The Deal We Never Made

CLAIMING YOU AS MY FIANCEE

Maddison POV:

Inside, the apartment smelled like dust and leftover memories. I hadn’t been back here since the arrangement began. Not really. Jessica’s place had become my refuge. But tonight? I needed silence. My silence.

I dropped my keys into the bowl by the door, peeled off my jacket, and collapsed onto the old corduroy couch that squeaked every time I moved. I stared at the ceiling. I fumbled on my phone for Jessica’s contact and dialed it. She picked a few seconds later.

“Hey, Maddie, how was your Ms. Goddess training?” She asked in a teasing tone.

“It was horrible,” I paused for a second, then I said it out loud. "He kissed me, Jess."

There was silence for a second, and then the sound of Jessica giggling could be heard on the phone.

"Stop laughing! It was weird," I insisted.

"Oh, come on, “she retorted, still rusty with laughter. "That’s hard to believe. How can you say he kissed you just to shut your running mouth?"

"Well, I'm serious." I managed to say, but even I could sense the timid tone in my voice.

"Damnn, he has a soft spot for you.." she exclaimed. "Think about it, Mads. He made you see reasons to be his fiancée. He's teaching you how to be invisible and fit into his life. And now, he kissed you? If that is not soft-spot behavior, I do not know what it is."

When she said this, I pondered over it, not wanting to agree that she could have possibly been right. Ethan was... complicated. One moment, he was ordering me around, acting like this little arrangement we had was just another business transaction. The next, he was holding me from biting socialites like I was something important that he had to protect.

"It's just part of the arrangement," I said finally, trying to convince myself as much as Jessica. "He doesn't want me to embarrass him in front of his people. Besides, I forced myself into his life."

Jessica sighed, and her voice became less angry. "You keep telling yourself that, suit yourself, mads. Just be careful."

I was still in echoes with her words right up to the time we both bid our farewell and disconnected the call. I placed my phone on the nightstand and looked at the ceiling as my thoughts wandered through the day that had just passed.

Then I went to take a shower. After I finished I change to my pajamas. I tried to scrub away the feel of his hand on my wrist, the weight of his stare.

When I finally sat down on the couch, wet hair clinging to my cheeks, my phone buzzed. I didn’t want to check it, but my curiosity betrayed me.

Ethan: Hi, Fiancée, I’ll like to treat you to dinner tomorrow. 8 PM. I’ll send a ride so wear something respectable.

No emojis. No apology. Just another order from the throne of Blackwell.

My thumbs hovered over my phone. I almost didn’t reply. Almost told him to shove his rich-boy schedule and that I’d rather eat dry toast in peace. But something made me type “fine” and press send.

I threw the phone across the couch and let out a low groan. Still, I didn’t delete the message. Didn’t say no.

By the time my head hit the pillow, I was still replaying his voice.

Still trying to pretend I didn’t want to hear it again.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept reliving it—his breath on my skin, the softness of his lips, the wildness underneath all that calculated calm. I didn’t want it to mean anything. I couldn’t let it mean anything.

----

The next morning started with fake smiles and the scent of imported chamomile.

Celeste, my overly poise etiquette coach, glided into Ethan’s penthouse like a swan born on a red carpet. “Posture, dear. Don’t lounge like a college dropout.”

I straightened, resisting the urge to slap the silver spoon from her hand.

The session was painfully quiet. No Ethan. No snide comments from the peanut gallery. Just me, Celeste, and the creeping awareness that my life had become a bad Jane Austen parody.

"No elbows on the table. Use your salad fork. You’ll be dining with diplomats, not cafeteria friends," she droned.

I sipped my tea. Bitter. Burnt.

“Madison, please smile like you’re not in pain.”

“I’m not smiling,” I muttered. “Because I am in pain.”

Celeste sighed through her pearl-pink lips. “You’re exhausting.”

