My Billionaire Fiancé Is A Lie

It is starting now, your formal intro into my world

Leila's POV

I should've known he'd be smug.

The second I stepped back into that impossibly grand manor, rain still in my hair and doubt still clinging to my chest, Luca Julian Anderson didn't even lift his gaze from the papers on his desk. Just the faintest tilt of his lips, the quiet curl of victory.

Like he'd known I'd come crawling back.

"Changed your mind?" he asked smoothly, signing something with a gold Montblanc pen.

I stayed silent.

He finally looked up and those grey-blue eyes locked onto mine with something between amusement and challenge.

"Good. Sign here," he said, sliding the contract across the glass table toward me. "Initial each clause. Especially the non-disclosure and personal conduct terms. I don't need my fake fiancée embarrassing me."

I bristled. "You're charming, as always."

"And you're broke," he replied with a cool shrug. "So let's not pretend either of us is here for romance."

God, I hated how right he was.

I signed. Each stroke of ink felt like I was selling off little pieces of myself.

And just when I exhaled, when I thought he might dismiss me with a wave, he dropped the next bomb.

"You're coming with me tonight."

I blinked. "To where?"

"A charity gala. But it's not about the cause. There's a man I need to impress. Marcus Everleigh. A billionaire tycoon with global holdings and very old-fashioned values. He made it clear, he won't do business with a man who treats commitment like a joke. So tonight," he stood, buttoning the crisp front of his leather jacket, "you're not just Leila. You're my future wife."

The room tilted. "I, I didn't know this was starting today."

"It's starting now," he replied coolly. "Your formal introduction into my world."

Then he clapped twice.

The double clap echoed once, twice and the door burst open like a storm.

The head butler entered first, stoic, tight-faced, in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than our rent had ever been.

Behind him, five others followed in a blur of motion.

Someone wheeled in an entire gold-rimmed garment rack loaded with designer gowns in shimmering silks, satins, and velvet. Dior. Versace. Elie Saab.

Another carried a towering makeup kit that looked more like a treasure chest.

The third brought tools for hair, curling irons, combs, dryers, brushes, and serums.

The fourth had boxes of heels, stilettos, strappy sandals, and jeweled pumps.

And the last one? A man holding a tray of sparkling accessories like I was about to be auctioned off at Sotheby's.

Luca didn't look at me when he gave the order.

"Make her glamorous."

Then, with terrifying finality, he added,

"Her formal introduction to my world begins tonight."

And walked out.

Silence dropped like a curtain.

The head butler turned to me with a look that said he'd cleaned things cleaner than me off the sidewalk. He eyed me up and down, the thrift-store denim, the uneven ponytail, the $5 lip gloss.

He sniffed, like I was offensive.

"Just don't bleed on the gowns," he muttered with a sneer. "They cost more than your life."

Then he turned on his polished heel and left like he couldn't bear to share air with me.

I stood there, stiff. My throat burned.

And then, without warning, someone shoved a velvet chair behind my knees, and I dropped into it with a surprised little yelp.

The beauty team didn't ask. They didn't smile. They just got to work.

Brushes grazed my skin. Hot irons sizzled. Pins were stabbed and twisted into place. My hair was yanked back, parted, curled, and sprayed.

"She's got good cheekbones," one of them murmured.

"If we bring out the eyes and highlight the cupid's bow, she could almost pass."

Almost!!

Like I wasn't quite good enough.

Mascara. Liner. Highlighter. Lipstick. Something with a French name dabbed across my collarbones.

They didn't speak to me. Just about me.

"Pull the navy slit gown. The one with the backless detail."

"No, not that one. She needs heels that'll fake height. She's barely 5'5"."

"Gold cuff? Good. Cover the wrist tattoo with concealer."

I sat still. Like a mannequin.

Until someone held up the mirror.

And I forgot how to breathe.

She was beautiful.

No, not just beautiful.

She was otherworldly.

Long golden curls tumbling down one bare shoulder. Skin glowing like a candlelit dream. Lips full, painted a soft rose. Eyes sharp, winged, fierce.

Me.

I looked like I belonged at Luca Anderson's side.

And that hurt more than I thought it would.

A tear slipped from the corner of my eye before I could stop it.

The makeup artist gasped dramatically.

"Ah! No, no, no! Not my work! Girl, you cry on this beat and I swear I'll haunt your eyebrows for life."

She dabbed my cheek with a fluffy powder brush and spritzed a final coat of setting spray over my entire face.

"You're a diamond now, babe. Walk like it."

___

The heels on my feet were a size too high, the diamonds on my wrist too cold, and the man beside me too beautiful to make sense. I was ushered out of the manor like royalty, two black-suited guards escorting me through the massive archway, down the marble steps, and into a car I had only ever seen in rap videos.

A Maybach.

Not just any Maybach. The kind that looked dipped in midnight, with tinted windows and gold trim that said, "I don't park—I arrive."

I had barely caught my breath when the front door opened again. Luca stepped out, adjusting his cufflinks, eyes glinting beneath the soft glow of the exterior lights. He looked like every billionaire fantasy twisted into one- navy tuxedo tailored to perfection, hair slicked back just enough, his signature scent already clouding the air around us like a warning. The smell alone could make a nun sin.

He gave out commands like a general heading to war.

