My Billionaire Fiancé Is A Lie

We are too far in now, Monroe!

Leila's POV

I dropped the bag to the marble floor. It hit with a dull thud, louder than expected, and all eyes turned—though they'd already been looking.

Judging. Laughing. Whispering.

I gathered the hem of the long gown with both hands and fled.

The long hallway blurred. Gold chandeliers and red velvet carpets, the sounds of murmuring guests and clinking glasses—all melted away into a single hum in my ears. The tears I'd been holding in all evening broke free the moment the grand double doors shut behind me.

Cool night air slapped my cheeks, icy and cutting. I kept running. My heels clicked like gunshots on the stone path, echoing through the front courtyard. The Maybach and valet attendants faded behind me.

"Leila! Miss Monroe!"

A voice cut through the night like a blade.

Paparazzi. One had recognized me.

I turned just in time to see camera flashes explode in the dark. They were running after me now—my name rolling off their tongues like something scandalous, something dirty.

My chest rose and fell in panic. I spotted a yellow cab at the far end of the street. I bolted, dress flying behind me like a cape. I yanked the door open and flung myself inside.

"Drive. Please, just drive!" I gasped, slamming the door shut behind me.

The driver blinked. "Where to? We need to agree on pri—"

"Drive!" I yelled, spinning around. The swarm of photographers was closing in. "I'll pay anything. Brooklyn. Bedford-Stuyvesant. I'll give you the address, just go!"

With a curse under his breath, he hit the gas. The tires screeched as we peeled away from the curb, camera flashes bouncing off the back window. My heart didn't slow down until the skyline of Manhattan began fading behind us.

I sagged into the backseat and finally let go.

Tears soaked the corners of my eyes again, hot and bitter. The weight of that woman's voice, the shock of Luca's silence, and the way the crowd had recoiled from me as if I were toxic. I hadn't even seen the damn jewelry before she pulled it out of my bag like some magician at a street fair.

That b***h. Alexis Millers.

Her name rolled in my head like bile.

And Luca. God, Luca.

He stood there and watched it happen. Didn't raise his voice. Didn't throw a fit. Just stood like he believed I was truly capable of stealing it.

When the cab finally stopped in front of Zara's place, I paid him with shaky hands and bolted inside. I didn't knock. I didn't need to.

Zara was pacing in her tiny living room, phone in hand, dressed in oversized sweats and a silk scarf tied like a queen's crown.

"There you are!" she snapped, pointing her phone at me. "You're trending."

I closed the door, slumped against it, chest still heaving. "Please don't."

"Oh honey..." She rushed over and pulled me into a hug. "You smell expensive. What the hell happened?"

"I don't even know where to start," I whispered, voice cracking.

I glanced toward the couch. Kellan was curled under the blanket, fast asleep. I couldn't wake him. Not tonight.

Zara led me to the kitchen, sat me down, and pressed a glass of something cool in my hand. It smelled like cheap vodka. "Now talk."

So I told her. Everything. From Luca clapping for his glam team, to the red-dressed demon queen accusing me of theft in front of everyone. I told her about the cameras, the ring, the applause, the humiliation. My voice cracked somewhere in between, and before I knew it, I was sobbing into her couch cushions like the world had ended.

"Breathe," she kept whispering. "Breathe, Leila."

"I'm not a thief," I whispered. "I may be broke, but I'm not trash."

"You're not," she said, grabbing a tissue and dabbing my face. "But they sure tried to make you feel like one, huh?"

I looked up, mascara streaking down my cheeks. "Do you think Luca believes I did it?"

She paused. Her mouth opened, then closed. "Honestly? I don't think he believes it. But I also don't think he did enough to show the world he didn't. And that's the damn problem."

I nodded slowly, eyes falling back to the untouched tea.

The memory of the way he looked at me—surprised, confused, then unreadable—burned hotter than anything else.

He let her walk all over me.

And he did nothing.

Not in that moment.

Not for me.

Zara picked up her phone again. "They're calling you a gold-digging klepto from Brooklyn on Twitter. And Reddit's going mad about whether or not your ring is real."

I snorted through my tears. "Great."

"Babe," Zara leaned down to me, voice soft but fierce, "you have two options. You could let this crush you. Or you could wear that damn ring again tomorrow and walk into his office like you own the building."

I blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. You're his fiancée now, right? You might not have money, but what you do have is presence. You just don't know it yet."

I looked down at my hand. The ring was gone—I'd yanked it off in the cab and thrown it into my purse. But her words stuck.

