into my back. Once we were out of earshot, Alexander leaned close, his breath warm against my ear.
"You handled that perfectly," he murmured, and I was surprised to hear genuine admiration in his voice.
"I've dealt with worse than champagne spills," I replied, thinking of the loan sharks who had threatened my family.
Alexander stopped, turning me to face him. For a long moment, he simply looked at me, his gray eyes searching mine as if seeing me for the first time.
"I believe you have," he said softly.
Something shifted between us in that moment—not understanding, exactly, but recognition. We were both fighters in our own way, survivors who did what was necessary.
---
As we returned to the penthouse hours later, the silence between us felt different—charged with something I couldn't name. Alexander loosened his bow tie, the small gesture humanizing him in a way I hadn't expected.
"You surprised me tonight," he said, his voice low in the dimly lit foyer.
"How so?"
"Victoria usually reduces people to tears. You didn't even flinch."
I slipped off my heels, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was. "Like I said, I've faced worse."
Alexander studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Yes, I suppose you have."
As he turned toward his wing of the penthouse, I realized with sudden clarity that I was now trapped in this arrangement. My father's medical bills were being paid. The loan sharks had been dealt with. There was no going back.
Alexander Blackwood owned the next year of my life.
And I was beginning to fear he might own more than that if I wasn't careful.
