Chapter Ten
2276 Words
The penthouse felt like a bunker under siege.
Rowan stood at the window, city lights glittering thirty-eight floors below, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and lethal in rapid-fire Japanese. Every few seconds he switched to English just long enough to snarl orders: “I want every photo killed before sunrise… Find out who put Camille Whitlock on the guest list… And get me the name of the board member who leaked the morality clause to Alistair.”
Mara sat on the edge of the couch, still in the red gala dress, knees pressed together, hands clenched so tight her knuckles were white. The diamond choker felt like a collar now.
Rowan ended the call and turned.
“They’re gone,” he said. “Security escorted your sister and the ex out. Press got nothing usable. For now.”
Mara nodded numbly.
He crossed the room, poured two glasses of water, no alcohol tonight, and handed her one.
“Drink.”
She obeyed. The cold shocked her throat.
Rowan didn’t sit. He prowled, restless energy crackling off him.
“Alistair’s move tonight was a declaration of war,” he said. “He’s been waiting for blood in the water. Camille just handed it to him gift-wrapped.”
Mara’s voice came out small. “I didn’t tell her where I was.”
“I know.” He stopped pacing, looked at her. “But someone did.”
A beat.
“Tomorrow at nine the board meets. Alistair will present the photos, the timeline, the fact that my ‘fiancée’ has a sister who’s already selling the story to tabloids. He’ll argue I’m unstable, that the company needs new leadership. If he flips three votes, I’m out.”
Mara’s stomach lurched. “What happens to the contract if you lose the company?”
Rowan’s smile was razor-thin. “I still pay you. But I lose everything else.”
Silence stretched.
Then he exhaled, some of the fight draining out of him.
“I’m not blaming you, Mara.” His voice was quieter now. “I’m telling you what we’re up against. This stops being fake the second that meeting starts. We either sell the lie perfectly, or we both lose.”
She looked up at him. “How do we sell it?”
“Tomorrow you meet the board with me. As my fiancée. Not my assistant. You smile, you charm, you let them see exactly why I supposedly lost my mind over you. And tonight.....” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Tonight we get our story straight. Every detail. First kiss, favorite song, how I proposed, every single thing they might ask.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost three. We have five hours.”
Mara stood. “Then let’s not waste them.”
Rowan’s eyes flicked to her, something raw flaring behind the exhaustion.
For a second the air between them crackled again, last night’s almost echoing in the space.
Then he nodded once and headed toward his office.
“Bring coffee.”
She followed.
They worked until the sky outside turned the color of weak tea.
Rowan wrote timelines on a whiteboard like a general planning D-Day. Mara memorized childhood anecdotes he fed her about his mother, his father’s favorite whiskey, the scar on his ribs (a sailing accident at sixteen). He learned her favorite flower (peonies), the song that made her cry (something so embarrassing), the way she took her coffee (oat milk, one sugar).
Rowan stood at the whiteboard, sleeves rolled to the elbows, marker squeaking as he drew arrows between dates.
“First time we supposedly met,” he said without turning. “Late March. You brought me the wrong reports during the Nikkei presentation. I yelled. You cried in the supply closet.”
“I do not cry in supply closets,” Mara muttered.
“Tonight you do. It’s romantic.” He capped the marker, finally faced her. “Memorize it.”
She rolled her eyes but repeated the lie word-perfect anyway.
They built an entire fictional love story brick by brick until it felt solid enough to stand on.
Rowan made her walk through mock questions like a prosecutor.
“Miss Whitlock, isn’t it convenient that no one in Mr. Vale’s circle has ever heard of you before last month?”
Mara didn’t flinch. “Rowan and I kept things quiet because of his father’s health. We didn’t want to add stress.”
Rowan’s mouth twitched, approval, maybe pride.
By six-thirty they could finish each other’s sentences.
By seven, Mara was falling asleep on the leather sofa in his office, cheek against a stack of contracts.
Rowan crouched beside her, brushed hair from her face with surprising gentleness.
“Hey.” His voice was soft. “Go shower. Car leaves in forty-five.”
She blinked up at him. “You look like death.”
“Thanks.” He almost smiled. “So do you.”
She started to stand. He stopped her with a hand on her wrist.
“Mara.”
She waited.
“Thank you,” he said. “For not running.”
Yet, she thought.
But she didn’t say it.
She showered, changed into the outfit that had been laid out, cream silk blouse, tailored camel trousers, understated gold jewelry that screamed quiet money. Hair in a low knot. Minimal makeup. The picture of serene, untouchable wealth.
When she walked back into the living room, Rowan was already in a charcoal suit, tie knotted perfectly, eyes bloodshot but sharp.
He looked her over once, slow.
“You look…” He searched for the word. “Real.”
Mara’s heart stuttered.
The elevator ride down was silent.
In the lobby, two new security men flanked them. Outside, a small knot of paparazzi shouted questions the second the doors opened.
Rowan’s hand settled at the small of her back, possessive, protective.
He didn’t smile for the cameras. He didn’t have to.
The headline wrote itself.
The car door closed, shutting out the noise.
Rowan leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed.
Mara watched the city slide by.
Neither of them spoke until they were two blocks from Vale Industries.
Then Rowan said, very quietly, “Whatever happens in there, you walk out with your head high. You’re not the broke girl from Queens today. You’re the woman I’m going to marry. Act like it.”
Mara turned to him.
