ARRANGED WITH A BILLIONAIRE CEO

BLACK ROSE

ELISE

Two days had bled into one another since that suffocating dinner. I’d been a ghost in my own room, sketching endlessly, desperate to lose myself in the lines and shadows of my designs. My only interruptions were the forced descents for breakfast and dinner, brief forays into a world I no longer recognised as my own. I stared blankly at the email from O’beauté, the words a blurry jumble. Was it possible for a mind to be so utterly overwhelmed yet so chillingly empty? That was my reality.

My phone pinged, a jarring sound on the bed beside me, yanking me back from the precipice of my thoughts. It was a message, from a number I hadn't bothered to save. "A dinner date tomorrow. I'll pick you up at 6 p.m." I scoffed, a bitter, humorless sound. The sheer audacity of his tone infuriated me. He wasn't asking; he was informing, as if I owed him some inherent obligation.

My fingers flew across the screen. "I am busy." But before I could hit send, another message from the same number vibrated across the display: "It's for the media." Right. The media. The relentless, ever-present vultures that came with the Milton package. I rubbed my temples, a dull ache throbbing behind my eyes. I deleted my typed defiance, the protest dying on my lips. I couldn't bring myself to type "okay." I simply tossed the phone aside, the screen dimming like my hopes.

The rest of the day offered a fragile, stolen peace. I retreated to my balcony, the gentle breeze a soothing balm against the turmoil within, sketching new designs, losing myself in the rhythm of creation. "Still with that useless book?" My mother's voice, sharp and dismissive, sliced through the quiet. I flinched, my sketchbook snapping shut. I turned, forcing my face into a mask of cold indifference.

"I didn't think you'd come to check on me," I said, my voice low, icy. She glared, her eyes narrowing. "I don't understand who you think I am. Your enemy? Is this how children speak to their parents these days?" I looked down, taking a deep, fortifying breath. The familiar script.

"Mom, did you have dinner?" I tried to pivot, to steer the conversation away from the familiar, painful lecture. Her glare intensified. "I did. And why didn't you have dinner? Do you think this childish avoidance will change our minds about this marriage?"

"I was full," I stated, turning back to the vast, indifferent night sky. "I'm not childish enough to avoid food as a protest."

"Did you contact Austin after that night? Are you even making any effort toward this relationship?" Her voice was laced with anger, with a subtle, chilling malice. I drew another deep breath, the air burning my lungs. "We are going for dinner tomorrow. He said he'll pick me up at six." I informed her, knowing a full confession of non-contact would unleash a far worse torrent of abuse.

"And if you go out with him wearing that sad face, do you know what they're going to say?" Her voice rose, dripping with disdain. "That we're forcing this on you. You're Milton's elder daughter, Elise. At least try to match the status. A smile won't cost you much." The lecture continued, each word a barb. "Milton's and Aldridge's tying knots is sensational news. Don't destroy it. Behave tomorrow." Her voice was a whip-c***k, and I stared at the moon, cold and distant in the dark sky. "Are you even listening to me?" she demanded, her voice piercing. "Yes, Mom. I heard you. I will… behave. Don't worry." My voice remained flat, cold, the carefully constructed facade hiding the fresh, stinging damage her words inflicted.

"You better do," she warned, before finally sweeping out of my room, the door clicking shut behind her, sealing me in. I let out the breath I'd been holding, a long, shaky exhale that felt like shedding a heavy cloak.

The next evening arrived with an unsettling swiftness. I meticulously prepared for the 'date,' a performance I had to execute flawlessly. I chose the maroon dress Ruby had delivered: calf-length, with demure puff sleeves and delicate white printed flowers. Soft flares below the waist and a crisp white belt defined my figure. My hair was pulled back into a simple, loose ponytail, allowing my curtain bangs to frame my face. I added a soft blush to my cheeks – I could fake a smile, but a blush was harder to conjure without genuine emotion. Lastly, a dark, bold lipstick, perfectly matching my dress, completed the illusion of a woman ready for a glamorous evening.

