Pretend To Be Mine

Chapter4

The doors swing open, and for a heartbeat, the world forgets to breathe.

Celeste Monroe steps out of the black limousine like a storm cloaked in satin. At her side, Adrian Blackwood—impossibly composed, jaw set like he’s walking into war instead of a gala. Camera flashes erupt in waves, a thunderous applause of artificial light. Not for the politicians. Not for the billionaires.

For them.

The scandal girl and the hotel tycoon.

The comeback nobody expected and the alliance no one understands.

Celeste steps onto the crimson carpet, not with the timid hesitance of a disgraced pop star, but with the measured poise of someone who knows every eye is on her—and plans to keep it that way. Her silver gown hugs her curves like a secret, shimmering beneath the night sky.

But it’s not the dress that sets social media on fire within seconds. It’s the man at her side.

Adrian Blackwood.

The billionaire hotel tycoon. America’s most eligible bachelor. The man who never brings a date to events—until tonight.

He adjusts the cuff of his tuxedo like he’s tightening control over the moment, his jaw clenched as cameras click and reporters shout his name.

They were about to enter the hall when Celeste’s heel catches the edge of the carpet. She stumbles slightly, and he catches her—not dramatically, but subtly, smoothly, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

The reporters and some fans hanging around erupt in a chorus of *“Awwws.”*

“I told you to wear red,” he murmurs out the side of his lips.

“Silver looks good on me,” she hisses, trying to maintain a smile for the cameras.

“That smile looks fake. Don’t let them notice.”

“Stop complaining, I am smiling.”

“Like you enjoy being next to me.”

Their bodies stay close, synchronized like dancers at the end of a long, angry rehearsal. Each photo snapped captures the illusion they’re selling: chemistry, unity, love.

Celeste subtly slips out of Adrian’s grip after countless photos and walks ahead into the hall, though they remain side by side.

Adrian, thinking it might add flair, places his hand on Celeste’s waist as they move.

“You’re squeezing my waist,” Celeste mutters between gritted teeth, smiling like she’s just accepted a Grammy with grace she doesn’t feel.

“You’re walking too slow.”

“It’s called a graceful entrance, not a hostage parade.”

“You think you are the only one having a hard time?” Adrian snaps back, still flashing a grin at the cameras. “You get sympathy. I get chaos in the boardroom.”

The red carpet stretches before them like a minefield, and they glide across it with the practiced grace of two enemies forced to waltz.

A reporter lunges forward with a mic. “Celeste! What changed? A few weeks ago you were—”

Adrian interrupts smoothly, pulling Celeste closer. “She’s exactly where she’s meant to be,” he says, voice cool and unwavering. “And that’s next to me.”

Click. Flash. Boom. That’s the quote of the night.

The gala itself is a glittering vortex of champagne and subtle sabotage. Celebrities mill around in thousand-dollar outfits, each conversation a competition, each compliment laced with venom.

Celeste barely manages to sip her drink before a whisper slices through the air behind her.

“Isn’t she the one from that… tape?”

The words don’t stab—they slice. Thin, elegant wounds you only notice once they bleed.

Celeste keeps her smile glued in place, her posture flawless, but inside—just for a breath—she’s seventeen again. Hunched on a bathroom floor. Phone in hand. The screen too bright. Her name too loud.

Her chest tightens, the memory pressing in like hands around her throat. She tastes copper and shame.

But only for a second.

Then she blinks, exhales, and the popstar mask snaps back into place—sparkling, untouchable.

Adrian notices her flinch.

“Want me to say something?” he asks, voice low and razor-sharp.

“No,” she says, swallowing hard. “I want to burn this place down with my eyes.”

“Now that’s the girl I signed up for.”

Their eyes meet—only for a second—but something sizzles in the silence. Not trust, not yet. But recognition. A grudging alliance.

Then a tap on Adrian’s shoulder rips the moment apart.

“Adrian! There you are!” Evelyn Sinclair, his ex-fiancée, appears in a cloud of designer perfume and calculated innocence. Her gown is crimson, like a warning.