“And you,” she said, “act like you’re in love with me.”
Rowan opened his eyes.
For one heartbeat, something real flickered across his face.
Then the car stopped.
Showtime.
Vale Industries headquarters was a zoo.
Paparazzi three deep outside. Security had formed a human tunnel from curb to revolving door. Phones flashed like strobe lights.
Rowan stepped out first, buttoned his jacket, then turned and offered Mara his hand.
She took it.
The second her heel hit the pavement the shouting started.
“Rowan! Is the wedding off?”
“Mara, are you really Camille Whitlock’s sister?”
“Mr. Vale, will you step down as CEO?”
Rowan’s grip tightened. He didn’t answer a single question. Just guided her inside with a hand on her lower back that felt less like performance and more like protection.
In the private elevator he finally spoke.
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re holding it like you’re about to walk the plank.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “Maybe I am.”
He turned her to face him, cupped her chin. “Look at me.”
She did.
“You are not the girl who got cheated on and fired and evicted. You are the woman who brought Rowan Vale to his knees. Walk in there like you own the entire f*****g building. Because right now, you do.”
The elevator opened directly into the executive corridor.
Waiting for them: Eleanor Vale in a wheelchair, frail but regal in pale gray Chanel, oxygen tubes discreetly hidden. Beside her stood a man Mara had never seen—early thirties, blond, polished, smiling like a shark.
“Darling,” Eleanor said, reaching for Mara’s hand. “You’re shaking.”
Rowan’s jaw flexed. “Mother. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Nonsense. I’m exactly where I need to be.” Eleanor’s gaze slid to the blond man. “This is Julian Hargrove. Board member. Old family friend.”
Julian extended a hand to Mara, held hers a beat too long.
“Pleasure,” he said, eyes flicking over her like he was pricing her. “Rowan’s kept you very well hidden.”
Rowan stepped forward, sliding an arm around Mara’s waist. “She’s not hidden anymore.”
Julian’s smile didn’t waver. “The board’s ready. Shall we?”
The boardroom was all glass and intimidation.
Twenty-two faces turned as they entered. Alistair sat at the far end like a king on a throne, fingers steepled.
Rowan pulled out Mara’s chair himself, then took the seat at the head of the table, his father’s seat.
Alistair started without preamble.
“We’re here to discuss Rowan’s continued leadership in light of recent… revelations.” He clicked a remote. Photos bloomed on the screen: Mara at the gala in the red dress, Camille smirking beside her, Lucas looking pathetic. Then older photos—Mara’s eviction notice, her old driver’s license, a grainy shot of her crying outside Luxe Grill the night she was fired.
Mara’s stomach lurched.
Alistair smiled thinly. “It appears our CEO’s engagement is less a love story and more a publicity stunt. Perhaps even a calculated attempt to trigger the morality clause without genuine intent to settle down.”
Rowan’s voice cut like a blade. “Careful, Uncle. You’re implying fraud.”
“I’m implying instability.”
Julian leaned forward. “The numbers don’t lie, Rowan. Stock dipped four percent overnight. Clients are asking questions.”
Rowan didn’t flinch. “Stock will recover by close of business. Clients will get personal calls from me.”
Alistair gestured to Mara. “And your fiancée? Care to explain how a waitress with forty dollars in her bank account two months ago suddenly becomes the future Mrs. Vale?”
Mara felt every eye in the room turn to her.
She spoke slowly.
Here goes nothing.
“Mr. Alistair,” she said, voice steady, “I won’t dignify your slideshow with a defense of my bank balance. But since you asked, yes, I was broke. I was also the one who stayed until 4 a.m. rewriting the Tanaka deck when Rowan’s father had his stroke. I was the one who flew to Tokyo on twenty minutes’ notice because Rowan trusted me to close the merger he couldn’t. I’ve earned my place here the same way every person in this room did, one sleepless night at a time.”
She looked around the table, meeting every gaze.
“As for love stories, maybe mine doesn’t look like yours. But when Rowan proposed on the roof at sunset with peonies and a ring he picked himself, I said yes because I wanted to, not for anything else .”
Silence.
Then Eleanor’s soft voice from the doorway. “She said yes because she loves him and my son is finally happy. And anyone who can’t see that is blind.”
Alistair’s smile faltered.
Rowan leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.
“Vote,” he said simply. “Now.”
Hands went up, one by one.
Eight for Alistair.
Fourteen for Rowan.
It was over in ninety seconds.
Alistair stood, face purple. “This isn’t the end.”
Rowan rose too. “It is for today.”
Back in the penthouse, the door had barely closed before Mara’s knees buckled.
Rowan caught her, pulled her against his chest.
“You were magnificent,” he murmured into her hair.
She laughed, shaky, half-hysterical. “I think I just lied to twenty-two billionaires.”
“You told the truth dressed up as a lie. There’s a difference.”
She pulled back, looked up at him. “Did we just win?”
“For now.” His thumb brushed her cheek. “But Alistair won’t stop. And your sister is still out there.”
Mara’s phone buzzed on the counter.
Unknown number.
A single text.
Camille:
Cute speech, little sister.
See you at Mom’s birthday dinner tomorrow night.
Try not to choke on the silver spoon.
xoxo
Rowan read it over her shoulder.
His arms tightened around her.
“Then we would go,” he said quietly.
Mara closed her eyes, leaned into him, and for the first time in weeks,.she let herself believe they might actually win.
- Writer
