Alexander's POV 

Damien looked like he wanted to bolt.

Christian looked like he was calculating how much longer until Damien got disowned.

I looked like I always did: calm.

"You're engaged?" Damien said again, like repeating it might change the answer.

"To Eliana Rivera," I confirmed, sharp and unbothered.

Christian's brow ticked up. "Wow. So it's officially that kind of day."

He didn't sound surprised. Then again, he'd been in on the damage control meetings. He knew exactly what was at stake.

"I-what?" Damien sputtered. "Since when? You haven't been seeing anyone seriously, and now you're engaged?"

"Since three days ago," I said.

Christian leaned forward, fingers steepled loosely in front of him. "Let's be clear. This isn't about love. This is about Cassian Rivera having leverage and Alex eliminating it before it hits daylight."

"I already said I was sorry-" Damien tried.

"You saying it doesn't make it less useless," I cut in. My voice stayed low, but the chill in it could've flash-frozen steel.

He shut up instantly.

"You were seen with the daughter of a married diplomat in a five-star hotel," I continued. "You didn't just screw around, Damien. You risked international fallout. If Cassian had leaked those photos to the right media outlet, or worse-to her father? You wouldn't just be a headline. You'd be a liability. You'd be dead."

Damien swallowed, his confidence buckling fast.

That photo, taken during his late-night rendezvous with the daughter of a very married South Korean dignitary, hadn't even been meant for me. But Cassian had it. And he used it.

Used it to push me into a corner. Into a proposal. Into Eliana.

"What were you thinking? Sleeping with a married woman from a dangerous family like that?" Christian asked him with an exasperated look.

"Shit, I didn't even know who she was until after we slept together. If I knew I would never have done it and gotten you dragged into this mess." he paced around the room with his fingers in his hair.

"This isn't about guilt," I said. "It's about strategy. I just need to be engaged to her long enough to get my hands on the evidence and destroy it permanently."

And then I could be free from Cassian and his threats.

Christian exhaled a soft laugh. "This is the most terrifying wedding toast I've ever heard."

"No one asked for your toast," Damien muttered.

Christian exhaled through his nose, slower. "We're tracking where Cassian's storing the backup files. He's not dumb-he didn't just keep one."

"Encrypted server," I said. "We'll find it. And when we do, we wipe every copy."

"I'm on it," Christian said. "My team's already working leads through two data brokers and his assistant's burner account. We'll get it."

Christian's voice was cool, confident-but I caught the flicker of tension beneath it. He understood the stakes better than anyone. He was head of security for Grayson Group, and the only man I trusted with secrets deeper than our family's.

He also knew what would happen if this didn't work.

Damien ran a hand through his hair. "So what-your brilliant plan is to marry his daughter and make this all go away?"

"It's not a plan," I said. "It's a fact. It's going to happen."

"And she agreed to that?"

"She didn't object."

"She probably didn't have a choice," Damien muttered.

"Neither did you," I said coldly.

He flinched.

Christian finally cut in, his tone half-light but laced with warning. "Damien, look at him. Do you think Alexander  wanted to marry anyone let alone the daughter of that conniving fucker?"

"I don't know, okay?" Damien snapped, then looked instantly regretful.

"She's cold," I said. "Calculating. Every word out of her mouth is wrapped in silk and aimed like a knife."

Christian hummed. "Sounds familiar."

"I don't like her," I added.

"Also familiar."

"But she knows what's at stake. So she's not fighting it."

Damien let out a bitter laugh. "Wow. The foundation of a healthy marriage."

"She'll be fine," I said. "She knew what this was."

"Did she?" Christian asked, softer now. "Or did she just play along because she's as trapped in that family as you are in this deal?"

I paused.

Because even now, I could still see her face at that dinner in Boston. Perfectly composed, like she'd trained for that exact moment her entire life-and maybe she had. But there had been something behind her eyes. Something sharp. Controlled.

She hadn't been surprised. But she hadn't agreed either. She'd endured.

It should've made her forgettable. Instead, it made her an instrument of my curiosity.

