THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

CHAPTER 13: NEW RULES

POV : Isla

The coffee shop on Fifth and Sixty-Third is aggressively mediocre—the kind of place that serves burnt coffee and stale pastries to tourists who don't know better.

Perfect for my brother.

James is already there when Adrian and I arrive, slouched in a corner booth with a coffee that looks like it's been sitting for hours. He's gained weight since I last saw him, face puffy with the telltale signs of too much alcohol. His suit is expensive but wrinkled, like he slept in it.

He looks up as we approach, and his eyes narrow when he sees Adrian.

"I said come alone," he says.

"And I said no." I slide into the booth across from him, Adrian beside me. His hand finds mine under the table, steady and grounding. "Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of both of us."

James's smile is unpleasant. "Suit yourself. Though I'm not sure Mr. Blackwell here wants his dirty laundry aired in front of his fake fiancée."

"There's nothing fake about our engagement," Adrian says coldly.

"Really? Because my sources say otherwise." James pulls out his phone, scrolling through something. "See, I got curious after Grandmother's will reading. Thought it was suspicious that you two suddenly got engaged right when Isla needed a husband. So I did some digging."

My stomach drops. "What kind of digging?"

"The expensive kind. Private investigator, records searches, interviews with people who work at that fancy law firm where you signed your little arrangement." He looks up, smug. "Imagine my surprise when I found out about your contract. Your fake engagement agreement. Complete with terms, conditions, and an expiration date."

Shit.

Adrian's hand tightens on mine, but his expression doesn't change. "I don't know what you think you found—"

"Oh, I know exactly what I found. A marriage of convenience. Isla gets her inheritance, you get positive PR and a way to look less like a heartless bastard after your sister died. Very transactional. Very not a real engagement."

"What do you want, James?" I ask, keeping my voice steady even though my heart is racing.

"What do I want? I want what's fair. Grandmother left everything to you—the house, the money, all of it. I'm her grandson too, but because I had the audacity to disagree with her precious choices, I get nothing."

"You stole from her," I say flatly. "You took money out of her accounts to fund your failed businesses. She cut you off because you were using her."

"I was borrowing—"

"You were stealing. And now you're trying to blackmail me because you're desperate and out of options."

His expression hardens. "Call it what you want. Here's the deal: you give me half the inheritance, or I go to the press with proof that your engagement is a sham. You'll lose everything—the money, the house, your precious reputation. And Mr. Blackwell here? His fake marriage scheme will be front-page news. Think about what that does to his business, his board's confidence, his family's name."

I look at Adrian, trying to read his expression. He's perfectly calm, perfectly controlled, but I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw.

"No," Adrian says simply.

James blinks. "Excuse me?"

"No. We're not giving you anything."

"Then I go to the press—"

"Go ahead." Adrian leans back, casual, like we're discussing the weather. "Release whatever you think you have. We'll deal with the consequences."

"Adrian—" I start, but he squeezes my hand.

"Your so-called evidence," Adrian continues, "is inadmissible in court. Attorney-client privilege protects any documentation from the law firm. Your private investigator—if you even hired one—committed multiple violations to obtain whatever information he claims to have. And even if you somehow get this story published, all it proves is that our engagement began as a practical arrangement. Which we've never denied."

"You've never admitted it either—"

"We did. To Manhattan Magazine, in an interview that runs next week. We were completely honest about the inheritance clause and the practical origins of our relationship. The story is that we started as convenience and became real. Very romantic, actually. The readers loved it."

I stare at Adrian, realization dawning. He planned for this. He knew someone might try to expose us, so he controlled the narrative first.

James's confident expression falters. "You're bluffing."

"Call the magazine if you don't believe me. Ask for Miranda Chen. She'll confirm we gave her exclusive rights to our story." Adrian stands, pulling me up with him. "Now, if you're done attempting extortion—which, by the way, is a felony—we'll be going."

"You can't just—"

"We can. And we are. Isla owes you nothing. Her grandmother left her that inheritance for a reason. If you have a problem with the will, contest it legally. But if you try to blackmail us again, I'll have you arrested so fast you won't know what hit you."

Adrian's voice is ice, and I've never found him more attractive than in this moment—defending me, protecting what we're building, refusing to let my brother's desperation destroy us.

We walk out of the coffee shop, leaving James gaping behind us.

"Oh my God," I breathe when we're on the sidewalk. "Did you really tell Manhattan Magazine the truth?"

"Most of it. I called Miranda after you went to bed last night and clarified a few things. Gave her additional context about the inheritance clause and the practical beginnings. She was thrilled—said it made the story more authentic."

"You stayed up all night dealing with this?"

"I stayed up all night making sure your brother couldn't hurt you."

I stop walking and pull him into a kiss right there on Fifth Avenue, not caring who sees.

When we break apart, he's smiling—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his whole face.

"Thank you," I say.

"Always."

We start walking again, and reality slowly settles back in.

"So the magazine article is going to say our engagement started as fake," I say.

"As practical. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Fake implies deception. Practical implies a mutually beneficial arrangement that evolved into something real."

"Which is what happened."

"Which is what happened," he agrees.

We walk in silence for a block, both processing.

"Adrian?" I venture. "What are we doing? Really?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, we told the magazine we're real. We told James we're real. But we haven't actually talked about what 'real' means. Are we dating? Are we still fake-engaged but also dating? Are we actually getting married? What are the rules now?"

