THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

CHAPTER 9: THE INTERVIEW

POV : Isla

I wake up with a crick in my neck and Adrian's arm around my waist.

For a moment, I don't move. I just lie there on his expensive couch, listening to him breathe, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back, and try to process what happened last night.

We kissed.

Adrian Blackwell kissed me. Or I kissed him. Details are fuzzy.

What's not fuzzy is the memory of his hands in my hair, his confession that he's been falling for me for seven years, the way he asked me to stay like he was afraid I'd disappear.

This isn't fake anymore.

The thought sends a thrill of excitement and terror through me in equal measure.

"You're thinking too loud," Adrian murmurs against my shoulder, his voice rough with sleep.

"How do you know I'm thinking?"

"You're tense. And you stopped breathing normally about three minutes ago."

"Creepy that you were monitoring my breathing."

"Observant. There's a difference." His arm tightens around me. "Good morning, by the way."

"Morning."

We lie there in comfortable silence for another moment, neither of us wanting to address the elephant in the room. Or the elephant on the couch, as it were.

"We should talk about last night," Adrian says finally.

"Do we have to?"

"Isla—"

"I know, I know. Parameters and discussions and figuring out what this means for our arrangement." I turn in his arms to face him, and God, he looks good in the morning—hair mussed, stubble shadowing his jaw, eyes soft in a way I've never seen before. "Can we just... not? For a few more minutes? Can we just be two people who kissed and fell asleep on a couch without making it complicated?"

"Everything about this is already complicated."

"Exactly. So what's a few more minutes?"

He studies me for a long moment, then nods. "A few more minutes."

I settle back against his chest, and we watch the sunrise paint the city in shades of gold and rose. It's peaceful. Perfect. The kind of moment I want to hold onto forever.

Of course, that's when his phone buzzes.

Adrian groans, reaching for it on the coffee table. His expression shifts from relaxed to resigned.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Grace. Reminding me about the interview today."

"Interview?"

"Manhattan Magazine. They want to do a profile on us—the newly engaged couple, the love story, all of it. I completely forgot." He sits up, running a hand through his hair. "It's at eleven. We have three hours to prepare."

The peaceful moment shatters like glass.

Right. The performance. The fiction. The carefully constructed narrative we're supposed to be selling.

Except now it's not entirely fiction, and I have no idea how to navigate that.

"What do we need to prepare?" I ask, sitting up and immediately missing his warmth.

"Our story. How we met, when we fell in love, the proposal. We need to get our facts straight so we don't contradict each other."

"Right. Facts." I pull my knees to my chest. "About our fake relationship that's maybe not entirely fake anymore but we haven't really discussed what that means."

"Isla—"

"No, it's fine. Let's do this. Let's figure out our story."

He reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. "Last night was real. Whatever we tell them today, whatever story we construct—last night was real. You know that, right?"

"Do I?"

"Yes. Because I'm telling you. I don't know what this is or where it's going, but last night wasn't a performance. It was—"

"Terrifying?"

"I was going to say 'honest.' But terrifying works too."

Despite everything, I smile. "Okay. So last night was real. Today is... what?"

"Today is us telling a version of the truth that protects what's actually happening between us while satisfying public curiosity."

"You make it sound so romantic."

"I'm working on it."

By ten-thirty, we're both showered, dressed, and sitting at the kitchen island with coffee, rehearsing our story like actors preparing for a performance.

"How did we meet?" Adrian asks, tablet open to the notes he's been making.

"Through Sophie. Seven years ago, Thanksgiving break."

"When did we reconnect?"

"After her funeral. You reached out to check on me."

"When did friendship turn romantic?"

I hesitate. "What do we say? Six months ago? After your mother already accused us of that timeline?"

"We stick with what I told the press at the gala. We've been together privately for six months. We can say we initially kept it quiet out of respect for Sophie's memory and our grief."

"That feels manipulative."

"It's strategic. And it's partly true—we have been processing Sophie's death together."

"By pretending to be engaged so I can get my inheritance."

"Isla."

"I'm just saying. This is getting really complicated really fast."

He sets down his tablet, turning to face me fully. "Do you want to call it off? The interview, the arrangement, all of it? Because we can. I'll release a statement saying we mutually decided to end the engagement. You won't get your inheritance, but you won't have to go through with this either."

"And you won't get your positive PR."

"I don't care about the PR. I care about—" He stops, jaw working. "I care about you being comfortable. If this is too much—"

"It's not too much. I'm just..." I take a breath. "I'm struggling with where the performance ends and reality begins. Last night felt real. This morning felt real. But now we're sitting here constructing a fiction to tell reporters, and I don't know which version of us is true anymore."

"Maybe they both are."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Doesn't it? We did reconnect after Sophie's funeral. We have been processing grief together. There is something real happening between us." He reaches for my hand. "The timeline might be compressed, and the initial motivation might have been practical, but the feelings aren't fake. At least not for me."

"Not for me either," I admit quietly.

"Then let's tell a story that's true enough. We fell in love while grieving Sophie. We got engaged faster than conventional wisdom would recommend because life is short and we didn't want to waste time. The inheritance clause? We can acknowledge it if asked, but frame it as fortunate timing, not the primary motivation."

"You've really thought this through."

"I had three hours and a lot of anxiety."

"That's the most relatable thing you've ever said."

He almost smiles. "Come on. Let's finish prepping. And Isla? When they ask about how I proposed, just follow my lead."

"Why? What are you going to say?"

"Something true."

The journalist arrives at eleven sharp—a woman named Miranda Chen with sharp eyes and a recording device that makes me instantly nervous. She's accompanied by a photographer who immediately starts setting up lights and reflectors, transforming Adrian's living room into a makeshift studio.