Eliana Rivera was elegant, sharp, and beautiful. 

She also hated my guts as much as I hated hers, maybe even more.

And she was going to be my wife.

"She and her father get more wealth and status. We get silence," I said. "We both play our parts. That's all this is."

Christian didn't say anything for a moment. He just looked at me. Then, finally: "And if she figures out what this really cost you?"

"She won't."

"You underestimate her."

"I'm not underestimating anyone," I said, voice harder now. "This is not about her. This is about him."

I stared at Damien.

He looked... small. Ashamed. Rightfully.

"You don't get to be reckless anymore," I said. "You don't get to act like the rules don't apply to you because you're my brother."

"I know," he murmured.

"Do you?"

"Yes." His voice cracked. "I know."

Christian shifted in his seat. "We're almost through Rivera's firewall. Give me a few more days, and I'll have something actionable."

"Good," I said.

"Then what?" Damien asked, quietly. "Once you destroy the photos? What happens to the marriage?"

I didn't answer.

Because even I didn't know.

Eliana Rivera was a problem. Elegant. Controlled. And smarter than she let on. I didn't like her, didn't trust her, and sure as hell didn't want to be married to her.

But I also didn't like loose ends. And she'd just become one of the most dangerous ones I'd ever tied to my name.

"I don't walk away from responsibility," I said instead.

"That's one word for it," Christian muttered under his breath.

"I'm serious," I said, eyeing them both. "This isn't about optics. This is about protecting what's ours."

"I didn't mean to screw it up," Damien said again, softer this time.

I looked at him. Really looked.

And as angry as I was-as ready as I was to let him twist under the pressure-I remembered something. Him, eight years old, walking into my office barefoot with a bloody nose because he didn't want me to find out he lost a fight. Because he thought I'd be disappointed.

"I know you didn't mean to," I said quietly. "But you did."

Damien dropped his eyes.

"And now I'm going to fix it," I added. "Even if it means marrying someone I'd rather never see again."

Christian finally rose from his seat. "Alright. I'll check in when I get something. And Damien?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to be a walking PR crisis until then."

Eliana's POV

"I'm sorry. You're marrying who?"

Katherine's voice hit an octave only dogs and divas could hear.

"Keep your voice down," I hissed, glancing around the café. "This place is crawling with people who donate to my father's foundation. If one of them hears I'm being bartered off like a Birkin bag in a tax write-off, he'll have a full-blown aneurysm."

"I'm not whispering until you explain to me what the hell is happening." Katherine leaned over the table like we were conspiring to rob a royal bank. "You're marrying Alexander Grayson? The Alexander Grayson?"

"That's what the press release will say," I murmured, stirring my coffee even though I had no intention of drinking it.

"The same man who once shut down a tech startup by accident and didn't apologize?"

"It was a strategic acquisition. The founder failed to read the fine print."

"Oh my God, Eliana. He's basically a Bond villain with a better skincare routine."

I gave her a look. "And your point?"

"My point is-since when do you go for emotionally unavailable billionaires with god complexes?"

"Since my father decided he'd rather sell me off to one than risk a minor PR hiccup."

Katherine blinked. "Okay. I need to sit down."

"You are sitting down."

"I need to sit lower."

Her chair screeched an inch across the floor as she slumped dramatically. "Eli. No. You cannot be serious. Tell me this is one of those strategic engagement rumors people float to boost stock prices."

I took a sip of my lukewarm coffee. "I wish. Unfortunately, it comes with a diamond the size of a macaron and a prenup thicker than a Tolstoy novel."

Katherine stared at me, wide-eyed. "You actually signed it?"

"I didn't have a choice."

"You always have a choice. You once ghosted a guy because he said 'expresso.'"

"He deserved that."

"He was hot, Eli."

"He was illiterate."

Katherine groaned and buried her face in her hands. "I can't believe this. You're really going to marry the Ice King of Manhattan."

"I don't have time for a meltdown," I said, carefully tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "My father made the deal. Alexander agreed. And if I so much as flinch, this entire thing blows up and takes everything I've built with it."

