CONTRACTUALLY STUCK.

CHAPTER 17: The Engagement Party

ZARA

The venue is everything it’s supposed to be.

Glass walls. Warm light. White florals that look expensive without trying. A string quartet tucked into one corner, playing something soft enough to fade into conversation but elegant enough to be noticed. The kind of place where deals are sealed with handshakes and futures are rewritten over champagne.

My engagement party.

I arrive ten minutes late on purpose. Not because I want to make an entrance, but because I need a moment to breathe before walking into a room where everyone thinks they know my story.

The doors open, and the sound hits me first. Laughter. Glasses clinking. My name carried on unfamiliar voices. Conversations that pause just slightly when I step inside, as if the room collectively inhales.

There she is, people think—the fiancée.

Not Zara. Not the girl who still triple-checks her posture when she’s nervous, or counts exits instinctively. Just a role. A title.

Julian spots me before I see him. I know because when I finally lift my gaze, he’s already looking.

He’s standing near the center of the room, effortless in a tailored dark suit, one hand wrapped around a glass he hasn’t touched. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just shifts his stance subtly, creating space beside him without making a show of it.

An invitation disguised as indifference.

I cross the room.

Every step feels measured, not because I practiced it, but because the weight of attention presses in from all sides. Conversations resume as I pass, but I can feel eyes following me. Assessing. Approving. Calculating.

Someone reaches out to touch my arm. A woman I vaguely recognize from my father’s professional circles beams at me.

“Congratulations, dear. You make such a beautiful couple.”

I thank her. Smile. Nod.

Someone else compliments my dress. Another asks how Julian proposed. I answer vaguely, carefully, as if the truth might slip out if I’m not cautious enough.

When I finally reach him, Julian leans in just enough to murmur, “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” I reply.

A flicker of something crosses his face. Amusement, maybe. Or relief. He offers his arm, not theatrically, just there, present. I hesitate for half a second before taking it.

The room seems to relax when we stand together.

That realization unsettles me more than anything else.

We move through the crowd like a single unit. Julian introduces me to board members, investors, people whose names carry weight I can feel even if I don’t recognize them. He never speaks over me. Never answers for me. But he doesn’t leave space for silence either, steering conversations smoothly, subtly ensuring nothing lingers too long.

I watch him as much as I’m being watched.

This version of Julian is polished to a dangerous shine. Confident. Charismatic. The kind of man people trust because he gives them no reason not to. When he smiles at me in front of others, it looks practiced but not hollow. It’s convincing in a way that makes my chest tighten.

At one point, someone asks how we met.

Julian glances at me before answering, just a fraction of a second. A check-in. Or a warning.

I speak first.

“Through family connections,” I say. “Unexpected, but… life has a way of surprising you.”

There’s a murmur of approval, a few knowing smiles. I think that’s the end of it until Julian speaks.

“We met properly at Brew & Crumb,” he says smoothly. “She probably doesn’t remember it the same way I do.”

I turn to him, sharp.

“But that was when I knew,” he continues, unfazed. “She challenged me. Most people don’t.”

Laughter follows, warm and indulgent. Someone sighs. Someone claps softly.

It’s vague enough to be true. But he doesn't know how much those words have shaken me to my core, making me second-guess everything.

Applause follows. Someone raises a glass. The quartet swells slightly, as if on cue. I feel like I’ve stepped into a painting that’s still being framed around me.

The photo finds me when I least expect it.

It’s mounted discreetly near the bar, one of several curated images looping on a screen. Smiling faces. Clinking glasses. Julian and me, captured in perfect light.

That photo.

The one taken during the argument.

I remember the heat of it—the sharpness of his words. The way my pulse had been racing, my hands clenched at my sides. I remember thinking he was infuriating. Calculated. Impossible.

But in the image, none of that exists.

Our faces are close. His hand is at my lower back, fingers curved protectively. The angle softens my expression, and my gaze lifts toward him as if I’m hanging on every word. It looks intimate. Devoted. Tender.

A lie, framed beautifully.

Someone beside me sighs. “You can just tell when it’s real, can’t you?”

I don’t answer.

Julian appears at my side moments later, following my line of sight. He doesn’t comment on the photo. Doesn’t explain. Just says quietly, “They chose a good angle.”

I turn to him. “That’s one way to put it.”

Our eyes meet. Something unspoken passes between us, acknowledgment, maybe—or mutual understanding of the cost.

“Are you holding up?” he asks.

It’s the first time tonight his voice sounds unguarded.

“I am,” I say, because it’s easier than unpacking the truth.

The speeches begin not long after. Short. Polished. Predictable. My father’s voice wavers slightly with pride. Julian’s is steady, controlled, warm in all the right places. When he talks about love, shared vision, people nod like they’re witnessing something inevitable.

I smile when I’m supposed to. Applaud when everyone else does.

But it’s in the quiet moments that unsettle me most.

The way Julian’s thumb brushes my wrist when someone speaks too long. The way he shifts closer when the crowd presses in, not possessive, just present. The way he leans down once to ask if I want water instead of champagne, as if he remembers something about me that I don’t recall telling him.

At one point, I step away to the terrace, needing air. The city stretches out below, lights blinking like distant stars. I rest my hands on the railing, breathing in the cool night.

For the first time all evening, I feel like myself again.

Until I sense him.

Julian doesn’t speak when he joins me. He stands beside me, close enough that our arms almost touch, far enough to give me space.

“They seem pleased,” I say.

“They are,” he replies. “That's what matters.”

“For your company.”

“For your father,” he corrects. “And yes, for my company.”

I glance at him. “And for you?”

He considers the question longer than I expect. “For me, it’s about control,” he says calmly. “Of the narrative. Of the outcome.”

At least he’s honest.

“We’ll need to keep this up,” he continues. “The image. If we don’t, people will pull it apart. Speculate. That won’t be good for your father’s business, and I won’t allow my company to take the hit.”

There’s no threat in his tone—just fact.

“So we perform,” I say.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Together.”

I nod, even as something twists inside me.

When we return inside, the party is winding down. Guests begin to leave, satisfied. Assured. The lie has done its job.

As I thank the last few people, my phone vibrates in my hand. A notification. Then another. Social media lighting up. Photos from the party already circulating.

I pause when I see it.

Julian has liked one.

Just one.

The photo of me on the terrace, captured candidly by someone inside. My expression unreadable. Vulnerable. Real in a way the others aren’t.

I look up.

Across the room, Julian meets my gaze. His expression is neutral, composed, but his eyes are intent, sharp with awareness.

Watching.

For the first time since this began, a thought settles uncomfortably in my chest.

I don’t know when the performance ends.

And I’m no longer sure I want it to.