He stops, turning to face me. "I think we need new rules."

"Okay. Like what?"

"Like no more separate bedrooms. Not after last night. I can't go back to lying alone knowing you're down the hall."

My heart stutters. "You want me to move into your room?"

"I want us to stop pretending there are boundaries we're actually respecting. We're together, Isla. Actually together. Which means sharing space, sharing a bed, sharing a life."

"That's a big step."

"We're already living together. We're already engaged, fake or not. This is just admitting what's actually happening."

"What about when this arrangement ends? When I get my inheritance?"

He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is careful. "What if it doesn't end?"

"What?"

"The arrangement. What if we don't end it? What if we actually get married?"

My brain short-circuits. "You want to marry me? For real?"

"I'm already marrying you. We just haven't set a date yet."

"Adrian, that's not—we agreed this was temporary—"

"We agreed a lot of things that aren't true anymore. We agreed to separate bedrooms. We agreed no physical intimacy beyond public appearances. We agreed this was just business. All of those agreements are meaningless now because we fell for each other."

"I haven't agreed to actually marry you."

"Haven't you? You're wearing my ring. You're living in my home. You're building a life with me. The only difference between what we're doing now and an actual marriage is a piece of paper and a ceremony."

"That's a pretty big difference!"

"Is it? Or is it just semantics?"

We're standing in the middle of Fifth Avenue having this conversation, and I'm vaguely aware that people are staring, but I can't seem to care.

"I can't believe you're proposing to me for real in the middle of a sidewalk after we just dealt with my blackmailing brother."

"I'm not proposing. I proposed weeks ago. I'm just suggesting we stop pretending it was fake."

"That's the same thing!"

"Is it?"

"Adrian—"

"Isla." He takes both my hands, and his gray eyes are intense. "I love you. I'm in love with you. I want to marry you, not because of an inheritance clause or a business arrangement, but because I can't imagine my life without you in it. So yes, I'm suggesting we take the fake engagement we created and make it real. Is that so crazy?"

"Yes! It's completely crazy! We've been actually dating for like three days!"

"We've been living together for weeks. We've known each other for seven years."

"Most of which we barely spoke!"

"And yet I've been falling for you the entire time."

I stare at him, overwhelmed and terrified and maybe, just maybe, feeling the same way.

"I need time," I say finally. "To think about this. To process. You can't just drop 'let's get actually married' on me in the middle of the street and expect an immediate answer."

"Fair enough."

"But I will move into your room."

His expression shifts, hope flickering across his features. "You will?"

"Yes. Because you're right—the separate bedrooms were a fiction we were using to protect ourselves. And I'm tired of protecting myself from you."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I snore, and I steal covers, and I'm definitely not a morning person."

"I know all of that already. Your walls are thin."

"Creepy."

"Observant."

We start walking again, heading back toward his building—our building?—and I'm trying to wrap my head around everything that just happened.

My brother tried to blackmail us.

Adrian neutralized the threat by telling the truth.

And then he essentially proposed. For real.

"New rules," I say suddenly. "If we're doing this—actually doing this—we need new rules."

"Okay. What kind of rules?"

"Rule one: honesty. No more hiding what we feel because we're scared. If something's bothering you, you tell me. If I'm overwhelming you, you say so without making me feel like I'm too much."

"Agreed. Rule two: no more sabotage. When we're scared, we talk about it instead of picking fights or pushing each other away."

"Rule three: we acknowledge that this is terrifying and we're both disasters who have no idea what we're doing."

"Rule four: we figure it out together instead of alone."

"Rule five: shared bedroom means equal closet space. I've seen your wardrobe, Blackwell. You have enough suits to clothe a small army."

He almost smiles. "Half the closet is yours."

"Half the closet, half the bathroom counter, and you don't get to reorganize my design materials."

"Even when they're spread across every surface?"

"Even then. That's what creativity looks like."

"It looks like chaos."

"Exactly."

We're both smiling now, the tension from earlier dissolving into something lighter.

"Any other rules?" Adrian asks as we enter his building.

"Just one. Rule six: no more fake anything. If we're doing this, we're doing it real. Which means you have to actually tell me you love me occasionally, not just imply it through actions and grand gestures."

"I love you," he says immediately, right there in the lobby, in front of the doorman and two residents waiting for the elevator. "I'm in love with you. I want to build a life with you. Better?"

"Much better."

"Good. Because rule seven: you have to say it back."

We step into the elevator, and I wait until the doors close before I turn to him.

"I love you too," I say quietly. "I'm terrified and overwhelmed and pretty sure we're moving way too fast, but I love you. I think I have for a while."

He kisses me then, soft and sweet, and it feels like a promise.

When we get to the penthouse, the first thing I do is gather my things from the guest room.

"You don't have to move everything today," Adrian says, watching me from the doorway.

"Yes, I do. New rules, remember? No more pretending."

I carry an armful of clothes to his room—our room—and he helps me hang things in the closet, making space for my dresses between his suits, my shoes next to his perfectly organized collection.

It's domestic and intimate and absolutely terrifying.

"Isla?" he says when we're done.

"Yeah?"

"For the record? I'm terrified too."

"Good. At least we're terrified together."

"Together," he echoes, pulling me close. "That's the only rule that really matters."

And standing there in our shared room, surrounded by the evidence of our blended lives, I think he might be right.