Katherine leaned back, folding her arms. "I hate that you're saying all of that like it makes perfect sense. Like it's normal. It's not. You're marrying a man you barely know, who probably lists 'hostile takeover' as a hobby."

"I'm aware."

"You don't even like him."

"I don't have to like him," I said coolly. "I just have to survive him."

Katherine's brows knit. "And what does he get out of this?"

"A distraction. Legitimacy. Whatever demons he's trying to outmaneuver with a headline about a picture-perfect engagement."

"And you're okay with that?"

I paused.

"I'm not okay," I said. "I'm just handling it."

Katherine studied me for a long moment, her sarcasm softening into something more serious. "Do you want me to say it?"

"Say what?"

"That you deserve more than this."

I forced a smile. "Say it after the wedding. Over champagne. Or whiskey. Or while helping me fake my death and start a new life in New Zealand."

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand while offering me a small, sympathetic smile.

"You can still change your mind, you know."

"No," I said quietly. "I can't."

There was a pause. Katherine squeezed my hand once more before pulling away.

"Then at least make him suffer a little."

I smiled, tight and brittle. "That's the plan."

---

Alexander hadn't answered my calls. Or my emails. Or my extremely polite but increasingly pointed messages from our shared wedding planner. So I showed up at his club.

Some women sent flirty texts. I preferred mildly confrontational drop-ins at exclusive members-only establishments. Same energy, better results.

The Citadel wasn't just any club. It was the kind of place so exclusive it didn't have a sign, a website, or a phone number-just a silent nod from a stone-faced doorman and the hush of wealth thick in the air. You didn't walk into The Citadel unless you belonged. 

Or, in my case, unless you were engaged to someone who did. But they didn't know that yet.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you're not on the list. It doesn't matter whether you're Mr. Grayson's mother, sister, or fiancée..." The hostess raised a brow at my bare ring finger. "I can't let you in without an invitation."

My smile didn't falter. "If you call Alexander, he'll confirm my identity," I said, even though I wasn't sure he would. I'd deal with that bridge when we got there. "This is simply an oversight."

No matter how much I didn't want to, I knew I had to suck it up and see him, no matter how much he annoyed or unnerved me.

Of course, in order to see him, I had to get into the club.

The hostess's face reddened. "I assure you, there was no oversight. We are meticulous in-"

"Eliana, there you are."

An aristocratic British accent cut smoothly through our standoff.

I turned, surprise coasting through me when I saw the handsome man smiling at me. His flawlessly chiseled face and deep, dark eyes would've almost been too perfect were it not for the simple black frames lending him a touch of approachability.

"Alexander just texted. He's looking for you, but you weren't answering your phone." He came up beside me and retrieved an elegant cream invitation from his jacket pocket. He handed it to the hostess. "Christian Davenport, plus one. I can bring Ms. Rivera in so we don't bother Alexander, he's probably busy tonight.."

She glared at me but offered Christian a tight smile.

"Of course, Mr. Davenport. Enjoy the party." She stepped aside, as did the pair of unsmiling, suited guards behind her.

I waited until we were out of earshot before I turned to Christian with a grateful smile. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

Christian and I weren't close friends, but we often attended the same parties and chatted whenever we crossed paths. His thoughtful, reserved demeanor was a breath of fresh air in the narcissistic jungle of Manhattan high society.

"You're welcome." His formal tone made me smile.

"I'm sure your absence on the list was an oversight on Alexander's part." He whisked two glasses of champagne off a passing server's tray and handed one to me. "Speaking of which, congratulations on your engagement. Or should I say, condolences?"

My smile blossomed into a laugh. "The jury is still out."

From what I'd heard, Christian and Alexander were friends. I wasn't sure what Alexander told him about our engagement, but I was erring on the side of caution.

"Smart. Most people treat Alexander like he walks on water." Christian's eyes sparkled. "He needs someone to remind him he's mortal just like the rest of us."

"Oh, trust me," I said. "I don't think he's a god."

