Ariana Blake's phone vibrated relentlessly on the marble countertop, lighting up every few seconds with new alerts—texts, calls, emails, notifications she didn't recognize from apps she barely remembered downloading.
She stared at it, towel wrapped around her damp hair, freshly showered and barefoot in a pair of silk pajama pants and one of Leo's old T-shirts—probably worth more than her last rent check. The penthouse was quiet, unnervingly so, with only the distant hum of the city below and the soft ticking of an antique wall clock.
She finally picked up the phone and scrolled.
Trending: #LeoCrossEngaged
"Mysterious Fiancée of Trillionaire Tech Mogul Identified" – Page Six
"Who Is Ariana Blake? Everything We Know About Leonardo Cross's Bride-to-Be" – Vogue Digital
"Jesus," she muttered, dropping the phone like it burned.
Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Camille had uploaded a single image of her and Leo standing stiffly in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, the city's skyline glittering behind them like a backdrop. Leo in one of his standard three-piece suits. Ariana in a borrowed dress—black silk, backless, with a slit that had made her internally panic for hours. They looked good. Too good.
Apparently, the internet agreed.
"Ariana?" Camille's voice filtered through the intercom. "The car will be ready in fifteen minutes."
"Car?" she called back, already dreading the answer.
"You're expected at the Cross Media Group headquarters. Arthur's booked a press briefing and interview prep."
"Of course he has," she muttered, ripping the towel off her head and storming into the bedroom.
Her wardrobe was a battleground. Dresses with price tags still attached hung like silent judges along the custom closet walls. Most were stunning. All were intimidating. She chose the least attention-grabbing one—a navy wrap dress with sleeves and a hemline that didn't scream arm candy. She paired it with simple heels, then stared at herself in the mirror.
Twenty-eight years old. Freelance interior designer. Barely five-five without heels. Pale skin that flushed too easily, especially under scrutiny. Her green eyes betrayed everything—especially nerves. And her hair, now drying in loose waves, had a mind of its own.
"You look terrified," she whispered to her reflection. "Breathe."
A chime sounded from the door. Leo.
He stepped in like he owned the air itself—flawless gray suit, silver cufflinks, hair styled in that effortlessly infuriating way. His expression was unreadable, as always.
"You ready?" he asked.
Ariana crossed her arms. "Why didn't anyone tell me we were going to be internet famous overnight?"
"You are internet famous. And this is the beginning."
She blinked. "The beginning of what? Losing my privacy?"
Leo's voice was calm. "Control the story or it controls you."
"You really believe that works in real life?"
He met her gaze. "I know it does."
For a moment, she wanted to argue, to push back against the cold logic in his voice. But she was too exhausted to fight with someone who always thought five moves ahead.
---
Outside, the city pulsed with noise and movement. The black SUV waited at the curb, guarded by two security staff members in black suits and earpieces. Ariana slid into the back seat beside Leo, avoiding the photographers already flashing lights from across the street.
As the car pulled into traffic, Leo tapped away at his phone. Ariana leaned back and stared out the window, trying not to let the anxiety swallow her.
"I'm not good at this," she said quietly.
"At what?"
"This," she waved vaguely, "being some public fantasy."
"You're not supposed to be a fantasy. Just a headline."
Ariana scowled. "You have the worst pep talks."
He finally looked at her, and for once, there was a trace of something like softness in his gaze. "You'll be fine, Ariana. Trust me."
She didn't. Not really.
But she nodded anyway.
---
Arthur Denzig was a whirlwind in tailored pants.
He met them at the executive entrance of Cross Media Group, all wiry energy and nervous clapping. His glasses kept slipping down his nose as he gestured them through hallways and elevators.
"You broke the internet," Arthur announced. "Three hundred million impressions in twelve hours. It's insane. We haven't seen numbers like this since the Met Gala."
Ariana frowned. "That's not necessarily a good thing."
"It is if we manage it," Arthur said. "But you need coaching. ASAP."
He led them into a sleek conference room with walls of screens, a media team already waiting, buzzing with excitement and caffeine. They handed Ariana a tablet, pulled up a slideshow of headlines, and began firing questions.
"What are you wearing today?"
"What do you do for a living?"
"How did you meet Leo?"
"What was your first date?"
Ariana blinked. "We haven't had one."
Everyone paused.
Arthur coughed. "Right. Let's... work on that."
Leo folded his arms and leaned against the wall, silent, watching. Ariana felt his gaze like heat, and it made her skin tighten.
She straightened her shoulders and answered clearly.
"I'm an interior designer. I've worked freelance for six years. I've lived in the city for ten. I met Leo at a hotel. He spilled coffee on me."
One of the assistants smiled. "You mean, you spilled coffee on him."
Ariana smirked. "That too."
Arthur gave a thumbs up. "Better. More human. More relatable. Keep going."
The session lasted hours.
By the time they were done, Ariana knew every bullet point of their new 'story': how they fell for each other by accident, how Leo had proposed in a private moment, how they were planning a small, intimate wedding with no press.
"It's all lies," she whispered as they exited the building.
Leo didn't flinch. "It's marketing."
---
That evening, they arrived home to find two paparazzi vans parked across the street. Security ushered them inside swiftly, but not before several flashes went off.
Inside the penthouse, Ariana kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the couch.
Leo unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, walking to the bar to pour himself a drink. His forearms, veined and tan, caught her attention in a way she immediately regretted.
"This is insane," she muttered, rubbing her temples.
"It's necessary," he said simply.
Ariana looked at him. "You live like this all the time?"
He nodded. "It's how I win."
She stood. "You think everything is a game, don't you?"
His gaze lifted. "And you think it isn't?"
They stared at each other for a long moment, something taut and unspoken vibrating between them.
Then he said quietly, "You did well today."
Ariana folded her arms. "You said that yesterday."
"Because it's still true."
She didn't know how to feel about that. Compliments from Leo felt like rare currency—valuable but hard to decipher.
"I'm going to bed," she said finally.
But as she walked past him, he spoke again.
"They'll come after you."
She paused. "Who?"
"The press. Trolls. People from your past. Anyone who wants a piece of this story. They'll dig. You need to be ready."
She turned, her voice steady. "I have nothing to hide."
Leo's expression darkened just slightly. "Everyone has something."
She didn't answer. She just walked away, the words echoing behind her.
---
Later that night, unable to sleep, Ariana sat on the floor of her studio, surrounded by pages of design sketches and a steaming cup of tea. The penthouse was dark and quiet, save for the occasional creak of steel and wind beyond the glass.
She thought of everything she'd lost. The apartment she loved. The clients who stopped calling. The toxic ex who'd burned her confidence to the ground. Her independence.
And now, she thought of Leo.
Of his power. His walls. His unreadable eyes.
What did it say about her that she'd agreed to this?
What did it say about him that he'd offered?
A soft knock came at the studio door.
She looked up.
Leo.
He didn't come in—just leaned on the frame, arms crossed, shirt sleeves still rolled, hair a little less perfect now.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "Just... thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
She smiled faintly. "So I've heard."
He walked in slowly and sat beside her on the floor, surprising her.
They sat in silence for a while, side by side, like two people who didn't know how to start something they'd both agreed to fake.
Then Ariana spoke.
"They're going to find out I'm just a broke designer with nothing to offer."
Leo didn't look at her. "You're wrong."
She laughed softly. "About being broke?"
"About having nothing to offer."
She turned to him.
He was already looking at her.
And in his eyes, for just a split second, she saw something she hadn't before.
Fear.
Not of her.
Of this.
Of what they were creating.
Or maybe… what they might accidentally become.
---