CHAPTER SEVEN
BRIELLE
By the time the elevator opened onto the top floor, I had mastered my look to perfection.
My dress was war paint. A midnight black slip of silk that glided over my figure like a threat classy, understated, and just revealing enough to say I could end your life with a smile. The back dipped scandalously low, the hem kissed my thighs, and silver heels clicked against the marble like warning shots. My makeup? Impeccable. A sharp winged liner, blood-red lips, contoured cheekbones like carved marble. Hair slicked back, neck bare except for the delicate diamond studs his PR team sent as a “welcome gift.”
When I stepped into the dining room, the atmosphere shifted.
A long table stretched across the center of the room, flanked by six members of Damien’s PR team in business formal attire. Crystal glasses, perfectly folded napkins, a soft flicker of candlelight. Not for ambiance. For aesthetics. Cameras flashed quietly in the background, and a carefully selected instrumental playlist played like a whisper.
And then I saw him.
Damien Moretti stood at the far end, speaking to a woman in a navy pantsuit and bold lip
His gaze found me instantly.
And stilled.
For a moment, the entire room shrank down to that one look. His eyes swept over me—slow, calculating, unreadable.
He didn’t smile.
Of course he didn’t.
“Miss Lancaster,” a chipper blonde with a clipboard rushed to greet me. “I’m Ava. You look incredible. Thank you so much for coming. We’re so excited you could make it. You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thanks,” I said coolly, giving a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Just here to be the arm candy.”
A few polite laughs followed. Cameras clicked softly in the background.
And then he was there—beside me.
His presence arrived before his voice. Quiet, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.
“You’re late,” Damien murmured low enough that no one else could hear.
I didn’t look at him. “And you’re still breathing. We both have our miracles.”
He didn’t react. Not visibly. But his eyes cut sideways to me with a flicker of something unreadable.
Heat. Annoyance. Amusement?
Hard to tell with men like him.
“Shall we?” he said smoothly, offering his arm.
I took it with a smile sharp enough to slice through glass. “Let’s give them the fairytale, darling.”
We posed. We smiled. We exchanged rehearsed glances that the cameras ate up like candy.
And every second of it made my skin crawl
“Let’s all have a seat,” Ava said brightly.
We slid into our assigned spots at the head of the table—Damien to my right, his team spread like pawns around us.
“First of all,” Ava said, clasping her hands as if she were about to announce the cure for cancer, “thank you both so much for being here tonight. We know your time is limited, but we really wanted to start shaping the narrative early—soft rollout, clean visuals, genuine chemistry.”
“Genuine,” I echoed under my breath. Damien didn’t flinch.
Ava beamed. “So we’ll start with a few light questions, nothing intense. Just things to help us capture the energy between you two. It’s less about media, more about mood.”
“Energy,” I said. “Right.”
“Let’s begin with the obvious,” piped in another PR rep, a guy with gelled hair and enthusiasm that felt caffeinated. “How did you two meet?”
I opened my mouth, but Damien spoke first.
“At a charity gala,” he said smoothly. “Two and a half years ago. Her father introduced us. She was wearing a red dress, and I remember thinking—”
“—‘She’d be perfect for a fake engagement someday,’” I muttered.
A few people laughed, assuming I was joking.
Damien didn’t miss a beat. “—that I’d never met anyone so unimpressed with me. Which, of course, made her memorable.”
His voice had shifted. Slightly softer. Deceptively warm. He wasn’t just telling a story—he was building one.
“She insulted my tie,” he added. “Said it looked like something an investment banker with no imagination would wear.”
I blinked. “That… did happen.”
More polite laughter.
“I knew then,” he said, lifting his glass casually, “that she’d ruin my peace in the most interesting way possible.”
I blinked again, caught off-guard.
What the hell kind of rom-com monologue was that?
“And when did you start dating?” Ava asked, eyes bright.
“We kept in touch,” Damien said. “Saw each other occasionally at events. Things shifted about a year ago. And when I decided to return to New York, we knew it was the right time.”
The lies rolled off his tongue with such ease it unnerved me. Like he’d rehearsed them.
He hadn’t. He didn’t need to.
