THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

CHAPTER 3: THE FIRST LIE

POV : Isla

I've made a terrible mistake.

This thought runs through my head on repeat as I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, trying to convince myself that the woman staring back at me looks like someone who belongs at a Blackwell charity gala.

She doesn't.

The dress Adrian sent over this morning is beautiful—a floor-length silk gown in deep sapphire blue that somehow fits perfectly despite him never asking for my measurements. It has a subtle shimmer, a low back, and probably costs more than three months of my rent. The shoes—Louboutin, red soles and all—sit by my bed like expensive torture devices.

I look like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.

Which, I suppose, I am.

"You look gorgeous," Natalie says from her perch on my bed, where she's been watching me panic-primp for the last hour. "Seriously, Isla. That dress is insane."

"It's too much."

"It's exactly enough. You're engaged to a billionaire now. This is your life."

"It's not my life. It's a performance."

She gives me that look—the one that says she sees right through my bullshit. Natalie Chen has been my best friend since we met at a freelancer networking event three years ago, and she knows me too well for my own good.

"Have you told him yet?" she asks.

"Told who what?"

"Adrian. That you've had a crush on him since forever."

"I don't—" I start, but her raised eyebrow stops me. "It's not a crush. It was a passing attraction years ago that I successfully suppressed."

"Uh-huh. And now you're marrying him."

"Fake marrying. There's a difference."

"Is there?" She stands, moving behind me to zip up the dress. "Because from where I'm standing, you're about to spend the next year living with the man you've been not-so-secretly into since you met him. That sounds like a recipe for disaster."

"It's fine. I'm fine. This is purely transactional."

"Keep telling yourself that."

I turn to face her, suddenly desperate for reassurance. "Nat. Tell me I'm not making a huge mistake."

Her expression softens. "I can't tell you that, babe. Because honestly? I don't know. This whole thing is insane. But I also know you'd rather die than lose your grandmother's house. And if this is what it takes..." She shrugs. "Just promise me you'll be careful. With your heart."

"My heart isn't involved."

"Yet."

Before I can argue, my phone buzzes. A text from Adrian.

Adrian: Car will be there in 10 minutes.

Me: I'm not ready.

Adrian: You'll be fine.

Me: Easy for you to say. You do this all the time.

Adrian: Isla. Breathe. It's just a party.

Just a party. Right. A party where we announce our engagement to New York's social elite, the media, and Adrian's terrifying family. Where we sell the lie that we're madly in love.

No pressure.

I take one last look in the mirror, barely recognizing myself. Hair professionally styled in soft waves, makeup subtle but flawless (thank you, YouTube tutorials), dress that makes me look like I belong in Adrian's world.

I look the part.

Now I just have to play it.

The car is exactly what I expected—a sleek black town car with a driver who opens my door without making eye contact. Very Adrian. Very Blackwell.

I slide into the backseat and freeze.

Adrian is already there.

Of course he is. He probably wanted to "prepare" me, give me last-minute instructions, make sure I don't embarrass him in front of his people.

"Hi," I say stupidly.

"Hi."

And then neither of us speaks.

Because Adrian Blackwell in a tuxedo should be illegal.

He's always attractive in that cold, untouchable way—sharp suits, sharper jawline, eyes that see too much. But tonight, in formal wear, he's devastating. The tuxedo fits him perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean frame. His dark hair is styled back, revealing the strong lines of his face. And when he looks at me—really looks at me—something in his expression shifts.

"You look..." He stops, clears his throat. "The dress suits you."

"Thanks for sending it. You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did. Tonight is important. You needed to look the part."

Right. The part. The role I'm playing.

"You clean up okay too," I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near awkward.

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.

"Are you ready for this?" he asks.

"No. But I signed the contract, so I guess I don't have a choice."

"You always have a choice, Isla."

"Do I?"

We look at each other in the dim light of the car, and for a moment, I see something in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or regret. But then it's gone, replaced by that familiar control.

"We need to establish some ground rules for tonight," he says, all business now. "Stay close to me. Let me handle the press questions. If anyone asks how we met, we say—"

"Through Sophie. Which is true."

"Yes. If they ask how long we've been together, we say six months. Privately, before announcing."

"Six months?" I laugh. "Adrian, Sophie died six months ago. People are going to think—"

"Let them think what they want. It adds a romantic element. Bonding through shared grief."

The casualness with which he says it makes my stomach turn.

"That feels manipulative," I say quietly.

"It's strategic. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

His jaw tightens. "Isla. This only works if we're convincing. That means selling a narrative. If you're not comfortable with—"

"I'm fine. I just... I didn't realize we'd be using Sophie's death as part of the story."

"We're not using it. We're acknowledging it. It's part of our history. Part of why this makes sense."

He's right. I know he's right. But something about it still feels wrong.

The car slows, and I realize we've arrived. Through the tinted windows, I can see the hotel—one of Adrian's, naturally—lit up like a palace. Red carpet. Cameras. A crowd of people in evening wear ascending the steps.

My hands start shaking.

"Hey." Adrian's voice is softer now. "Look at me."

I do. His gray eyes are steady, calm.

"You can do this," he says. "Just follow my lead. Hold my hand. Smile. Let me do the talking. We're in this together."

"Together," I repeat, trying to believe it.

"Together."

He reaches for my hand, and the touch sends electricity up my arm. His hand is warm, strong, and for just a second, I let myself believe this is real. That we're really engaged. That he really cares.

Then the car door opens, and the cameras start flashing, and there's no more time to think.

Only time to perform.

The noise hits me first.

