His Salvation

CHAPTER THREE

Chapter 3: Tangled lies

Cynthia’s phone burned a hole in her pocket as she stood in Ethan Cross’s penthouse office, the Manhattan skyline mocking her from the windows. Sam’s text glared up at her: Cyn, I’m sorry. I need to see you. It’s about your bakery. Her cheating ex had some nerve, crawling back after months of lies. But the bakery—her parents’ legacy—was the only thing keeping her tethered to this insane contract marriage. What did Sam know, and why now?

Ethan’s voice snapped her back. “Focus, Cynthia.” He leaned against his desk, tie loosened, looking every bit the billionaire king in his charcoal suit. “You’re my fiancée, not a daydreamer. We’ve got a charity gala tonight—our first public outing. The press will be watching.”

She shoved her phone away, forcing a smirk. “Great. More smiling and nodding while you play puppet master?” The diamond ring on her finger felt like a handcuff, glinting under the office lights.

His eyes narrowed, but a spark of amusement flickered. “Careful, sweetheart. You signed up for this.” He stepped closer, his cologne—woodsy, maddening—clouding her senses. “Sell the fairytale, or the board will smell blood. If they doubt us, your bakery’s gone.”

Cynthia’s stomach twisted. The board’s bulldog from this morning had already sniffed out the “convenient” engagement. And Camille’s threat— “I know your secret, Ethan”—hung like a guillotine. She needed answers, starting with Sam. “Fine,” she said, meeting Ethan’s steel-gray gaze. “But I need an hour. Personal errand.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. “No detours. You’re on my clock.”

“It’s non-negotiable,” she shot back, channeling the defiance that got her through the gala crash. “Unless you want me distracted tonight, looking like a deer in headlights.”

He studied her, unreadable, then sighed. “One hour. My driver will take you. Don’t make me regret this.” His tone softened, just a fraction. “And Cynthia? Whatever it is, don’t let it break you.”

Her chest tightened. Was that a concern? No—Ethan Cross didn’t do warm fuzzies. He was playing her, the same as everyone else. She nodded, grabbing her coat. “I’ll be back.”

The Bentley dropped her at a dingy coffee shop in Brooklyn, where Sam waited by the window, his blond hair mussed, eyes bloodshot. He looked like the boy she’d loved—until she’d caught him with another woman last month, shattering their engagement. Now, he was a stranger with a secret.

“Cyn,” Sam started, standing as she approached. “I messed up. I—”

“Save it,” she cut him off, sliding into the booth. “Your text said the bakery. Talk, or I’m gone.”

He flinched, glancing around like someone was watching. “It’s not safe here. Ethan Cross… he’s not who you think. I found something—documents. His company’s been buying up properties, including your bakery, for a shady deal. Offshore accounts, fake permits.”

Cynthia’s blood ran cold. Her bluff at the gala—accusing Ethan of cutting corners—had been a shot in the dark. Was Sam saying it was true? “What documents?” she demanded. “And why do you care? You never gave a damn about the bakery.”

“I care about you,” Sam said, voice cracking. “I know I screwed up, but I’m trying to fix it. Meet me tonight, alone. I’ll show you proof.” He slid a crumpled business card across the table, an address scrawled on it. “Please, Cyn. Trust me.”

Trust him? After he’d cheated, lied, and left her drowning in debt? But the bakery was her lifeline, and if Ethan was playing dirty, she needed to know. “I’ll think about it,” she said, pocketing the card. “Don’t contact me again unless you’ve got something real.”

She stood to leave, but Sam grabbed her wrist. “Cyn, wait. Cross is dangerous. If he finds out—”

“Let go,” she snapped, yanking free. Her voice drew stares, and she stormed out, heart pounding. Sam’s words gnawed at her. Was Ethan’s contract a trap? And how did Sam, a deadbeat bartender, get his hands on corporate dirt?

Back in the Bentley, Cynthia’s phone buzzed—a new text from an unknown number: Stay away from him. You’re not his fiancée. – C. Camille. Her pulse spiked. How did she know about Sam? Was she following her?

The driver dropped her at Ethan’s penthouse, where a team of stylists waited to transform her for the gala. They stuffed her into a sapphire gown that hugged her curves, her hair swept into an elegant updo. The mirror showed a stranger—poised, glamorous, Ethan’s perfect bride. But inside, she was a mess, Sam’s warning and Camille’s text colliding in her head.

Ethan appeared behind her, his reflection in the mirror stealing her breath. His black tux fit like a second skin, accentuating his broad shoulders. “You clean up well,” he said, his voice low, almost intimate. He fastened a diamond necklace around her throat, his fingers brushing her skin, sparking heat she didn’t want to feel. “Ready to play the part?”

She turned, meeting his gaze. “As long as you’re not playing me,” she said, searching his eyes for a lie. Sam’s words—shady deal, fake permits—echoed, but Ethan’s touch muddled her resolve.

He smirked, unfazed. “Keep up, Cynthia. The world’s watching.”

The gala was a glittering circus—chandeliers, champagne, and whispers about Ethan Cross’s mystery fiancée. Cynthia clung to his arm, smiling for the cameras, her ring flashing under the lights. Every touch, every glance, felt like a performance, but her body betrayed her, tingling when Ethan’s hand grazed her waist.

Kourtney, her friend from the gala crash, waved from the crowd, her bold red lipstick a beacon. “Cyn! You’re killing it!” she mouthed, giving a thumbs-up. Cynthia forced a grin, grateful for one friendly face.

But the mood shifted when Camille sauntered over, her emerald dress screaming trouble. “Enjoying your moment, Cynthia?” she purred, sipping champagne. “It won’t last. Ethan’s secrets always come out.”

Cynthia’s grip on Ethan’s arm tightened. “Funny,” she said, voice sweet but sharp. “You seem obsessed with him for someone who’s out of the picture.”

Camille’s smile froze. Ethan stepped in, his tone cold. “Camille, you’re embarrassing yourself. Leave.”

She laughed, undeterred. “Oh, Ethan. You think you’re in control? Ask your fiancée about her little coffee date today.” She leaned in, whispering to Cynthia, “Check his office. You’ll thank me.”

Cynthia’s heart stopped. Camille knew about Sam. Before she could respond, a commotion erupted at the gala’s entrance. Sam burst in, disheveled, shouting her name. “Cyn! Don’t trust him! He’s lying about everything!”

Security lunged, but Sam dodged, rushing toward her. Ethan’s face turned to stone, his hand gripping her wrist like a vise. “What the hell is this?” he growled, eyes blazing.

The crowd parted, cameras flashing. Cynthia’s mind raced—Sam’s proof, Camille’s taunt, Ethan’s secrets. She yanked free, stepping toward Sam, but he stumbled, clutching his side. Blood seeped through his shirt, staining the marble floor.

“Sam!” she screamed, dropping to her knees. His eyes fluttered, voice weak. “The bakery… it’s a front… Cross… he knew…”

Before he could finish, his body went limp, and a shadow loomed behind her. Ethan’s voice was a low hiss. “Cynthia, we need to talk. Now.”