Because Damien Moretti didn’t lie like normal people. He lied like he was telling the truth.
Someone else leaned in. “So… did you propose before or after Italy?”
A beat of silence.
I looked at him, interested to see what sort of mess he’d make out of this one.
“Before,” he said, without hesitation.
Ava’s mouth dropped. “Wait—you were engaged all this time?”
He nodded once. Calm. Steady. “Privately. We didn’t want press speculation until we were ready.”
“How did you do it?” asked another rep. “The proposal. Come on, you have to give us something for the write-up.”
Damien turned to me then, his eyes holding mine in a way that felt heavier than I was prepared for.
“It was late,” he said, voice quieter now. “Rainy. She hates the rain.”
My mouth parted slightly. I did.
“I had just gotten back from a meeting,” he continued. “She was in my apartment, reading something—probably one of her own books.”
A few people smiled at that.
“I didn’t have a speech. No photographer hiding in a bush. Just a ring, and a question.”
He looked at the table for a second. Then back at me.
“And I asked. Because I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
The room had gone still.
Even the champagne bubbles sounded too loud.
He looked so believable, so composed, like he meant every goddamn word.
I blinked once. Twice.
“I said yes,” I added finally, voice a little hoarse. “Eventually. I thought he was joking.”
“She did,” he said with a small smirk. “Told me I had a concussion and should sit down.”
“I still think you might’ve.”
The table laughed.
The questions continued“…favorite date spots, shared hobbies, couple quirks, travel plans…”
Most of the answers were lies wrapped in enough polish to pass as truth. We were a well-dressed illusion, stitched together by convenience and PR strategy.
But somehow, it worked. Too well, maybe.
A man at the far end of the table leaned forward, swirling his wine. “Okay, last one—this one’s less formal, more fun.”
I braced myself.
“If you had to describe your relationship in one metaphor,” he said, “what would it be?”
Groans and laughter filled the table. “Oh, that’s a good one,” Ava chimed in, eyes gleaming. “Come on, guys. We need something poetic for the captions.”
All eyes turned to Damien first.
He sipped his drink, elegant and unreadable, then said, “Unlikely.”
More laughter.
But the attention shifted to me before I could retreat into the folds of silence.
“What about you, Brielle?”
The moment stretched.
I could have said something safe. Something generic like solid or growing or balanced.
But no.
For some reason, I said the first thing that came to mind.
“Fire,” I murmured. “It feels like fire.”
That pulled a few curious looks. Someone at the far end raised a brow. “How so?”
I met Damien’s gaze, lips curling faintly.
“It’s... volatile. Dangerous, sometimes. But warm too. Consuming, if you’re not careful. Beautiful. And sometimes…” I paused, choosing my words carefully, “...sometimes it feels like it’s the only thing real in a room full of cold.”
A quiet stretch of silence followed my words.
For a second, I thought I’d oversold it. Maybe waxed too poetic for a PR dinner. But a few people nodded appreciatively, one of the women even clutched her chest with a little “Oh, that’s beautiful.”
I didn’t look at Damien until I did.
He hadn’t moved.
Not really.
But something in his posture had shifted, subtle and sharp. Like he’d locked every muscle in place. His jaw was clenched just enough for me to notice, his grip tight on the stem of his glass like he’d forgotten how to let go. His eyes were on me, but not in the way they usually were—assessing, steady, unreadable. This was different. Tighter. Like I’d said something that unsettled him.
I blinked, a flicker of confusion rising in my chest.
What the hell was that?
But before I could figure it out or worse, before anyone else could, he cleared his throat.
“We’re done here,” he said, smoothly enough that only I could catch the edge behind it. “Ava, send the drafts over tomorrow. I’ll review them.”
“But we still have—”
“Send them,” he said again, final this time.
Damien stood, adjusting his cuff like nothing happened.
I stayed seated a moment longer as people began filing out—laughing, thanking us, complimenting the food, the photos, the narrative we’d fed them.
But all I could think about was that look on his face.
That strange stiffness.
That blink-and-you’d-miss-it reaction.
It meant something. I didn’t know what but it wasn’t nothing.
And it wasn’t about me.
I tucked the thought away, like a match left unlit, and stood to follow the man I was going to marry