Cameras clicking. Voices shouting. "Adrian! Adrian, over here!" "Mr. Blackwell, who's your date?" "Is this the mystery woman?"

Adrian steps out smoothly, then turns back to offer me his hand. I take it, letting him help me from the car, and immediately feel like I'm going to throw up.

There are so many people. So many cameras.

"Breathe," Adrian murmurs, his hand settling on the small of my back. The touch is possessive, intimate, exactly what a doting fiancé would do.

It's all for show.

I have to remember that.

We start walking up the red carpet, and the questions get louder, more insistent.

"Adrian, who is she?"

"Are you dating someone?"

"How long have you been together?"

Adrian stops at the designated press area, keeping me close. His arm around my waist feels simultaneously natural and foreign. I can feel the heat of his palm through the thin silk of my dress.

"Gentlemen, ladies," Adrian says, his voice carrying that easy authority that makes people listen. "I'd like to introduce you to Isla Sterling."

A pause. Cameras flashing. Then—

"Are you two dating?"

Adrian's hand tightens slightly on my waist. Here it comes.

"Actually," he says, and I swear the entire crowd leans forward, "we're engaged."

The explosion of noise is deafening.

Questions flying from every direction. Cameras going crazy. Someone shouts "When?" and someone else yells "How long?" and I'm frozen, overwhelmed, until Adrian pulls me closer and I remember my role.

Smile. Look happy. Look in love.

I tilt my head up toward Adrian, and he looks down at me, and for the cameras, for the story, for the lie, he smiles. Really smiles. And it transforms his entire face, making him look younger, warmer, almost happy.

My heart does something complicated.

"We've been together privately for six months," Adrian tells the press, never taking his eyes off me. "I wanted to keep it quiet, out of respect for my family and for Isla. But we're ready to share our happiness now."

"How did you propose?" someone shouts.

Adrian's smile turns softer, more intimate. "That's between Isla and me."

More flashing. More questions. But Adrian is already moving us along, his hand steady on my back, guiding me through the chaos into the hotel.

The moment we're through the doors, away from cameras, I expect him to drop the act. To let go, step away, return to professional distance.

He doesn't.

His hand stays on my back as we cross the marble lobby. Stays there as we enter the elevator. Only drops when the doors close and we're alone.

"You did well," he says.

"I barely said anything."

"You didn't have to. You looked perfect."

Perfect. Like a well-dressed accessory.

"The hard part's over," Adrian continues. "Now we just mingle, make appearances, let people congratulate us. Should be straightforward."

The elevator dings. Doors open. And standing right there, waiting, is a woman I recognize from society pages and Adrian's family photos.

Victoria Blackwell.

Adrian's mother.

She looks between us with cold, assessing eyes, takes in our proximity, our formal wear, the ring I'm suddenly very aware of on my left hand (Adrian had it delivered this morning—a stunning emerald-cut diamond that probably cost more than my car).

"Adrian," she says, her voice frost itself. "I see the rumors are true."

"Mother. I was planning to call—"

"But you didn't." Her gaze shifts to me, and I resist the urge to step back. "Miss Sterling. How... unexpected."

"Mrs. Blackwell," I manage. "It's good to see you again."

"Is it?" She steps closer, and I catch the scent of expensive perfume. "Tell me, dear. Does this sudden engagement have anything to do with your recently deceased grandmother's rather unfortunate will stipulation?"

My blood runs cold.

She knows.

Of course she knows.

"Mother—" Adrian starts, but Victoria holds up one perfectly manicured hand.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Adrian. I have lawyers too. I know about the marriage clause. I know about the timeline. And I know desperation when I see it." She looks at me with something like pity. "You're using my son to secure your inheritance."

"That's not—" I start, but my voice cracks.

"It's exactly what's happening," Adrian says, his voice hard. "And it's none of your concern."

"None of my concern? Adrian, you're announcing an engagement to a woman you barely know, clearly to help her access her inheritance. How do you think this looks? What this does to our family's reputation?"

"Our family's reputation was just fine when Father had his affairs, Mother. Or when you covered them up."

Victoria's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes. "That's different."

"Is it?"

They stare at each other, years of family dysfunction crackling in the air between them.

"Isla and I are engaged," Adrian says finally. "We're happy. And I'd appreciate it if you'd respect that."

"Happy." Victoria laughs, and it's the coldest sound I've ever heard. "Oh, Adrian. You've never been happy a day in your life. And you certainly won't be happy with her."

The words hit like a slap.

"You'll never be good enough for this family," Victoria says, looking directly at me now. "You'll never belong. And when this charade falls apart—and it will—you'll walk away with your money, and my son will be left cleaning up the mess."

Then she's gone, heels clicking across marble, leaving me shaking and Adrian rigid with anger.

"She doesn't—" I start.

"Don't." His voice is tight. "Don't apologize. Don't explain. She's bitter and vindictive, and you didn't deserve that."

"Adrian—"

"We have a party to attend." He offers his arm, formal and distant again. "Shall we?"

I take it, because what else can I do?

But as we enter the ballroom—all crystal chandeliers and beautiful people and champagne flowing like water—I realize something terrifying.

Victoria Blackwell is right.

I don't belong here.

I'm never going to belong here.

And this lie I've agreed to tell? It's going to destroy me.

But I paste on a smile anyway, because that's what I signed up for.

That's what I promised.

And as Adrian introduces me to people whose names I'll never remember, whose world I'll never be part of, I feel his hand on my back again—steady, warm, protective.

And I wonder how I'm supposed to survive a year of this.

Of wanting something I can never really have.