"Security detail stays back but visible. Cameras only from the left side, my angles are stronger there. No drinks unless served from our team. Understood?"

Then he saw me.

His voice stopped. So did the movement.

For a second, just one, his eyes widened. A breath, a flash of something unspoken. A gasp that he quickly masked with a cough and a subtle nod.

I pretended not to notice.

He climbed into the car and sat beside me, legs spread, posture lazy but dangerous. Then, from his inside pocket, he pulled out a velvet box.

The ring.

I swear, if I pawned that thing, I could fly Zara, Kellan, and myself to some beach in Belize, never look back, and never worry again.

But I wasn't stupid.

A ring like that was traced, tracked, insured, and probably rigged to explode if I even thought about running.

He took my hand and slid it onto my finger. I stared at it. My soul did a double take.

"It's worth more than your old apartment building," Luca said flatly. "So don't lose it."

Charming!

The rest of the ride was a blur. His scent wrapped around me like silk and sin. I tried not to look at him. Tried not to inhale too deeply. I failed at both.

When we arrived, it was chaos.

Paparazzi flooded the front of the venue like vultures. Flashbulbs burst. Reporters shouted. Microphones jutted out like weapons.

"Who is she?"

"Is this the mystery fiancée?"

"Are you engaged, Mr. Anderson?"

"Was she the reason Alexis left you?"

Who the hell was Alexis? And what could have made him break up something real to sign up for something that was a lie?

Luca placed his hand on my waist like he was claiming something rare. Then he smiled at the cameras, not his cold business smile, but something warmer. Almost romantic.

"This is Leila Monroe," he said to the press. "My fiancée."

The crowd roared.

Then he picked up my hand, my newly jeweled hand and kissed the ring gently before brushing a strand of hair from my face and whispering,

"Smile, querida. You look like you're about to be sacrificed."

I smiled. On cue. The cameras loved it.

Inside, the venue was all glass, gold, and too many chandeliers. The air smelled like wealth, and roses flown in from wherever roses came with passports.

People clinked glasses of something I couldn't pronounce. They exchanged names like they were currency, trading net worth with every handshake.

Then I saw her.

The woman in red.

She didn't just walk in, she glided. Like a model but with more venom. Blonde hair in soft waves, red lipstick that matched her dress, heels tall enough to stab someone with. And that face, sharp, stunning, smug.

Like a demon sent from the House of Chanel, her red gown trailed behind her like blood, lips painted to match, blonde hair twisted in a perfect bun that mocked gravity. Her heels clicked with calculated purpose.

"Nice taste!" She said to me, touching my new Birkin bag, courtesy of my billionaire fiancé.

"Thanks!" I smiled, admiring it one more time and feeling important too.

"Hello Luca!" She smirked.

"Alexis!" Luca frowned.

Oh! The ex.

And judging by the way Luca stiffened beside me, she was the only woman who could still make his blood pressure rise.

I adjusted the velvet strap of my dress for the fifth time, wishing my nerves didn't betray me. Every movement around me felt too loud, too sharp, like I didn't belong. But Luca's warm hand brushed mine, grounding me. "Relax," he murmured.

I didn't get the chance.

The auctioneer's voice cracked over the microphone, shaky for the first time tonight.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he cleared his throat, his face blanched beneath the stage lights, "please remain calm. All exits will be temporarily locked."

The room stilled.

He continued, "One of the pieces in tonight's collection, a gold heirloom valued in the billions has gone missing. And, unfortunately, the thief is in this room."

A collective gasp erupted, then silence.

Necks craned. Eyes darted. Everyone now became the suspect and the judge. Beside me, someone whispered, "How tacky."

Another murmured, "Inside job."

Luca's jaw clenched, his usual calmness replaced with a cold calculation. My heart pounded, not out of guilt, but because I could feel the shift in energy. This wasn't just a theft. This was going to be a scandal.

"Excuse me," Alexis said, raising a gloved finger. "I might be able to help."

God help me, she circled me like a predator does to its prey.

"Hey, darling," she purred, bending a little too close, letting her perfume, a blend of vanilla, venom, and old money invade my air. "I hope you don't mind but would you hand me your bag?"

I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Your. Bag," she repeated sweetly, teeth showing just enough to remind me she was baring them.

I scoffed. "Are you insane?"

She smiled wider. "Just a little. But apparently, I have a nose for shiny things and people who don't know how to handle them."

A few heads turned. Murmurs rose.

I looked at Luca, my throat dry. He didn't move, but then, he nodded. Slowly. Reluctantly. As if saying, Just do it.

Hands trembling slightly, I passed her my bag. She opened it like she knew what she was looking for.

And then,

Her red claws pulled out a gold necklace, blinding, cold, unfamiliar.

I froze.

"What the hell?"

She gasped theatrically, clutching her chest like she was in a soap opera. "Oh my stars, would you look at that?" she said with mock surprise. "Looks like we've found our thief."

The crowd roared into whispers. Eyes stabbed me. People I didn't even know had the audacity to shake their heads. Disappointed. Disgusted. Dismissive.

I stood there, confused, embarrassed, and betrayed by something I didn't do. "That's not mine!" I managed to say, my voice small against the volume of the judgment crashing into me.

Alexis didn't miss a beat. She grabbed my wrist and leaned in close enough for only me to hear her venom.

"Next time, sweetheart, steal a better alibi but never my man!”