Zara leaned back and crossed her arms. "Time to show them you're not the girl to be messed with. Not Alexis. Not Luca. Not the damn internet."

I swallowed hard.

Maybe she was right. Maybe the only way to survive in his world was to stop running from it.

Because if I didn't take back control of the story now, I'd always be the girl who was accused.

And never the woman who made them regret it.

__

The knock came just after 8 a.m.

I was still in Zara's hoodie, curled on her faded couch, clutching a mug of coffee I hadn't sipped. My eyes were puffy from a night of crying and Twitter doomscrolling. Zara had left early to run errands, leaving me and Kellan in the cramped apartment.

When the knock came again—three firm, calculated raps—I knew.

I didn't have to peek through the blinds.

I knew it was him.

I moved slowly, every step heavy. My bare feet padded across the creaky wooden floor as I opened the door just enough to see the man on the other side.

Luca Julian Anderson.

In a black tailored coat, shirt undone at the top like he hadn't slept, hands in his pockets like he wasn't standing in a neighborhood that cost less than the watch on his wrist. His eyes met mine—intense, unreadable. The same ones that watched me crumble in public last night.

"I need to speak with you," he said.

I didn't move.

He didn't ask out of courtesy. He asked because he assumed the answer was yes. That's the kind of man Luca Anderson was.

I stepped aside wordlessly.

He entered like the place was foreign territory—eyes grazing over the tiny couch, the stack of unpaid bills on the table, the crooked wall art Zara got from a flea market. He didn't sneer or flinch. He just absorbed it.

"You didn't have to come here," I muttered.

He turned to me. His gaze wasn't soft. It wasn't apologetic. Just sharp. Focused. I hated that I still felt small beneath it.

"You left before the situation could be handled," he said. "I need to know you're not about to spiral."

I scoffed. "You mean embarrass you any further?"

"I mean lose control of the narrative," he replied crisply. "We're too far in now, Monroe."

"Don't call me that like we're coworkers. You're the reason I had a room full of billionaires thinking I was a damn thief."

"She wasn't on the guest list. And I didn't expect her to plant the jewelry in your bag, Leila."

"Thanks for the clarification," I said, stepping toward him. "Because when I was being accused like some two-bit thief, you stood there. You looked at me like you weren't sure."

"I never doubted you."

"You never defended me."

His silence cut deeper than the accusation. He looked down, as if the truth stung him more than I expected.

"I was processing," he finally said.

"Oh, how convenient. Meanwhile, the entire internet thinks I'm some crook from the slums who got lucky marrying rich."

His eyes narrowed. "You're not marrying rich. You're marrying me."

"For a lie."

"Do you think I care what the tabloids say?" he continued. "Do you think I care about your pride?"

I folded my arms. "Clearly not."

"I care about my deal with Marcus Everleigh. We didn't even get to speak to him last night because you ran. He left five minutes after you did. And if that investor walks, everything we're building with that Global holdings collapses."

There it was.

The real reason for this visit.

Not me.

Not the ring still burning a hole through my pocket.

Business.

Cold. Practical. Luca.

"Which brings me to why I'm here," he said, pulling a crisp envelope from his coat and tossing it onto the table like it might burn him. "We're having dinner with Marcus Everleigh tonight. 8:30. Midtown. He wants to meet the woman who caused such a stir."

I stared at the envelope. "He thinks I'm a thief."

"He thinks you're a wildcard. Which can still be used to our advantage."

I blinked. "You want me to put on another dress and play pretend like last night didn't happen?"

"I want you to play your part," he said, cool and unflinching. "Fix what you broke. Salvage the image. This isn't about emotions, Leila. This is about business."

"And if I quit?!"

"You can't." He took some steps towards me till his towering heights made me look so small.

"You signed the contract, you are mine till it expires." He raised my jaw so I could look him in the eye while he intimidated me.

My face flushed. Shame, fury, confusion—all clashing in my chest.

He straightened his cuffs. "Wear something that makes them look twice, but not long enough to underestimate you."

"And if Alexis shows up again?" I asked bitterly. "Do I hand her my bag at the door this time?"

His eyes darkened slightly. "She won't."

That was all he said about her. No warmth. No guarantee. No promises. Just assurance in the form of command.

Then he turned and walked toward the door.

"Oh, and Leila?" he said, pausing.

I looked up.

"Don't be late."

The door clicked shut behind him.

And just like that, I was back in the game.

Not because I wanted to be.

Because I didn't have a damn choice.