Precisely at 6 p.m., a car horn blared, a blunt summons from the driveway. I slipped on my favourite maroon heels, the click of my steps echoing through the vast silence of the mansion. As I emerged, I saw him leaning against a sleek black car, effortlessly charismatic even on the phone. Dressed in impeccable formals – a pale pink shirt, olive pants, a rich brown watch and matching shoes – he was a picture of understated power. In his free hand, he held... a bouquet? Of black roses?

My steps faltered. How did he know? How could he possibly know my favourite flower?

He glanced up as I approached, ending his call. His eyes, those chillingly perfect eyes, swept over me, a slow, appraising gaze. Then, he extended the bouquet. "For you," he said simply, his voice a calm murmur, as he opened the passenger door. I took the bouquet, its dark petals unsettlingly beautiful, and settled into the seat, holding the flowers on my lap like a fragile shield.

He slid into the driver's seat. His gaze met mine briefly before he leaned forward. My heart leapt into my throat. I flinched, instinctively shutting my eyes, shrinking back into the seat. My breaths came in ragged, rapid gasps, as if I'd just run a marathon. My hands clenched around the rough stems of the black roses, my knuckles white.

I could feel him so close, the scent of his cologne, sharp and clean, invading my space. I was sure he could hear the frantic pounding of my heart. I swallowed hard, but kept my eyes squeezed shut. Then, I felt him move his head beside mine, followed by a soft, metallic click. Slowly, I felt him lean back, settling into his seat. Cautiously, I opened my eyes. He was simply putting on his seatbelt.

A heavy breath escaped my lungs, a shuddering release. I blinked, abruptly turning to stare out the window, watching the streetlights blur. My breathing slowly normalised, the frantic rhythm calming, and my grip on the bouquet loosened a fraction.

He started the engine, the low hum filling the tense silence. I didn't dare look at him. His gaze, I could feel it, brushed over me occasionally, a silent query. The air in the car was thick, suffocating with unspoken tension, yet neither of us broke the silence until we reached the restaurant. He pulled up, then turned to me. "There will be paparazzi outside. Are you comfortable with that?"

I slowly turned to face him, my voice a mere whisper. "Y-yes." He studied me for a moment, then nodded, and exited the car. He opened my door, extending a hand for support. I took a deep breath, marshaling my composure, before taking his offered hand. His grip was gentle, soft, almost... concerningly so.

"You look pretty tonight," he murmured, his voice surprisingly soft. And to my astonishment, his simple words, that quiet tone, actually helped to calm the frantic flutter in my chest. I managed a slow, practised smile just as the stampede of running footsteps and the blinding flash of cameras engulfed us. He subtly placed a hand on my waist, drawing me a little closer into his space. The media, the cameras, the paparazzi – none of it was new. Years of training had made me adept at the fake smile, the practised composure.

"Are you two dating?! How long have you been dating?! Was it a secret relationship till now?! Are you both going to get married?! Is it for business?!" The questions rained down, a rapid-fire barrage, giving us no chance to answer. But this man, Austin, handled it with a single, commanding sentence. "We will soon be married, that's all you need to know. Now, excuse us and let us have our moment." He chuckled softly, a sound of quiet authority, as he effortlessly guided me through the crowd towards the restaurant's entrance.

He opened the door for me, following me inside. Once settled at our reserved table, he ordered for both of us, his gaze sweeping over me as if meticulously studying me. I simply sat there, performing my role: looking pretty.

After the waiter retreated, he turned to me again, his gaze sharp, assessing. "It was necessary to make it a public announcement," he stated, a factual observation, to which I merely nodded.

I have to do something, anything, to stop this marriage. The thought was a burning ember in my mind.

"They say, people's choices define them," he said, his voice thoughtful. I looked at him, puzzled, wondering what on earth he meant by that. As if reading the question directly from my mind, he continued, "Black roses. Sophistication and elegance, with a touch of mystery and allure." My breath hitched. I looked away, my carefully constructed walls trembling. "How do you know I like black roses?" I asked him, the question, a raw whisper of disbelief.