Episode 5
1236 Words
From the moment stepped out of the limo and into the elegance of the Blackwell estate, she knew this was not she has been used to.
It was too much.
The mansion was a cathedral of wealth: all modern lines, towering glass walls, marble paths flanked by live orchids, and a private lake shimmering like liquid sapphire in the distance. Staff buzzed around discreetly like they’d been trained by MI6—efficient, invisible, and terrifyingly observant.
Lucien, of course, barely noticed her reaction.
He walked ahead, suit perfect, jaw locked, eyes hidden behind designer sunglasses like he was immune to sunlight and sentiment alike.
“Try to keep up, Miss Vale. You walk like someone who hasn’t worn heels since 2012.”
She wanted to throw one of those heels at the back of his annoyingly perfect head.
But she didn’t.
Because she had a daughter to protect.
And because she’d agreed to this fake engagement.
And because she needed the money.
“Sorry,” she said coolly, catching up to him on the stone steps. “I forgot I was auditioning for ‘Real Housewives of the Rich and Ruthless.’”
He smirked at that—just slightly. “You’ll fit in fine then.”
They entered the house. Or castle. Whatever it was, it wasn’t made for people like her.
Inside, a woman with a clipboard and a sleek bun approached.
“This is Celeste,” Lucien said. “She handles media relations, family coordination, and my schedule. You’ll be working closely with her until the gala.”
“Lovely,” Ariella said tightly, shaking hands with the woman who looked like she hadn’t blinked since birth.
“Let’s get her settled in the East Wing,” Lucien said. “And send Zara’s essentials to the adjoining suite.”
Celeste raised a brow, professional curiosity barely hidden. “You’re keeping the child on-site?”
“She’s part of the package,” he replied with brutal finality.
Ariella bristled. “She has a name.”
“I know.”
He didn’t even look at her when he said it, but the cold dismissal in his voice struck her harder than she wanted to admit.
---
The East Wing was larger than any apartment Ariella had ever lived in. Two bedrooms. A private library. An infinity bath. Silk sheets. An art wall with original Rothkos. Zara’s nursery—replicated down to the nightlight and favorite stuffed fox—was waiting for them like magic.
It unnerved her.
Lucien had told her this would be a partnership, not a prison. But every corner of this place screamed control.
And as she unpacked Zara’s clothes in the pastel-perfect nursery, a small voice piped up behind her.
“Mama?”
She turned. Zara stood at the doorway, holding her stuffed fox, eyes wide with confusion.
“Where’s home?”
Ariella knelt down. “This is home. For now.”
“Will he live here too?”
She hesitated. “He lives here, sweetie. But you and I—this is just for a little while. Like a hotel. Remember?”
Zara nodded, but her little fingers tightened around the fox’s ear. “He looks mad all the time.”
“He’s just… serious,” Ariella said gently, even as her stomach twisted. “But he won’t hurt us. Okay?”
Zara nodded again, trusting her. Believing her.
Ariella hoped to God she was telling the truth.
---
That evening, Lucien summoned her to dinner.
Not a family dinner. Not a casual meal. A power showcase.
The dining room could seat thirty. Tonight it seated five: Lucien, Ariella, his younger half-sister Elara (a twenty-year-old socialite with dangerous eyeliner), his godfather Malcolm North (retired oil tycoon and full-time puppet master), and Evelyn Blackwell—the queen matriarch herself.
Evelyn was everything Ariella had feared: cold, immaculate, and razor-sharp beneath a serene smile.
“Miss Vale,” she said as Ariella entered. “Or do we call you ‘Nova’ now?”
Lucien stiffened beside her.
Ariella froze.
“I—prefer Ariella,” she said carefully.
“yeah,of course you do,” Evelyn replied, sipping her wine like she was completely ignorant of the bombshell she had just dropped. “We are all wearing masks. The trick is knowing when to remove them.”
Lucien interrupted smoothly. “Mother, Ariella has agreed to join me at the Winter Gala as my fiancée. She’ll be staying here until then.”
“Oh,” Evelyn said, lips curling. “How modern.”
Malcolm chuckled. “I like her. Reminds me of Lucien’s father’s second mistress.”
Ariella nearly choked on her water.
Lucien’s hand tightened around his glass.
Elara smirked. “So what’s the story this time, big brother? You fall head over heels with a struggling single mom you met at a café? Very Cinderella of you.”
“It’s none of your business,” Lucien said coolly.
“But it’s in all the tabloids,” Elara countered. “You’ve been on the cover of three gossip sites in 48 hours. Shouldn’t we be briefed on our new PR narrative?”
Ariella’s cheeks burned. She wasn’t supposed to speak. She was supposed to sit there, smile, and let them eviscerate her like she was another temporary press distraction.
But she’d promised herself—never again.
So she cleared her throat and met Elara’s eyes.
“No narrative. No script. I’m not here for you,i don't care if I impress you or if you like me. I’m here because your brother asked for something only I could give. Stability. Discretion. And a child who makes him look like less of a machine.”
Silence.
Lucien slowly turned to look at her, eyes unreadable.
Then Elara laughed. “Okay, Nova. I’ll admit it. You’ve got spine.”
“I’ve got a daughter,” Ariella said. “Spine comes with the territory.”
Evelyn stared at her again, this time a more intensely.
“Let’s see how long this will go on.”
---
That night, Ariella stood by the balcony of her suite, watching the stars give it's light to the estate lake. The night was quiet, too quiet. Like a storm was circling but hadn’t broken yet.
She didn’t hear Lucien approach until his reflection appeared in the window.
“You handled yourself well.”
She didn’t turn. “Did I pass the test, Mr. Blackwell?”
He stood beside her. Close enough to touch. But distant as ever.
“They were probing for weakness. You didn’t flinch.”
She sipped her wine. “I’ve been through worse.”
“I know.”
Something in his voice cracked just slightly.
She looked at him. For a moment, they weren’t enemies. Not puppets in a game. Just two exhausted people on opposite ends of a lie.
“She’s yours, you know,” she said suddenly.
Lucien froze. “What?”
“Zara. She’s yours in their eyes. In the media’s eyes. So you should start acting like it. She sees everything.”
He looked away. “I never asked for this.”
“No,” she whispered. “But you signed the contract.”
He didn’t respond.
She walked past him, wine glass in hand, pulse roaring in her ears.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees.
Inside, a billionaire and a liar stood in silence, tangled in a game neither of them could win.
- Writer
