Episode 1: The Crumbling Facade .
Chapter 1: The Crumbling Facade
Xander’s POV
Sunlight slipped through the sheer curtains and spilled across the room like a quiet truth. Warm, golden, and uninvited.
Xander Blackwood stirred in the oversized bed of the Palisade Resort’s penthouse suite, the sounds of last night still echoing in his head the low thrum of bass, the clink of champagne flutes, the laughter that never quite reached anyone’s eyes. It was all a blur now, a familiar haze that faded the moment dawn arrived.
His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the opulence around him. Everything here was curated for comfort velvet, marble, glass, and money. It should have felt like control but It only reminded him of how lost he’d become in the illusion.
Then he noticed her, the woman lying next to him.
He blinked, taking her in. She was impossibly beautiful. Her golden-brown hair fanned over the pillow like spilled honey, soft and glinting in the morning light. Her skin was pale and smooth, her breathing slow and rhythmic. There was a kind of grace in her stillness. A kind of peace he hadn’t known in months.
Beneath the sheets, her body curved like a painting soft, alluring, intimate in a way that tugged at something deeper than lust. His eyes paused on the small butterfly tattoo just above the waistband of her lace underwear, a delicate piece of art marking a body he still didn’t know.
He didn’t even remember her name and maybe that’s what unsettled him most.
Last night, she’d been everything he needed: a distraction, a release, a moment of feeling wanted without consequence. But in the quiet aftermath, she was a stranger, and he was just… tired and aware, painfully aware.
His chest tightened as the same thought returned, as inevitable as gravity: His birthday was coming. Thirty. The deadline his father had drawn in ink. Be married by then, or forfeit the company.
Xander rubbed his eyes, trying to silence the ticking in his head. Everything he had rebuilt from his father’s wreckage. Every sleepless night, every ruthless negotiation, every carefully calculated decision… all of it hung in the balance.
Because of some archaic clause his father knew would back him into a corner.
He stared at the ceiling, and for a moment, he wondered if he would ever feel proud of what he’d built or if he’d always be the son who had to prove he wasn’t a mistake.
Beside him, the woman stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, soft and heavy with sleep, and when she looked at him, she smiled. That slow, easy kind of smile meant to make a man forget.
She reached out, fingertips brushing his chest. It would’ve been so easy to pull her back in.
But something in him had already shifted.
“You should get going,” he said quietly.
Her hand froze. She blinked once, then gave a lazy stretch, not pretending to misunderstand. “Already?”
“Yeah.” He sat up, reaching for his wallet on the nightstand.
This part was always the hardest not because he couldn't afford it, but because he hated how transactional it made everything feel. As if intimacy came with a receipt.
He handed her the bills, not meeting her gaze.
She took them without a word at first, then glanced up. “Thanks.”
There was no bitterness in her voice. Just… acceptance. They both knew what this was. Neither one of them wanted to name it.
As she dressed in silence, pulling her clothes back on with quiet efficiency, he couldn’t help but wonder what she saw when she looked at him. Did he seem cold? Calculated? Just another rich man trying to fill an emotional void with s*x and money?
She turned toward the door.
“Last night was… fun,” he said, offering the closest thing to kindness he could muster.
She smiled again soft and practiced and then she was gone.
The door clicked shut. The silence that followed felt louder than the party ever had.
Xander sank back into the sheets and stared at the ceiling. The resort’s luxury felt suffocating now. The silk, the chandeliers and the perfect view.
None of it could touch the emptiness inside him.
He rose from the bed and padded toward the tall windows, pushing them open. The view was postcard perfect palm trees, sparkling waves, a flawless sky stretching endlessly outward. Life was out there, vibrant and alive.
And yet, he felt more disconnected than ever. He had everything but somehow, it wasn’t enough.
Why?
Why did these nights always end like this? With guilt twisting in his stomach and longing burning beneath his skin? What was he looking for in these strangers he brought to bed?
Love? No. He didn’t believe in love. Not after what he’d seen it do to his mother. Not after the coldness he’d inherited from his father like a cursed heirloom.
But he believed in legacy. He believed in survival. He believed in winning and to win, he needed a wife. Someone to anchor his future even if love had nothing to do with it.
Not a fantasy. Not a one-night stand. Someone who could walk into his world with her head held high. Someone who could match him, mask him, maneuver beside him.
He wasn’t sure that kind of woman existed. But if she did, he needed to find her, soon.
Because time was running out and this time, there would be no second chances.
His gaze drifted to the untouched glass of whiskey on the dresser. For a second, he imagined downing it, disappearing back into oblivion. But not today.
Today, he’d find her. Whoever she was.
He had ninety days to marry or lose everything.
