Beautiful deception

Chloe’sPov

CHAPTER ONE

Chloe’s pov

The smell of wet dog and desperation is oddly comforting.

I ran a sponge over a stainless-steel feeding bowl, but my mind was stuck on the number in my bank account. It was a number so pathetic, it looked like a typo: $1,487.32. That wouldn't even cover the antibiotics we used last week, let alone the rent due in three days.

"Come on, Patches, focus!" I muttered, more to myself than the actual dog.

Patches, my small, three-legged terrier, was currently attempting to steal a sock from the laundry basket with the single-minded focus of a billionaire closing a merger. He didn’t care about spreadsheets or eviction notices. He cared about fabric theft. I envied him that.

The Hope Haven Animal Shelter wasn't fancy. It was a glorious mess of chipped paint, mismatched furniture, and enough life to power a small city. We took in the broken, the discarded, and the weird—the three-legged, the one-eyed, the perpetually grumpy. And right now, we were as broken as the animals we rescued.

I wiped a stray tear of sweat and grime from my cheek. I was an honest-to-god grown-up, and yet the only thing keeping a dozen animals off the street was a series of increasingly frantic GoFundMe posts.

"We need a miracle, fellas," I told the three new kittens huddled in a carrier. They blinked their huge, trusting eyes back at me. "A big one. Maybe a secret Saudi prince who loves chihuahuas."

Ring. Ring.

The shelter phone, an old rotary relic I kept for dramatic effect, chose that moment to shriek. It was probably Brenda from the city office calling to remind me that the zoning violation fine had doubled. Again.

I snatched the phone. "Hope Haven, Chloe speaking—please don’t tell me the septic tank backed up again."

The voice on the other end was clipped, professional, and utterly devoid of humor.

"Ms. Baker. This is Mark Hanson from Focus-Flow's legal department. I'm calling to confirm Mr. Hayes' arrival time."

My hand froze, the sponge dripping soapy water onto the concrete floor. Hayes.

Not just a Hayes. Julian Hayes.

"Arrival time?" I repeated, my voice squeaking slightly. "Look, I think you have the wrong number. Focus-Flow deals with, like, advanced scheduling software, not... parakeets."

"Mr. Hayes will be arriving in thirty minutes. Please ensure the area is accessible for his security detail." The voice paused, the disapproval palpable. "And, Ms. Baker, try not to get any... animal hair on his suit. That suit costs more than your annual operating budget."

He hung up before I could manage an indignant, messy retort.

I stood paralyzed for a full minute, staring at the phone. Julian Hayes, the man who patented efficiency and built a billion-dollar empire out of perfect schedules, was coming here.

My childhood best friend. The boy who’d once dumped an entire box of LEGOs into my flower bed because he thought I needed "creative spontaneity." The one I hadn't seen in person since his company went public five years ago—and the one who, ten years ago, had executed a kiss with all the precision of a missile launch and then spent a decade pretending it never happened.

Why? Why would the Billionaire CEO of Focus-Flow come to my dingy, debt-ridden shelter?

I looked down at myself. I was wearing patched overalls, a t-shirt with a faded picture of a cat, and—I smelled faintly of dog shampoo and desperation. My hair was tied up with a purple rubber band, and I was pretty sure there was glitter glue on my elbow from the arts-and-crafts fundraiser.

I glanced around the chaos—the scattered toys, the half-eaten bag of kibble, the rescue parrot squawking political opinions. No amount of wiping could fix this.

"Alright, everyone!" I clapped my hands, rousing a chorus of barks and meows. "Code Red! Operation: Look Slightly Less Bankrupt is a go! Patches, stop chewing on that ottoman!"

Thirty minutes felt like thirty seconds. I managed to shove the worst of the mess into a closet and sweep the main aisle. I even tried to fluff up a tattered couch cushion. It just looked deflated and resigned, like me.

A deep, reverberating rumble outside announced his arrival. Not a car—a motorcade. I saw a fleet of glossy black SUVs pull up, reflecting the afternoon sun off their immaculate surface. The contrast between that sleek precision and the grime of my lot was stark, almost comical.

The rear door of the central SUV opened.

And then there he was.

Julian Hayes.

He was a monument to wealth and control. His suit was a dark, bespoke nightmare, cut so perfectly it looked like it was molded from liquid moonlight. His dark hair was meticulously styled, his expression a mask of impenetrable calm. He looked exactly like the man whose picture graced the cover of Forbes—a force of nature wrapped in expensive wool.

His eyes, the familiar warm brown I remembered from trading baseball cards, scanned the shelter’s parking lot with clinical distaste.

He took one step out, and then immediately stopped.

A small, three-legged terrier—Patches—trotted out from behind the dumpster, having clearly escaped my brief containment efforts. He saw the expensive, highly-polished Italian leather shoe Julian had just placed on the asphalt.

And he lifted his leg.

My jaw dropped. Julian’s eyes—the ones that had commanded boardrooms and negotiated billion-dollar deals—widened a millimeter in horrified slow motion.

Patches finished his business, shook his tail happily, and gave the CEO a satisfied, three-legged hop.

Before his security detail could even twitch, I launched myself forward, grabbing Patches by the scruff of his neck.

"Julian! I am so sorry!" I panted, holding the dog like a furry, shame-inducing football. "Bad dog! Bad, bad, expensive dog!"

Julian’s controlled mask slipped completely for half a second—a flicker of the exasperated annoyance I remembered from when I’d introduced earthworms into his ant farm when we were eight. Then the mask snapped back into place.

He adjusted his cufflink, carefully stepping over the puddle Patches had left.

"Chloe," he said, his voice the low, precise baritone of a man who measured every syllable. "I assume we can forgo the typical pleasantries." He looked past me, taking in the ramshackle building, the barking, and the general air of hopeful disarray.

"I have a business proposition for you. It's complex, it's confidential, and it's temporary."

He took a step closer, reducing the distance between his million-dollar cologne and my faint scent of dog ear wash.

"It requires a contract, a move to my penthouse, and the complete fabrication of a relationship."

He stared right into my eyes.

"I need you to be my fiancée."."