Adrian shifts, avoiding eye contact.

Celeste’s grip on her champagne glass tightens.

“Evelyn,” Adrian says, deadpan.

“Oh, you must be Celeste,” Evelyn coos, her smile bright but her eyes cold. “You look… brave.”

“Thanks,” Celeste replies, her voice sugar-sweet.

“You look like a desperate woman playing dress-up.”

Adrian nearly chokes on his wine.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a butter knife—and every photographer nearby captures it all.

Hours later, as the event winds down and guests begin to trickle out, the headlines are already brewing.

**“Celeste Monroe: From p**n Star to Power Player.”**

**“Blackwood’s Beauty: The Comeback of the Year?”**

**“Evelyn, Who?”**

“Who is she?” The question pierces Adrian’s ears as he settles into the limousine beside Celeste.

Adrian bluffs. “What are you, a jealous girlfriend? Remember, all of this is fake… right?”

Celeste rolls her eyes. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t want her seen on camera with you. We’re playing a game here.”

“So, who is she?”

“One of your fans, probably,” he mutters, tugging off his bow tie.

“No, those security men wouldn’t have let her that close if she were just a fan. You know who she is.”

Adrian groans in annoyance. “For God’s sake, can we not do this right now?”

Celeste scoffs. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” She raises her purse in midair, threatening to hit Adrian—but freezes.

Adrian doesn’t flinch.

They glare at each other in the flickering city lights, tension thrumming between them like an electric wire stretched too thin. But neither of them looks away.

“You were good tonight,” Adrian finally says, begrudgingly.

“You weren’t terrible yourself,” she mutters, slowly lowering her purse.

He shrugs. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

She smirks and says, “Don’t worry, my ego can handle it.”

It’s the closest they’ve come to a truce.

Far above the city, inside a penthouse suite dripping with opulence, Vanessa Hart watches the entire gala unfold on a massive flatscreen. Her hair is wrapped in a silk scarf, her feet tucked beneath her velvet robe, but her aura radiates fury.

The room smells like imported roses and expensive disappointment.

“I wasn’t invited,” she chuckles bitterly.

She turns to her PA. “Jumbo, tell me why I wasn’t invited.”

Her personal assistant bows before replying, “Ma’am, I heard that only top musicians, actors, and other elite people were invited.”

Vanessa throws the remote at Jumbo. “And who exactly told you that nonsense?”

The remote misses him but hits the couch, messing with the buttons and increasing the television volume.

“Celeste Monroe, popularly known as Cellie, or by her full name, appeared at the gala with her fiancé,” a male voice blares from the television.

Vanessa turns back to the screen.

“Of course, she was invited,” she growls.

“Celeste Monroe doesn’t appear to be a trashy superstar,” a reporter says. “Because if she really is, then why would a billionaire like Adrian Blackwood want her?”

Another reporter agrees. “Exactly. That leaked tape looks old. I believe she should jail whoever intruded on her privacy. It’s a private video—it wasn’t meant for the media.”

The television displays a freeze-frame of Celeste and Adrian—smiling, glowing, victorious.

Vanessa clenches the stem of her wine glass so hard her knuckles turn pale.

“She’s hijacking everything,” she whispers, venom dripping from every word. “The narrative. The spotlight. Him.”

She presses her lips to the glass, letting the wine coat her tongue, but it does nothing to smother the bitterness building inside her.

Celeste Monroe. The nobody who stumbled into fame. The girl whose scandal should’ve sunk her career. Now parading around like royalty.

Not on her watch.

Vanessa taps her manicured nails against the glass table beside her. Her phone lies there, screen dark, waiting. She picks it up slowly, with the care of someone about to detonate a bomb.

A long pause. Then, with chilling calmness, she dials.

When the voice on the other end picks up, Vanessa smiles—but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Put me on to Noah Graves,” she says smoothly. “It’s time to ruin a fairy tale.”