Chapter 4 Public Property
1182 Words
The news breaks while I’m on the bus.
I’m wedged into a plastic seat, shoulder pressed against a stranger’s coat, my phone balanced precariously in my hand as the vehicle lurches forward. Outside, London passes in a blur of grey and drizzle, ordinary and uncaring. Inside, my screen lights up again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Congratulations on the engagement.
I frown, thumb hovering.
Another notification follows. Then another.
My phone begins to vibrate continuously, a low, angry hum against my palm. I unlock it properly this time, heart beginning to thud.
My name is trending.
I stare at the screen, momentarily convinced it must be a mistake. People with my name exist everywhere, surely this was someone else. Some influencer. Some actress. Anyone but me.
Then I see the photograph.
Lucien, immaculate in a tailored coat, stepping out of a black car. Me behind him, half a step behind, caught mid-blink, mouth slightly open as if I’d been about to speak. The angle is unflattering.
BILLIONAIRE HEIR ENGAGED: WHO IS ROWAN HALE?
My stomach drops.
I scroll, fingers numb.
There’s another photo. Then another. Us entering the glass building separately two days ago. Us exiting. Me clutching a folder to my chest like a shield. Me looking exactly like what I am, a woman who didn’t know she was being hunted.
The comments load beneath the headline faster than I can read them.
Never heard of her.
Another nobody looking for a payout.
Didn’t he just dump someone?
She looks… plain.
Give it six months.
My throat tightens. I lock my phone, then immediately unlock it again, as if this might somehow undo what’s happening.
By the time I get off the bus, Lucien’s name has been joined by mine in every major outlet. The language is breathless, speculative, cruel.
MYSTERY FIANCÉ REVEALED
FROM OBSCURITY TO BILLIONS
A CALCULATED MATCH?
I don’t remember walking home. I only remember the way people looked at me on the pavement, some of them glancing twice, their gazes lingering with new interest. Paranoia creeps in quickly. Are they staring because they recognise me, or because I now assume they do?
When I reach the flat, Mum is already standing in the living room, phone pressed to her ear, eyes wide.
“She’s here,” she says into the receiver. “Yes. Yes, I’ll tell her.”
She hangs up and turns to me slowly, as if afraid I might disappear.
Her face lights up in a way I haven’t seen in years. Pure astonishment. Relief. Something dangerously close to triumph. She had been on cloud 9 since I told her after the contract signing.
She laughs. “I knew things would turn around.”
I swallow. “You knew?”
“Well,” she says, already pacing, already vibrating with excitement. “I didn’t know it would be this, but I knew something good was coming. I told you. I told you the universe always balances things out.”
I close my eyes briefly.
Before I can say anything, her phone rings again.
She answers without hesitation. “Hello? Yes, this is her mother.”
My chest tightens.
I retreat to my bedroom and shut the door, pressing my back against it. The noise from the living room seeps though the thin walls, Mum’s laughter, her animated voice rising and falling as she talks about us, about the engagement, about things she doesn’t understand and hasn’t asked permission to share.
My phone buzzes again.
This time, It’s Lucien.
Lucien: I assume you’ve seen the announcement.
I type back with stiff fingers.
Me: I didn’t realise it would be everywhere at once.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Lucien: Control is an illusion. Especially now.
I sit on the bed, staring at the message.
Me: People are saying things.
Lucien: They always do.
That’s it. No reassurance. No apology.
Another message follows.
Lucien: There is a luncheon this afternoon. My family. You are expected.
My heart stutters.
Me: Today?
Lucien: Of course. Visibility matters.
I want to throw my phone across the room.
Instead, I type:
Me: What should I wear?
The reply comes after a pause.
Lucien: Something appropriate. My assistant will contact you.
And then he’s gone.
By midday, I’ve been photographed twice more, once exiting the building when a car I don’t recognise pulls up, once stepping onto the pavement besides a woman who introduces herself briskly as Clara, Lucien’s assistant. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t explain. She hands me a garment bag and ushers me into the car like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Inside the vehicle, I change clothes with shaking hands.
The dress is beautiful. Dark, structured, expensive. It fits perfectly, as if it was made for me rather than chosen for impact. When I catch my reflection in the tinted window, I barely recognise myself.
Clara glances at me. “You’ll do.”
I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved.
The luncheon takes place in a townhouse that feels more like a museum than a home. White walls. Abstract art. People who speak softly and look sharply.
They assess me the moment I enter.
I recognise the expressions immediately, not curiosity, not welcome, but calculation. A collective weighing of worth.
Lucien greets them with ease, kissing cheeks, exchanging pleasantries. When he introduces me, the smiles tighten.
“This is Rowan,” he says. “My fiancé.”
The word feels foreign.
A woman with silver hair and eyes like cut glass looks me up and down. “How… unexpected.”
“Isn’t she,” another murmurs.
Lunch is served. Questions follow. Where am I from? What do I do? How did we meet?
I answer carefully, vaguely, exactly as instructed.
I can feel their judgement settling over me like dust. I am too quiet. Too plain. Too unknown.
Not one of them asks what I want.
Halfway through the meal, I excuse myself to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I grip the sink and breathe, staring at my reflection.
This is what being chosen looks like, I think.
Being displayed.
When I return, Lucien meets my gaze briefly. There is no warmth there, but there is approval. I’ve behaved correctly.
By evening, the story has shifted again.
Speculation hardens into narrative. I am labelled ambitious. A distraction. A social climber.
One outlet publishes an article dissecting my appearance, my clothes, my expression in every photograph. Another dredges up a photo from years ago, me at university, laughing, unguarded. It feels like a violation.
I curl up on my bed, scrolling until my chest hurts.
Lucien’s name is barely mentioned anymore.
This is about me now.
About what I represent.
About what I supposedly want.
I don’t sleep that night.
I lie awake listening to Mum pace downstairs, fielding calls, planning a future that doesn’t belong to her. I listen to my phone buzz and buzz and buzz.
Somewhere between midnight and morning, it finally sinks in.
I am no longer a private person.
I am an accessory.
And everyone is entitled to an opinion.
- Writer
