Before You Knew: The billionaire fake fiancée

Thalia’s POV My phone buzzes at 11:43 p.m. *Come to my office. Now.* For a few seconds, I just stare at the screen. A chill creeps up my neck, raising the hairs on my arms. Alaric never texts this late unless something is wrong. My hands fumble with my jacket. Three years working for him have trained my body to react before my mind catches up. The elevator crawls toward the thirty-second floor. I catch my reflection in the brushed steel doors and barely recognize the woman staring back. My cream blouse is wrinkled from a fourteen-hour day. Loose strands of hair have escaped the knot at the back of my neck. There’s a faint smudge near my collarbone that I don’t remember getting. I look ordinary and safe. The doors slide open. The floor is dark except for one office. His office. Light spills across the hallway carpet in a thin golden strip. I suddenly have the absurd urge to turn around and go home. Instead, I knock. “Come in, Thalia.” His voice is deeper than usual, rough around the edges. My heart gives a hard, suffocated thud against my ribs, then seems to stop altogether as I push the door open. Alaric Voss stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows with his back to me. Beyond the glass, the city glitters against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered like stars trapped beneath the earth. For a moment he doesn’t move. Then he turns. The sight of him catches me off guard. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, his tie is gone, the top button of his shirt is undone. There is tension carved into every line of his face. “Thank you for coming.” “It’s late.” I lace my fingers together, holding them tighter than necessary. “Is something wrong with the Meridian account? I reviewed the numbers this afternoon and—” “Nothing’s wrong with the account.” His interruption is gentle, but it still makes me stop talking. He gestures toward a chair. I sit the way I always do around him—back straight, hands folded neatly in my lap, every inch the capable assistant he expects. “This couldn’t wait until morning.” He doesn’t sit. He leans against the desk instead, close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze. “Selin filed new custody motions today.” The words come out measured, practiced, but there’s a strain underneath them I’ve never heard before. “Their legal team is pushing harder than expected. They’re arguing that a single father can’t provide the emotional stability Liora needs.” Liora's name hits me like a punch. Her gap-toothed smile flashes through my mind.Her messy drawings, the way she launches herself into hugs without warning. “That’s ridiculous,” I say quietly. His mouth tightens. “It doesn’t matter if it’s ridiculous. What matters is whether a judge believes it.” For a second, neither of us speaks. The city hums beyond the glass. A siren wails somewhere far below. He looks exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix. “The court wants a stable home environment,” he says. “A maternal figure. Someone already involved in her life.” My stomach drops. Silence stretches between us, thick enough that I know what’s coming before he says it. “I need you to pretend to be my fiancée.” The words don't make sense at first and for a second I genuinely wonder if I’ve misheard him. A breathless laugh slips out before I can stop it. “What?” “I need you to pretend to be my fiancée.” The words sound even more impossible the second time. I stare at him. At the serious expression on his face. At the complete absence of any sign that this is a joke. My pulse begins hammering in my ears. “Alaric…” “Hear me out.” His voice sharpens. Not with anger but with something that sounds dangerously like pleading. His hands curl into fists before he deliberately forces them open again. A tiny crack in the control he guards so fiercely. “It doesn’t have to be real,” he says. “Just believable.” My mouth goes dry. “Believable.” “You’re already part of Liora’s life. You attend school events. You help with projects. She trusts you.” “Because I’m your employee.” His gaze holds mine. “No.” The word lands softly. Dangerously. “Because you care about her.” The words hit somewhere I can't defend. Because he’s right. God help me, he’s right. I do care. Far more than I should. Alaric reaches into his jacket and removes a thick envelope. The sound of paper sliding against paper fills the room. He holds it out. “Three hundred thousand dollars.” The number steals my breath. “Enough to restart your art program,” he continues. “Enough for the Williamsburg studio. Enough to build everything you lost.” The room suddenly feels too warm. Too small. My heart pounds violently. “How do you know about that?” His expression doesn’t change. “That’s not important.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “It is to me.” For the first time, uncertainty flickers across his face. Gone almost instantly. But I see it. “I know because Liora talks about you.” The answer catches me off guard. “She talks about your sketches. Your classes. The children you wanted to teach.” His voice softens. “She talks about you all the time.” I think of Liora, with her sharp eyes and endless questions. “When I mentioned—hypothetically—that you might be around more often…” His jaw tightens. “She smiled.” The tension leaves his face for just a moment. For a heartbeat, he looks less like a CEO and more like a father. “I haven’t seen her smile like that in months.” The room goes silent. My chest aches. Because suddenly this isn’t about money. It isn’t even about me. It’s about a little girl caught in the middle of a war she didn’t start. I stand abruptly. I need space. Air. Distance from the look in his eyes. Crossing to the window, I press my fingertips against the cool glass. The city below blurs into streaks of gold and white. “How long?” I ask. My voice sounds small. Almost lost. “One year,” he says. “A public engagement. After the custody case is settled, we part ways quietly.” I close my eyes. One year. The number settles heavily in my chest. Long enough for habits to become real, for lines to blur, for feelings I’ve worked very hard to ignore to become impossible to escape. “The money is yours regardless.” I swallow hard. “How many people would know?” “Our lawyers.” His pause feels deliberate. “Us.” I let out a shaky breath. “And everyone else?” A long silence. Then: “Everyone else believes we fell in love.” The words settle between us with an intimacy that feels far more dangerous than either of us is willing to acknowledge. I turn slowly. Alaric hasn’t moved. He’s still watching me. He keeps looking at me as though my answer matters far more than it should. “Why me?” For the first time since the conversation began, Alaric doesn’t answer right away.