More like the devil sent to work on my last nerve.

Christian laughed. We made small talk for another few minutes as he led me to Alexander's lounge, before he excused himself to talk to an old college friend.

Why couldn't I have ended up with someone like him? He was polite, charming, and rich enough to meet my father's  standards.

Instead, I was stuck with a brooding man who wouldn't know good manners if they slapped him in the face.

The door to the lounge opened on a room bathed in soft shadows and warm amber light. Low music played. Glass clinked. And there he was.

Black suit. Black shirt. Black mood, from the looks of it. He sat in a corner armchair like it had been built for him, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a stare that could bend steel.

He looked up when I entered. Didn't smile. Of course not.

"Eliana."

I gave him a slow blink. "Wow. Two syllables. I'm touched."

He set his glass down. "Did you come all the way here just to be sarcastic?"

"I came here because you're ignoring me. And since passive-aggressive post-it notes aren't your style, I figured I'd try a more direct approach."

"I've been busy."

"You're always busy. I thought being your fiancée might earn me a time slot between your global dominance and your 8 p.m. brooding session."

He sighed, leaned back, and gestured at the seat across from him. "Sit."

I stayed standing.

"Why?" I asked. "So you can explain how this arrangement only requires my silence and my signature, not actual communication?"

"I didn't think a dinner meeting was necessary."

"You proposed to me."

He chuckled 

"Technically, I proposed to your father."

"Oh, great, because that's so much better." I replied flatly.

I crossed the room and sat down, my spine straight and voice cool.

"We're engaged." I stopped beating around the bush and cut straight to the heart of the matter. The faster I got this out of the way, the faster I could leave. "We haven't exchanged a single word since the dinner even though I'm supposed to move in next week. I don't expect love declarations and flowers every day"-though that'd be nice-"but I do expect basic courtesy and communication skills. Since you appear incapable of taking the initiative, I did it myself."

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered. Something I couldn't quite place. 

Then he smiled.

Alexander's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"That was quite a speech. You certainly didn't have this much to say at dinner the other night." The cold steel of his voice melted into rough silk as his gaze swept over me, gathering heat the farther it traveled. "I almost don't recognize you."

The intimacy of his double meaning throbbed in my veins and dropped between my legs.

I wore a classic black cocktail dress, heels, and my favorite red lipstick. Diamonds glittered around my neck and on my ears. It wasn't anything groundbreaking, but it was the best I could do when rushing to get ready.

I swallowed before carefully asking, "What's that supposed to mean?"

His lips curved into something too slow to be a smile, too sharp to be soft.

"It means," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "that you walked into this room looking like sin dressed in diamonds... and now I'm wondering what else you've been hiding under all that poise."

He leaned in, just slightly-enough for his breath to graze my cheek, for his scent to wrap around me like a second skin.

"I remember silence at dinner. I remember practiced smiles and perfect posture. But now..." His eyes dragged down my body with agonizing precision. "Now I see a woman who knows exactly what she's doing. And I'm trying very hard not to imagine what would happen if you stopped pretending you didn't want to be caught."

That voice, that look, that very inconvenient pulse of heat spiraling straight down like my body hadn't gotten the memo that this man was the enemy.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I was here to be calm. Cool. Possibly a little bit bitchy. Not... internally combusting because Alexander  just suggested-without actually saying it-that he wanted to peel me out of my self-control like it was lingerie.

I needed to say something smart. Cutting. Devastating.

I straightened, masking my internal chaos with the kind of poise that only came from years of high society events and emotional repression.

Two could play this game.

"I'm not hiding anything," I said, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from my dress. "But if you're that curious, Alexander..." I let the pause hang-sweet, dangerous, deliberate. "You'll have to earn the privilege."

His jaw flexed. His eyes darkened.

He didn't smile. Not really.

But the glint in his eyes told me exactly how entertained he was.

"Earn it?" he repeated, his voice a murmur dipped in velvet and sin. He stood slowly, unhurried, like a man who had all the time in the world to ruin me.

