CHAPTER FOUR
BRIELLE
A lot of crazy things had happened to me over the past few months.
First, one of my books got published and a lot of fans are eating it up—which was supposed to be the dream. And maybe it was. Except it didn’t change anything I actually wanted it to change.
Second, I was blindsided by the news that I’d be married off like a limited-edition auction item.
And third—because the universe clearly had a flair for drama—I was now moving into Damien Moretti’s penthouse.
Yeah. That Damien.
The man with a jawline sculpted for war and a personality made entirely of red flags.
“Oh wow, it’s so beautiful,” Aria breathed beside me as the elevator doors opened with a soft ding, revealing a sleek, modern space that looked like it had been pulled from an Architectural Digest spread.
Dark hardwood floors. Massive windows overlooking the city skyline. Muted gray furniture that looked too expensive to actually sit on. Art that probably cost more than my entire college education.
For a moment, I could almost forget why I was here.
Then Aria’s voice dropped, cutting through the awe. “Well… fuck it. He’s still the worst.”
I smiled tightly. “Welcome to my new prison.”
She side-eyed me. “A prison with a built-in wine fridge, heated floors, and probably a panic room.”
The movers pushed past us, dragging in my boxes—labeled in bold black marker: Books, Winter Coats I Never Wear, Stuff I’ll Regret Later.
Watching them carry pieces of my life into a stranger’s home made my stomach twist.
“This doesn’t feel real,” I muttered.
She turned to me then, eyes suddenly glassy. “Bri…”
“I’m okay,” I lied quickly.
“No, you’re not,” she said, voice cracking. “You’re not okay, and this isn’t okay.”
I looked away.
I couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.
“You shouldn’t have to do this,” she said fiercely. “You deserve someone who chooses you. Not someone who tolerates you out of obligation.”
“I’m not looking to be chosen, Aria,” I said, forcing a tight smile. “Just... left alone.”
She shook her head, walking over and grabbing my hand. “God, I wish I could fix this. I wish you could just listen to my earlier proposition. I could burn all of it to the ground and make you run away with me to Barcelona.”
“I hate the sun.”
“Fine. Iceland. We’ll write books and feed reindeer.”
I laughed, a real one this time. “I’d still be stuck in this mess, even in Iceland.”
Her face fell again, and she pulled me into a tight hug. “He doesn’t deserve to share a roof with you. Let alone a life.”
“I don’t think he wants to,” I muttered.
She pulled back, eyes narrowing. “Good. Because if he hurts you—emotionally, physically, psychologically, or even by breathing too close—I will murder him with my bare hands and make it look like an accident.”
“You’re not exactly subtle.”
“I’m not trying to be,” she said, wiping under her eyes. “I hate him.”
“Makes two of us”
I rolled my eyes and started walking deeper into the penthouse. The air smelled like clean linen and cold ambition. Everything was immaculate. Cold. Too perfect.
Exactly like its owner.
I didn’t know where Damien was—and I didn’t care.
The less I saw him, the easier this would be.
“I still can’t believe your parents are okay with this,” Aria muttered as she trailed behind me. “Like, move in with your future husband to avoid gossip? What century is this?”
“Eighteenth. With Wi-Fi.”
She gave me a look. “Do you think he even has a TV? Or is it just a wall that screams?”
We both paused in front of a living room wall that was, in fact, a massive built-in screen. She raised an eyebrow. “Okay, fine. Rich people things.”
I sighed. “It’s not like I had a choice. Like my father said.. Optics. Appearances. ‘Let’s pretend everything is fine so the press won’t panic.’”
“And what does he get out of it?” she asked, her voice low now. Serious.
I didn’t have an answer for that.
Before I could try to answer Aria’s question—or spiral over it—a polite knock tapped at the frame of the entryway, a woman appeared—mid-forties, uniform pressed, hair pinned back in the kind of bun that probably hadn’t moved since 2005.
“Ma’am?” she said politely, folding her hands. “Your room is ready. I’ll show you.”
Your room. Singular.
So we weren’t pretending that I’d be sharing a bed with my fiancé. Good.
At least Damien had the decency or strategic awareness to avoid that particular awkwardness.
“Coming,” I murmured, and Aria followed without needing a cue.
We were led down a long, dim hallway lined with muted art pieces and backlit wall panels. Every step echoed, like the penthouse was reminding me I didn’t belong here. That this wasn’t my home. Just another stage to perform on.
The woman opened a door at the end of the corridor. “You’ll find everything arranged according to the instructions we were given,” she said. “If you need anything, just ring.”
Then she disappeared like mist.
The room was—well, objectively speaking—gorgeous.
Soft lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. Pale wood floors and a bed that looked like it had been designed for a high-end sleep commercial. A cream velvet reading chair sat in the corner, facing a tall built-in bookshelf that was already half-filled with my own novels and favorites I hadn’t seen since college.
Someone had done their homework
“Wow,” Aria muttered. “This is like if a Pinterest board had a baby with a museum.”
I dropped onto the bed and exhaled, my spine sinking into the ridiculous mattress.
The ring on my finger glinted under the light. Elegant. Ice-cold. Perfect.
Just like the man who sent it.
Damien hadn’t even bothered to deliver it himself.
No, I’d received it via his assistant—along with a stiffly worded note that read:
“Wear it. The press will notice”
Romantic, right?
I’d stared at the ring for hours before finally slipping it onto my finger. Not because I accepted what it meant but because I didn’t want my mother asking why I wasn’t wearing it.
I hadn’t seen Damien since the dinner.
No texts. No check-ins. No awkward “getting to know you” phase most engaged couples might fumble through.
And honestly?
I preferred it that way.
The man was colder than this penthouse. He’d made it crystal clear that I was just another piece of his long game. And while I didn’t know what he was playing at—I knew better than to believe I was anything close to important.
“You can still back out,” Aria whispered. “You can still run.”
I met her eyes, and for one reckless second, I almost said yes.
But then I thought of the press. My parents. The look on my father’s face when he told me this was ‘for the greater good.’
And Damien—who hadn’t even looked back.
“I don’t think I’m the one with the power to leave,” I said quietly.
Aria sighed and reached for my hand. “Then stay. But don’t lose yourself inside this penthouse.”
I gave a sad smile. “Already feel like I left myself at the door.”
Outside, the city was still alive. Cars moved like stars across the pavement, oblivious to the girl staring down from a gilded tower she never asked to live in.
And somewhere—maybe in another wing or maybe another city altogether—Damien Moretti was still out there.
Untouched. Unbothered.
Unseen.
I slipped the ring off and set it on the nightstand.
For now, that was the only choice I could still make.