Chapter Three: Fake Diamonds and Real Pressure
1632 Words
Ariana stood in front of the full-length mirror in Tessa’s bedroom, clutching the edge of the vanity table like it could anchor her to reality.
“I still can’t believe you said yes,” Tessa said from the bed, watching her best friend like she was a character in a soap opera. “This is like The Bachelor meets Crazy Rich Asians, but with a lot more potential for an identity crisis.”
“I didn’t say yes,” Ariana muttered. “I just took the money. It’s not the same.”
“Girl,” Tessa scoffed, hopping off the bed. “You took a twenty-thousand-dollar envelope and agreed to go ring shopping with a man you barely know. That’s fiancé behavior.”
Ariana groaned, pulling her hair into a messy bun. “Don’t remind me.”
“Well, at least tell me he’s hot.”
She paused. “Unfortunately… yes.”
Tessa squealed. “Then lean into the fantasy! Play your role. Act like a queen. Fake it till you make it—preferably into his heart and into his will.”
Ariana laughed despite herself, shaking her head. “It’s not like that. This isn’t some Cinderella story. He’s using me to protect his empire, and I’m using him to survive mine. That’s it.”
But even as she said it, a tiny voice whispered in her mind: And what if it becomes more than that?
She squashed the thought.
Just then, her phone vibrated.
> Damien: Your chariot awaits. Downstairs when you’re ready.
Ariana took a deep breath, grabbed her coat, and headed for the door. Tessa followed her halfway down the stairs.
“Call me if he tries anything,” Tessa called. “And remember, walk like a rich woman. Chin high. Like you own diamonds—even if they’re fake.”
---
At Westwood Jewelers, Ariana felt completely out of place.
The store was all crystal chandeliers and velvet-lined counters, each displaying rings worth more than her entire life savings. A sleek saleswoman with icy blue eyes and perfect posture smiled at them as they entered.
“Mr. Westwood. Miss Cruz. Welcome back.”
Back? Ariana shot Damien a look.
He gave her an innocent shrug. “Had to make a reservation. They don’t let just anyone browse the seven-figure selection.”
Her heart nearly stopped. Seven figures? For a ring?!
As they were ushered to a private room, Ariana whispered, “Please tell me you’re not actually going to buy one of those.”
“Of course not,” Damien said smoothly. “We’re not here to impress you. We’re here to convince the world you’re already impressed.”
Ariana sat down slowly, watching in disbelief as a tray of diamond rings was laid before her. Cushion cuts. Emerald cuts. Ovals. Each one sparkling like a star.
Damien picked up a modest solitaire. “This one,” he said, handing it to the saleswoman. “Size five and a half.”
The woman nodded and gently slipped the ring onto Ariana’s finger.
It fit perfectly.
Ariana blinked, stunned. “How did you know my size?”
Damien didn’t miss a beat. “I’m observant.”
More like creepily observant, but she said nothing.
The saleswoman beamed. “Exquisite choice. Understated, but elegant.”
“I thought it suited her,” Damien said, looking at Ariana with something that almost looked like affection.
Her cheeks warmed.
This was dangerous.
---
As they exited the store, Damien turned to her. “Ready for the next step?”
“Which is?”
“Convincing the rest of the world this isn’t fake.”
Ariana raised a brow. “You mean… a public appearance?”
He nodded. “There’s a charity gala this Friday. Half the city’s elite will be there—including board members and media. You’ll be on my arm, wearing that ring, and smiling like I just made all your dreams come true.”
Ariana laughed softly. “You’re asking me to lie to hundreds of people with cameras?”
He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m asking you to play the role of a lifetime.”
She sighed. “What if I mess up?”
“You won’t.”
“And if I do?”
He met her eyes, his expression suddenly serious. “Then we both lose.”
Ariana stepped into the sleek black Mercedes that Damien had waiting at the curb. The door had been opened for her by a uniformed driver who barely spoke. Everything about this life—the luxury, the ease, the silence—felt surreal.
