CHAPTER SIX
BRIELLE
In my twenty-four years of law-abiding existence, I’ve followed most of the rules society told me mattered.
I don't steal, don't cut in line,wait for the greenlight,payed my taxes, even pretend to read the terms and conditions before clicking “I agree” and I return library books on time
But today?
Today,all bets are off because I'm officially planning murder
And the person on the receiving end?
Oh, just the man I’m scheduled to marry in exactly four months.
Yes.. marry. As in vows, rings, and standing in front of witnesses.
A man who currently deserves to be drop-kicked into an active volcano with a smile on my face.
So when I woke up this morning, I wasn’t expecting much, maybe a quiet day of pretending my life wasn’t imploding.
What I wasn’t expecting?
To open Instagram and find my face staring back at me from the official Moretti Global account.
@morettiglobal — 7:41 A.M.
📸: It’s official. CEO Damien Moretti is engaged to author Brielle Lancaster. The couple celebrated quietly with family over the weekend. More details to follow. 💍
[Image: Damien in a tux. Me, smiling like an idiot at that damn gala two months ago.]
I blinked at the screen.
Scrolled.
Clicked.
Refreshed.
Nope. Still there.
Still tagged. Still captioned. Still completely public.
And I found out the same time the rest of the world did.
Actually..correction—the world found out before me, because apparently Damien doesn’t believe in basic human courtesy or the concept of warning someone before detonating a social bomb.
I flung the phone on the bed and stood, pacing the floor like a caffeine-deprived hurricane.
What the actual hell?
No call. No heads-up. No “Hey, Brielle, I’m going to casually upload a joint engagement post to thirty million people today.”
Just a glossy caption and a photoshopped life I didn’t agree to participate in.
I walked to the mirror and caught sight of myself: oversized sleep shirt, hair wild, mascara smudged under my left eye like I lost a fistfight with my pillow. The future Mrs. Damien Moretti, everyone. Get your cameras ready.
A knock came at the door.
Not Elena.
I knew that knock.
Tight. Clipped. Like the person behind it had never knocked on a door in his life but had seen it done once in a movie.
I yanked it open.
There he stood.
Damien.
Dark suit. Crisp shirt. Tie loosened just enough to be effortless but still expensive. And, of course, that expression like he was already bored of whatever I was about to say.
“Morning,” he said flatly.
“Are you kidding me?”
He arched a brow. “I assume you saw the post.”
“Saw it?” I laughed..short, sharp, disbelieving. “Damien, I was tagged in it. Like a brand collaboration. Or a fucking handbag launch.”
“It was the logical next step. The world would find out either way.”
“And you thought the best way to tell me was by letting me read about it with my morning coffee?”
“I didn’t think it required discussion.”
I stared at him. “You don’t think anything requires discussion unless it involves a quarterly earnings call.”
His jaw flexed. “I told my assistant to handle it.”
“Oh, that’s comforting. Maybe next time he can handle my vows, too.”
He didn’t blink. “You agreed to this, Brielle. The press announcement was inevitable.”
I stepped forward, toe-to-toe now. “There’s a difference between inevitable and disrespectful.”
“You’re angry. Noted.” His voice was ice. “But we both know what this is. You don’t want me, and I don’t want you.
I folded my arms, heat crawling up my neck. “Glad we’re clear on that.”
“We’re not,” Damien replied, already adjusting the cuff of his shirt like he was preparing for a press briefing instead of arguing with his fiancée. “There’s a private dinner tonight. Seven sharp.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“With my PR team,” he said, tone clipped. “They want updated photos. A few curated quotes. Some candid ‘couple’ content for a future spread in Elite Weekly, or whatever outlet they’ve deemed most strategic.”
I stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I joke?”
“I don’t know, maybe you crack a smile in your sleep. Loosen up a little.”
His gaze flicked over me—blank, impassive, freezing. “It’s not optional, Brielle. They want to see us interact. Get a sense of our dynamic before we do anything public. You’ll wear something appropriate. You’ll smile. You’ll act like we’re madly in love.”
I exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around my phone as I resisted the urge to hurl it at his face.
“I’m not your puppet, Damien.”
“Of course not.” He stepped closer, voice low and steady. “You’re a co-star. In a performance we both signed up for.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t try to dress this up like it’s noble.”
“I’m not,” he said simply. “I’m dressing it up like survival. You show up tonight, or I explain why my beautiful fiancée couldn’t be bothered to attend a dinner with the people managing her public image.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, is that what I am now? A brand investment?”
He didn’t blink. “You moved in. You accepted the ring.”
“I moved in because I was forced to,” I snapped. “And the ring? That arrived in a velvet box—with a sticky note from your assistant. Very romantic.”
“We’re not here to play fairytales, Brielle.”
“No,” I said flatly. “We’re here to play optics.”
He took a step toward me—slow, deliberate. Close enough that I could smell the expensive cologne and the bullshit beneath it.
“Optics matter. Especially now,” he said. “This dinner sets the tone for everything that follows. You’ll show up. You’ll look beautiful. You’ll charm the people who’ve been hired to make us believable.”
I scoffed. “There is no ‘us,’ Damien.”
“There is,” he said calmly, “when the cameras are rolling.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re overdue for a wardrobe fitting,” he said, already moving past me. “The stylist will be here at five.”
My mouth opened, then closed. Rage flared in my chest like a lit match to gasoline.
And before I could think of a response sharp enough to draw blood, he was gone—disappearing down the hall like he hadn’t just steamrolled through the last scrap of dignity I had left.
I stood there, teeth clenched, pulse racing, and thought of every headline, every fake smile, every shutter click they would capture tonight.
Private dinner. Coordinated lies. Fake love in perfect lighting.
And one small detail the PR team conveniently forgot to mention:
I was approximately ten minutes away from murdering my fiancé.