"Thank you so much for doing this," Miranda says, shaking our hands. "Manhattan readers are obsessed with your engagement. The mysterious billionaire and the girl next door—it's a modern fairy tale."

I resist the urge to correct her. Girl next door implies I'm not lying through my teeth.

We sit on the couch—the same couch where we kissed last night—and Adrian's hand finds mine automatically. It's such a natural gesture that I almost believe it myself.

"So," Miranda begins, recording device between us. "Let's start at the beginning. How did you two meet?"

"Through my sister," Adrian says smoothly. "Sophie and Isla were best friends in college. Isla came home with her for Thanksgiving one year, and we met then."

"Love at first sight?"

"More like mutual annoyance," I say, and Adrian's surprised laugh is genuine. "We argued about labor practices in the hospitality industry for most of dinner."

"Isla called my business model 'ethically questionable,'" Adrian adds.

"It was! You were paying housekeepers minimum wage while charging guests eight hundred dollars a night."

"I've since adjusted our compensation structure."

"Because I was right."

Miranda is grinning. "So not love at first sight. When did that change?"

Adrian's hand tightens on mine. "Honestly? I think I was attracted to her from that first dinner. But she was Sophie's friend, too young, completely off-limits. So I kept my distance."

"For seven years," I add.

"For seven years," he confirms. "And then Sophie died, and everything changed."

The room goes quiet for a moment, respectful of grief.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Miranda says. "That must have been devastating for both of you."

"It was," I say quietly. "Sophie was my best friend. Losing her felt like losing a piece of myself."

"We started talking more after the funeral," Adrian continues. "Checking in on each other, sharing memories. We were both drowning in grief, and somehow, being together made it easier to breathe."

"When did you realize it was more than friendship?"

I look at Adrian, genuinely curious about his answer.

"There wasn't one specific moment," he says. "It was gradual. A conversation that went on too long. A text that made me smile in the middle of a terrible day. The realization that she was the first person I wanted to talk to when something happened." He looks at me, and his expression is so genuine it makes my chest ache. "One day I looked at her and thought, 'I don't want to keep pretending I don't feel this way.'"

"And you, Isla?" Miranda asks. "When did you know?"

"Honestly? I think I've been half in love with Adrian for years. But I didn't let myself acknowledge it because it felt like a betrayal—of Sophie, of our friendship, of the boundaries we'd established." I take a breath. "After she died, those boundaries stopped making sense. Life is too short to deny what you feel."

It's not entirely true. But it's not entirely false either.

"How did Adrian propose?" Miranda leans forward, excited for this part.

Adrian meets my eyes, and something passes between us—a silent question and answer.

"I didn't plan it," he says. "We were at Isla's grandmother's will reading, and I saw how devastated she was. Not just about the loss, but about the stipulation in the will requiring her to marry within six months."

Miranda's eyes light up. "The inheritance clause—people have been speculating about that."

"Yes. It's real. And it's archaic and frustrating and put Isla in an impossible position." Adrian's voice carries real anger. "I watched her try to hold it together in that conference room, and I thought about how much she'd already lost. Her parents young, her grandmother, Sophie. And now potentially her inheritance too—her grandmother's house, the only real home she'd ever known."

"And you wanted to help," Miranda says.

"I wanted to fix it. Which is very typical of me—trying to solve problems instead of processing emotions." He squeezes my hand. "So I offered her a solution. A marriage of convenience, essentially. Very unromantic."

"But I said yes," I add. "Because I was desperate and he was offering a lifeline."

"That doesn't sound like a fairy tale," Miranda observes.

"It's not," Adrian says. "It's something better. It's real. We entered into this arrangement for practical reasons, but somewhere along the way, something shifted. The convenience became real. The pretending became truth."

"So the proposal was..."

"A business arrangement that turned into something more," I finish. "We started as fake, and became real without either of us quite noticing when it happened."

Miranda is scribbling notes furiously. "That's incredibly honest. Most couples in your position would hide the transactional origin."

"We're not most couples," Adrian says simply.

The photographer asks us to move around the apartment for different shots—by the windows, in the kitchen, on the terrace. Adrian's hand stays on my lower back or intertwined with mine, and I can't tell anymore what's for the cameras and what's just us.

"One more question," Miranda says as we're wrapping up. "Adrian, you've always been intensely private. Why agree to this interview?"

"Because hiding doesn't work anymore. Because Isla deserves to have her story told accurately, not whatever narrative the gossip columns create. And because..." He pauses, looking at me. "Because I'm tired of living in the shadows. Sophie used to say I was afraid to be seen. She was right. But Isla makes me want to try."

My throat tightens.

"Beautiful," Miranda says, clearly satisfied. "This is going to be a wonderful piece. It should run in next month's issue."

After they leave, Adrian and I stand in his living room—our living room—surrounded by the evidence of our performance. Moved furniture, discarded light reflectors, the lingering presence of scrutiny.

"That was exhausting," I say.

"You were perfect."

"I was acting."

"Were you?" He moves closer, his hands finding my waist. "Because from where I was sitting, you were being honest. Telling our story—the real one, just slightly repackaged."

"Is there a difference?"

"I'm starting to think there isn't."

He leans down, and I think he's going to kiss me again, but his phone buzzes insistently.

"Ignore it," I murmur.

"I can't. It's the Tokyo investors. I need to take this."

"Of course you do."

He hesitates, torn between business and whatever this is between us. "Tonight. We'll talk tonight. Really talk. Figure out what we're doing."

"Okay."

"Okay."

He disappears into his office, and I'm left standing in the living room, wondering which version of us is real.

The couple who told their story to Manhattan Magazine?

Or the two people who kissed on this couch and admitted they were falling?

Maybe Adrian is right.

Maybe they're both true.

Maybe that's what makes this so terrifying.