"Darling, I don't earn. I take."

He moved closer, and despite my best efforts, my breath hitched-just enough for his gaze to catch it.

"I don't need permission to see what's mine," he murmured, his mouth a breath away from my ear. "But I do enjoy watching you pretend I do."

My breath caught-audibly, humiliatingly-and I hated how quickly my body responded to him. Like it had been waiting for his voice, his nearness, his heat.

I should've stepped back. Should've said something cutting, something clever.

But all that came out was a whisper that betrayed me far more than silence ever could.

"...you're insufferable."

Even to my own ears, it lacked bite.

His hand didn't touch me-but I felt the warmth of it hovering near my waist, a promise and a warning all at once.

Why was he saying these things? Isn't he supposed to hate me? He probably just enjoys toying with me- the heartless bastard.

But why can't my heart stop pounding at the prospect of his strong body laying on top of mine- or under me.

Something's definitely wrong with me.

Another silence stretched between us. Tense. Measured.

He chuckled.

Then he moved back to his seat and spoke. "We're meeting with the event planner tomorrow. Noon."

I finally exhaled. "Fine. Where?"

"I'll send my driver."

"Wonderful. I'll try to contain my enthusiasm."

I stood. "Try not to avoid me until then."

He didn't respond.

Typical.

But as I walked out, I could feel his eyes on me the whole time. And for a brief second, I wondered if under all that ice, Alexander Grayson was starting to thaw.

Eliana's POV

The Grayson Manhattan office building was so sleek and over-designed it looked like a Bond villain's second home.

Marble everywhere. Mirrors polished to a criminal shine. And enough subtle security to make me feel like I'd accidentally walked onto a CIA black site in heels.

I stood at the reception desk in a navy dress that said "future wife of a billionaire" and not "woman who was planning his elegant murder last night."

"Miss Rivera," the assistant said with a polite, practiced smile. "Mr. Grayson is expecting you. They're already upstairs with the planner."

Of course they were. He was already here.

Which meant he had the upper hand. Again.

I smiled sweetly and followed her into the elevator, already bracing myself for whatever version of Alexander I'd meet today-The Ice King? The Arrogant Tease? The One I Secretly Fantasized About Despite Hating Him?

We stepped into a bright lounge overlooking Central Park. A massive whiteboard was covered in mock-ups of wedding venues, color palettes, and guest list drafts.

And there he was.

Alexander stood by the windows, looking like he'd stepped out of a Forbes spread. Tailored charcoal suit. No tie. Hands in his pockets. Cold and composed as ever.

The moment he saw me, his eyes dragged over me with that same unbearable calm. The kind that made my skin feel like a battlefield.

"Eliana," he said.

I gave him a tight smile. "Alexander."

We were civil. Professional. Possibly homicidal.

The event planner, a sprightly British woman named Camille, clapped her hands as if we were her favorite couple and not a business arrangement wrapped in diamonds and disdain.

"You two are just so chic together," she beamed. "Very old money meets high fashion-exactly what the media eats up. Shall we begin?"

Alexander gestured for me to sit beside him on the velvet sofa.

I did. Slowly. Carefully. The closer I got, the more aware I became of the heat radiating from his body and the scent of cedarwood and sin clinging to his skin.

Camille flipped through her iPad. "So, engagement party. You mentioned wanting something intimate but high-impact."

"That's right," I said. "Classy but not cold. Exclusive but not obnoxious."

"Like you," Alexander murmured.

I didn't look at him, but I felt the smirk.

Camille laughed. "Oh, I love a couple who teases each other. It's so real."

I turned to him slowly. "If he gets any more real, I might just strangle him with a satin napkin."

"She's kidding," Alexander said smoothly, wrapping an arm around the back of the couch behind me. "She's very into crime podcasts lately."

Camille giggled. "Adorable. You're like the couple version of a murder-suicide waiting to happen."

I blinked. "Thank you?"

We went through catering options, color schemes, and floral arrangements while Alexander occasionally leaned in, just enough for our shoulders to brush. Every time, my breath caught like I hadn't spent the last ten years perfecting how not to show emotion.

