BETRAYED BY LOVE RUINED BY CHOICE

RED

The dress was red.

Of course it was.

The shopping bag sat on my bed like a threat. Black paper, gold string, his driver’s name on the receipt. No note. He never wrote notes anymore.

I stared at it for 17 minutes.

I counted.

“Wear red,” he’d said.

Red was the color of the night he left me. Red was the color of the lipstick on his collar that wasn’t mine. Red was the color I swore I’d never wear for him again.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

_Driver downstairs in 20. Don’t be late. -

Like we were casual. Like he hadn’t destroyed me.

I should’ve said no. I should’ve burned the dress. I should’ve called my brother and told him to take the jail time instead of this.

But I didn’t.

Twenty minutes later I was sliding into the back of a black Bentley that smelled exactly like him. Cedar. Smoke. Money.

The driver didn’t speak. The city blurred past the tinted windows. Lagos at night looked different when you weren’t broke. The lights didn’t feel like hope. They felt like witnesses.

The gala was at priston Hotel. Crystal chandeliers, string quartet, people who pretended not to watch you while watching you.

And there he was.

Adrian Blackwood in the middle of it all, talking to a senator and a woman in diamonds. Navy suit tonight. No tie again. Like he owned the dress code.

He saw me the second I stepped in.

His conversation didn’t stop. But his eyes did.

They dragged down. Slow.

From my face, to the red silk, to the slit that went too high, to the heels I hated.

Then back up to my eyes.

Something flickered there. Not softness. Never that.

Possession.

He excused himself and crossed the room. The crowd parted for him without him asking.

“You came,” he said. Like he was surprised. Like he wanted me to be late so he’d have a reason to be angry.

“You gave me 4 hours,” I said. “And a dress code.”

I kept my voice flat. Professional. The way you talk to a boss you hate.

His gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second. Then he offered his arm.

“Play the part, Lila.”

So I took it.

His arm was solid under my hand. Warm. I remembered that warmth. I remembered a lot of things I wasn’t supposed to.

We moved through the room together.

“Miss beccai,” he introduced me. “My fiancée.”

Fiancée. The word tasted like ash.

People smiled. Complimented the ring that wasn’t there yet. Asked when the wedding was.

“Six months,” Adrian said smoothly. “Intimate ceremony. Just family.”

Liar.

Halfway through the night, he pulled me onto the balcony. Away from the cameras. Away from the lies.

The air was cooler out here. Lagos sounded far away.

“You look good in red,” he said. Finally honest about something.

“I hate red.”

“I know.” He leaned on the railing, not looking at me. “That’s why I picked it.”

My jaw clenched. “Is this part of the contract too? Torturing me?”

He turned then. Really looked at me. And for a second, the billionaire mask slipped.

“You left me a note, Lila. Two sentences. ‘I can’t do this. Don’t look for me.’”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. “Do you know what three years of not looking for someone does to a man?”

I didn’t answer. Because the truth was ugly.

I left because if I stayed, I would’ve told him about the baby.

And he would’ve used it. Just like he was using me now.

“Clause 7,” he said instead. Back to business. “No one can know this is fake. Not your friends. Not my board. Not even your brother when he gets out.”

“Understood.”

“Good.” He stepped closer. Too close. I could see the flecks of gold in his black eyes.

“Then smile when I touch you. Laugh at my jokes. And when I kiss you for the cameras, kiss me back.”

My breath caught. “That wasn’t in the contract.”

“It is now.” His thumb brushed my wrist. Barely. A ghost of a touch.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it worth your while.”

The doors opened behind us. Flash.

Someone had followed us.

Instantly, Adrian’s hand was at the small of my back. His other hand came up, cupped my jaw, and he kissed me.

Not gentle. Not asking.

Claiming.

For the cameras. For the contract. For three years of silence.

When he pulled back, my lips were swollen and my heart was a traitor.

He smiled at the photographer over my shoulder.

“Sorry. Got carried away.”

Then to me, so low only I could hear:

“Welcome back, fiancée.”