Damien slid into the seat beside her and gave her a glance. “You handled that well.”
“I pretended not to choke when I heard the ring costs more than my entire life,” she said. “So yeah, I’m basically an actress now.”
He smirked. “Good. You’ll need that skill.”
As the car glided through the city, Ariana caught glimpses of herself in the window reflection—her hands folded, her posture straight, a giant sparkling on her finger. She looked like someone else.
“You still haven’t told me why this matters so much,” she said suddenly. “This fake engagement—why does it need to happen now?”
Damien hesitated.
“That’s not part of the deal,” he said after a moment, eyes fixed ahead.
Ariana frowned. “Seriously? You want me to pretend to be the love of your life, and you can’t even tell me why?”
“I’m protecting someone.”
Her breath hitched. “A woman?”
He gave her a sharp look. “My family.”
A beat passed. Ariana turned to fully face him.
“My father left the company in chaos when he passed,” Damien said, voice tight. “I’ve worked hard to rebuild it. But my stepmother is pushing for a merger with a family friend’s business. The catch? They want me to marry their daughter.”
Ariana stared. “So this is to block a forced marriage?”
“In part,” he admitted. “But it’s also about control. If the board thinks I’m unstable or distracted—if I let the media run wild with gossip—they’ll vote me out. And I lose everything.”
“So… you brought me in to play the doting, grounded fiancée to stabilize your image.”
“Exactly,” he said, voice softening. “You’re my anchor. At least in their eyes.”
Ariana leaned back against the seat. “This is bigger than I thought.”
“It always is,” Damien said, turning to look at her. “Still want out?”
She paused… then shook her head. “No. But if I’m going to do this, I need to be prepared. I want to know everything. Your backstory, how we met, our ‘first date’—everything.”
A small smile tugged at Damien’s lips. “Ariana Cruz. I underestimated you.”
“Yeah,” she said dryly. “A lot of people do.”
Later that night, back in her tiny apartment above the flower shop, Ariana sat with a notepad in her lap, scribbling notes.
> “Met at a gallery opening. He admired my art commentary. I thought he was rude but charming.”
“First kiss: rooftop of his building, after a thunderstorm.”
“Favorite thing about each other: I like that he listens. He says I keep him grounded.”
She stared at the paper, chewing on the edge of her pen. It was all fake. Every word. But the feelings that had started to bubble up—the flush when he looked at her, the twist in her stomach when he smiled—those weren’t fake.
And that scared her more than anything.
She glanced at the ring again, sitting delicately in its velvet box on her nightstand. A reminder that she was in over her head.
But she couldn’t stop now.
Not when things were just beginning
Ariana couldn’t sleep.
The ticking of her tiny wall clock was the only sound in the room. Every few seconds, her eyes drifted to the velvet box on her nightstand—open now, the ring gleaming faintly under the dim light.
She turned the ring over in her fingers, mesmerized. It felt foreign and dangerous, like something she wasn’t supposed to touch, let alone wear.
Yet tomorrow night, the world would see it on her hand. They’d see her on Damien Westwood’s arm, wearing a designer dress, sipping champagne, and laughing like she belonged among the elite.
She got up and padded barefoot to the mirror.
There she stood—Ariana Cruz, the poor girl from Queens who delivered flowers to pay rent. She wasn’t poised. She didn’t know which wine went with which dish. She’d never eaten escargot. And she didn’t know how to fake love—not the kind people in Damien’s world would believe.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, snapping her from her thoughts.
> Damien: Dress fitting tomorrow at 11 a.m. Driver will pick you up. Be ready.
No please. No thank you. Just instructions.
She typed out a sarcastic reply, deleted it, then sighed and sent a simple:
> Got it.
As she lay back down, her heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn’t falling for him—she refused to—but there was something magnetic about him, something beneath that cold, calculated exterior that made her curious. And that curiosity was dangerous.
She pulled the covers over her head and whispered into the darkness:
> “This is all pretend. It has to be pretend.”
But deep down, she feared it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
- Writer