After I move in, I'd have to spend every night with him, so I was clinging to my freedom while it lasted. The prospect of sharing a room, a bed with Alexander was...unnerving.

An unexpected heat ran between my legs.

We were thirty minutes into flower samples and venue mockups, and I was barely hanging on to the thread of the conversation. Camille was talking-something about seasonal peonies or color palettes that wouldn't "clash with Eliana's aura," whatever that meant-but my brain was off the clock.

Because he was sitting beside me.

His thigh brushed mine every time he shifted. His fingers tapped against his knee in slow, thoughtful rhythm, like a countdown to something I couldn't name. And then there was the heat-just his presence radiated enough heat to fog my concentration.

I remembered the club.

His voice against my neck.

The way he looked at me like he already knew what I sounded like falling apart.

I tried to shut it down.

But my body had other ideas.

My eyes drifted from the planner's tablet to his hands. Long fingers. Sharp knuckles. Precise and possessive.

God, those hands.

"...Eliana?" Camille said.

I blinked.

"What?" I asked, a little too quickly.

She tilted her head, confused. "I asked whether you preferred warm neutrals or jewel tones for the ceremony design. You looked a little... lost."

"Oh," I said, straightening. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

Alexander turned slowly toward me, the barest smirk tugging at his mouth.

"I'll bet you were," he said under his breath.

I shot him a look. "Don't start."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to."

His voice dropped, too low for Camille to hear. "Tell me, was it the memory of my hand on your thigh or the way you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me?"

My stomach flipped. My glare faltered.

He leaned in, his breath teasing the shell of my ear. "You're not good at hiding your thoughts, darling. Especially when they're dirty."

I shoved his leg with my knee-gently, because unfortunately we were pretending to be in love-but he only laughed under his breath and sat back.

Smug bastard.

Camille, oblivious, flipped to a new tab on her iPad. "Now! Let's look at table arrangements."

Camille eventually pulled up table arrangement mock-ups. "We also need a few engagement photos for press packets. I was thinking something soft and romantic-maybe candid shots?"

Alexander leaned forward. "We don't do candid."

"Maybe we should try," I said. "Loosen up the death glare a little."

He arched a brow. "You're not exactly sunshine and kittens yourself."

"We can fake it," I said sweetly. "Like everything else."

"Oh, I can fake it," he murmured, low and sharp. "Question is-can you hold a smile for the camera without baring your teeth?"

I turned to him with a smile so bright it could shatter glass. "Try me, darling."

Camille practically squealed. "This is so exciting. I love chemistry like this. It's electric."

I was ninety percent sure she thought we were soulmates.

I was also ninety percent sure I was going to commit a felony with a dessert fork.

After the meeting, she gave us a moment to "enjoy the view." Read: pretend to be in love long enough for her to take a few unofficial behind-the-scenes shots.

Alexander shifted closer.

"Put your hand on my leg," I muttered without looking at him.

"Is that a request or a challenge?"

"Just do it. Make it look natural."

His hand slid to my thigh-heavy, warm, slow. Too natural.

I sucked in a breath.

"Relax," he said near my ear. "We're supposed to look like we enjoy this."

"Enjoy is a strong word."

"I could make it accurate."

My heart did an awful little flip. "I'd rather you didn't."

"And yet," he said, eyes on mine, "you haven't told me to move it."

I hated that he was right. I hated that his touch burned through the silk of my dress like it was skin.

I hated that pretending to be his fiancée made my pulse race like I was actually getting married to him.

I turned toward him, trying to match his game. "Just because I let you touch me doesn't mean I like it."

He smiled, slow and lethal. "No. But it does mean you want more."

I pulled back slightly. "I don't. Don't get ahead of yourself, were just pretending"

I stood abruptly. "Meeting's over."

He followed me to the elevator, amused and unhurried.

"You're really good at pretending to hate me," he said once the doors closed.

"That's because I don't have to pretend."

He smiled.

And for the first time, it looked real.