The Fake Mrs. Stanton

Chapter 2

ISLA

I stepped fully into the kitchen, my heart still racing from the tail end of their conversation. My attention was all on Lukas.

“What… what are you talking about?”

Both men turned towards me, their eyes flinging wide open. Roman’s expression hardened into something unreadable before he set his coffee mug down with a quiet clink.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Roman said noncommittally. He gave me one brief, weighted glance as he passed, then disappeared into the hallway.

Beaurubbed the back of his neck, a classic tell that he knew he’d stepped in it. “It’s not what you think, Isla.”

“Then what is it?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, bouncing off the sleek kitchen surfaces. “Because it sounded a lot like your dad needs a fake wife and you just volunteered me for the job like I’m some convenient spare part in the Stanton family garage.”

Beausighed and stepped closer, trying that charming half-smile that usually worked on everyone else. “Look, he’s in a tight spot with this deal. The investors are super conservative. They don’t like the bachelor thing combined with… you know, the old stuff with my mom. Dad’s trying to close the biggest expansion in the company’s history, and it’s slipping away. I just suggested you could help. You’re the most trustworthy person I know.” He shrugged like it was the most logical thing in the world. “You’re basically family already.”

I lifted my left hand, shoving the engagement ring toward his face. The diamond caught the light mockingly. “If I help your father with this sick plan, how exactly are we supposed to get married? Or does that not matter anymore?”

“We can wait,” he said quickly, reaching for me. “My career’s just taking off. The fans don’t want me tied down right now. It’s not the right time.”

I stared at him, genuinely appalled, my mouth falling open. “Wait? Do you know what’s funny? I stopped looking at wedding dresses two years ago because I knew you’d find another excuse.”

He wrapped his arms around me anyway, pulling me against his chest like a hug could magically fix this dumpster fire of a conversation.

His voice softened into that coaxing tone he always used when he wanted something. “It’s no big deal, babe. In ten years I’ll be done with acting. We’ll move to some small island, just you and me. It’ll be perfect. You’ll see.”

I shoved him off hard, both hands planted on his chest. He stumbled back a step, surprise flashing across his face.

“Ten more years?” I laughed, but there was no humor in it—only disbelief and rising anger. “You want me to be your key holder for another decade? Sitting on the sidelines while you live your dream life and I play the patient, understanding girlfriend who never quite gets upgraded?”

His jaw clenched and anger flashed across his handsome face. “Isla.”

“Don’t.” I stepped back. “Don’t even say my name or try to gaslight me or whatever you are about to do! Okay?”

“You know what? I never even meant to propose, okay? The ring fell out of my pocket that night. It was for Shawn—he’d asked me to hold onto it. Shawn was the one who wanted to propose to Stacey, okay? But you saw it, got that look on your face, and said yes before I could even open my mouth. What the f**k was I supposed to do? I wasn’t ready. I’m still not ready.”

The floor felt like it dropped out from under me. I couldn’t breathe.

“We’ve been together for six years,” I whispered more to myself than him.

“Yeah, I know.” He sounded exhausted, like I was the one being unreasonable. “And I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing right now. But I have a flight to catch. I’ve got a shoot tomorrow.”

Just like that, he grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out.

Beaujust… walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound that somehow hurt worse than if he’d slammed it. I stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen for maybe ten seconds, the silence ringing in my ears like a slap.

My chest felt too tight, like someone had reached in and squeezed my heart until it bruised.

Then the tears came.

I felt ridiculous and small and furious all at once. A broken sound tore out of my throat—half-sob, half-laugh.

I swiped at my face with the back of my hand, smearing tears and mascara.

My fingers closed around a set of car keys on the counter. I didn’t even check whose they were. I just needed to get out of this cold, expensive penthouse that had never felt like home, away from the ghost of that conversation still hanging in the air.

I left the penthouse with my vision blurry and my chest heaving, the door slamming properly behind me this time.

I ended up at some dimly lit bar in the city, the kind tourists probably thought was charming.

Everything went blurry after the third drink. I sat there at the end of the bar, turning the engagement ring over and over between my fingers like a rosary.

The diamond sparkled mockingly under the low lights as my mother’s text lit up my phone.

Don’t forget church on Sunday, sweetheart. Love you.

I laughed bitterly—sharp, broken, loud enough that the guy two stools down glanced at me—and ordered another drink while my fingers hovered over the text box.

I started typing.

Mom. I am not okay. I need you.

I stared at it. It didn’t seem right and she wouldn’t get it. She’d send me a verse in the bible and tell me to ‘talk to God about my grievances.’

I scrolled through my contacts, stopping on Blair, then on JJ. I couldn’t do it. So I ordered more drinks instead. Two. Then six. Till I lost count.

Hours blurred together.

The ice melted in my glass and the bartender started giving me that ‘you need to leave soon’ polite but firm look. I was halfway through plotting how to convince him for one more when a familiar deep voice cut through the noise.

“Isla.”

I turned too fast and nearly slid off the stool. Roman stood a few feet away, tall and imposing in a dark coat, his grey-streaked hair slightly tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times.

He looked like he’d come straight from something important. He always looked like that, like the world bent around him instead of the other way around.

“How…how did you find me?” I slurred, hating how small my voice sounded.

“You took one of my cars. It has a tracker.” He said softly, his sharp eyes scanning me. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the penthouse.”

“I don’t wanna go,” I responded, shaking my head, feeling smaller and hotter by the second. “I really don’t wanna go.”

“I’ll get you home tomorrow,” he assured, giving me a quintessential nod.

He helped me up. His hand on my arm was warm and steady, the other settled at my lower back as I swayed.

Every point of contact sent unwelcome tingles racing across my skin. I hated how aware I was of him.

He guided me outside into the cool night air and helped me into the backseat of another car. Then, instead of handing me off to a driver, he got behind the wheel himself.

I said nothing.

The ride back was quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the occasional sniffle I couldn’t quite suppress.

By the time we reached the penthouse, the alcohol had already gotten to me. The floor was soft beneath my feet and the walls warped into weird shapes.

As soon as he helped me through the door, I pulled away from his support and turned on him.

“The Stanton family really knows how to make someone feel like an afterthought, huh?” The words tumbled out, sloppy and bitter. “Six years with Beauand I’m still just there, never quite enough to be chosen.”

Roman exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You’re drunk, Isla. This isn’t the time—”

“No, this is exactly the time and I am not taking orders or getting stepped on by another Stanton.” I stepped closer, swaying on my feet.

My anger jolted from anger to sadness in a nanosecond. I felt pressure build up in my chest.

I was about to crack into smithereens in front of the man who’d caught me watching porn and also the father of the asshole who’d put me in this state. My chest tightened until breathing hurt.

Tears burned my eyes and spilled over. “Am I really that difficult to love? Six years. Six years and he never even wanted to marry me. He just… let me believe it. Let me plan a future that was never going to happen. I mean, am I really that hard to love?!”

Roman’s jaw tightened. I watched the careful restraint he always carried crack, just a fraction.

“Beauis a fool,” he said, his voice low and rough, like the words cost him something. “Beaudoesn’t know what he’s throwing away. He’d come around, I am sure, Isla.”

Did my name always sound like this from his mouth? Nee-Nah. Like a song—the syllables drawn and sensual and deep.

And…

The validation hit me like a wrecking ball. From him—the man whose quiet approval I’d secretly craved for years, the one who always seemed so controlled and far above the mess of everyone else.

His shirt bunched up beneath my fingers. Before my brain could stop me, I was on my toes. My mouth crashed against his.