After an hour of walking with books on my head like I was preparing for royal photos, I gave up. “I’m not a doll. I’m not here to be sculpted into some Stepford wife.”

“You agreed to this.”

“I agreed to pretend. Not to become someone I don’t even recognize.”

When Celeste finally left, muttering something about blood pressure and chamomile refills, I collapsed on the chair.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed again.

Ethan: Don’t forget tonight’s dinner by 8pm.

I stared at it for a long second before replying.

Me: Stop barking orders. I saw your first text, I’m not your pet.

Ethan: You’re right. Pets are easier.

He had no idea how close he was to getting a salad fork shoved to the throat.

---

Dinner was quiet.

Bellamy’s was one of those uptight, hush-toned places with more knives than sense. I hated how I felt under the crystal chandeliers—like I was pretending to belong.

Ethan was already seated at a private booth near the back. He wore another stupidly tailored suit. Of course.

I took a sit in front of him, when I realized he wasn’t giving me attention and he was on his menu. I took out my menu and check out what I could order.

I gave out my order and took a sip of my wine.

Ethan looked up from his menu. "The reason I called you was to inform you that I gave you a position as the head of the PR. Department.”

I nearly dropped my wine glass.

"Excuse me?"

He dropped the menu now fully looking at me. "I’ve decided you should be seen doing something productive."

"So, you took me out of my journal passion to become a PR for your company? What happened to you calling off the issue?"

He arched an eyebrow. "That’s never happening, till I see solid reasons to."

My mouth fell open. "You are the most heartless person I have ever met.”

"You're the one who proposed this arrangement, remember?" He leaned forward, voice dipping lower. "And while I’m busy cleaning up the mess my father left behind and fending off the random matchmaking my mother keeps shoving at me, I’d rather not also have to babysit a fiancée with nothing to do but cause tabloid drama."

That stung.

"So this is punishment," I said.

"This is practicality. You want access to my world? Fine. Then work in it. Learn how it functions. Besides PR will suit you. You already love tearing things apart in the media. Maybe try building something instead."

I sat back, seething. "You are impossible."

"You’re unbelievable."

My jaw clenched. He had a point. I had walked right into this mess with eyes wide open, and now I couldn’t pretend to be shocked it smelled like a trap.

He picked up his glass, swirling the wine like we were still on a date instead of mid-argument. "This isn’t personal, Madison. I’m doing what’s necessary."

"Oh really?" I narrowed my eyes. "Was kissing me necessary too?"

He froze. It was the smallest pause, but I saw it. Felt it.

He set the glass down carefully. "Don’t read into things."

"Too late."

He looked out the window for a moment, jaw tight. "You said you wanted the truth. Sometimes the truth is that not everything means something."

"And sometimes it does."

Silence pulsed between us. Thick and loaded.

"Why won’t you just answer me?" I whispered.

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t blink. "Because I don’t owe you that."

Ouch.

I swallowed the hurt, shoved it down deep, and forced myself to finish the damn meal.

We didn’t say much after that.

I paid for my own cab home, just to be petty. Even though he offered to drop me. I just wanted to make things hard for him the way he was doing to me. To maybe make thing even.

By the time I reached my apartment, the rain had started—a slow, steady tap against the windows like fingers drumming a warning. I kicked off my heels and sat on the edge of my bed, dress still clinging to my skin.

His words wouldn’t stop echoing: “Feelings are debts waiting to be weaponized.”

And before that: “You make it impossible to stay cold.”

I didn’t know which version of him was the truth. Maybe neither. Maybe both.

My phone buzzed again.

Ethan: Don’t be late on Monday.

No punctuation. Just that familiar chill.

I stared at the screen, heart tight.

Then I dropped the phone onto the nightstand and lay back against the pillows.

For a long time, I just stared at the ceiling. Wondering how I’d gone from being a girl with a mission to being the girl under the beck and call of the tailored man whose family killed mine.

Sleep didn’t come easy. When it finally did, it came like a collapse.