Chapter Eleven
1091 Words
The notification came at 7:23 AM.
I was still in bed—my bed, the one in the penthouse, the one with the butter-soft sheets and the empty space where Adrian had been an hour ago. My phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. Then wouldn't stop.
Unknown number: Nice picture. Too bad it's a lie.
Unknown number: Tick tock, fake fiancée.
Unknown number: Check the news.
I opened my browser.
And there I was.
---
The headline read: "Billionaire Adrian Wolfe's Mystery Fiancée Exposed — Her Shocking Secret."
Below it, a photo of me. Not a glamorous one. The photo from my courier job ID—tired eyes, messy hair, the fluorescent lighting of a bad office. Next to it, a photo of my mother's old hospital. Next to that, a screenshot of my student loan balance.
Sources reveal that Ivy Cole, 26, is not the socialite Wolfe has led the public to believe. In fact, Cole works as a courier and waitress, living in a rundown studio apartment on Bleaker Street. Her mother is currently receiving treatment at a facility linked to Wolfe Industries—raising questions about whether this engagement is a transaction rather than a romance.
"It's a contract," a source close to the family claims. "She's being paid to play a role. Everyone in Wolfe's inner circle knows it."
The article went on. Six paragraphs of speculation, half-truths, and outright lies. And at the very bottom, a quote from an unnamed source:
"Adrian Wolfe is desperate. His cousin is about to expose everything. This fake engagement is just a distraction."
Liam.
It had to be Liam.
---
The bedroom door opened.
Adrian stood there, phone in hand, face like stone.
"You saw it," he said.
"Everyone saw it."
"I'm handling it."
"How?" I threw the covers back and stood up. My hands were shaking. "There are pictures of my mother's hospital room, Adrian. Someone took pictures of my mother while she was unconscious."
"I know."
"My neighbor's going to see this. My landlord. The people at the bodega who let me run a tab when I couldn't afford bread."
"I know, Ivy."
He crossed the room. Reached for me. I stepped back.
"Don't."
"Ivy—"
"Don't touch me. Don't fix it. Don't tell me it's going to be okay." I could feel tears coming, hot and humiliating. "You said you'd protect me. You said no one would get hurt."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't un-ring a bell."
He stood there, hand still extended, face pale. For once, he didn't have a plan. Or if he did, he couldn't say it.
I grabbed my phone and walked out.
---
Ms. Vane was in the kitchen.
She looked up when I entered, took one look at my face, and set down her tablet.
"Tea or whiskey?"
"Both."
She poured me a glass of something amber and pushed it across the island. I drank it in one swallow. It burned.
"The article is a hit job," she said. "Liam paid off a journalist at The Chronicle. We have proof."
"Then release it."
"We can't. Not yet."
"Why not?"
Ms. Vane's expression was careful. Measured. "Because the proof involves wiretaps. If we release it, Adrian goes to prison."
My stomach dropped. "He wiretapped someone?"
"Liam. After the first death threat. The courts would throw it out. The press would call it a scandal. And Liam's lawyers would have Adrian disqualified from running his own company."
"So Liam gets to destroy my life, and Adrian gets to watch?"
Ms. Vane didn't answer.
I poured myself another glass of whiskey.
---
Adrian found me on the balcony.
The city stretched out below, cold and indifferent. I was still in my pajamas—his sweatshirt, actually, the one with the hole in the cuff—and the December air cut through the fabric like a knife.
"You'll freeze," he said.
"Good."
He stepped outside anyway. Leaned against the railing beside me. Didn't touch.
"Is it true?" I asked.
"Is what true?"
"The contract. Did someone know?"
Adrian was quiet for a long time. Then: "Ms. Vane knew. My lawyers knew. And one other person."
"Who?"
He turned to look at me. His eyes were red-rimmed. He looked like he hadn't slept.
"My mother. I told her last week. I thought she deserved to know before she read it somewhere."
"Did she tell Liam?"
"I don't know. She's... unpredictable."
I laughed. Bitter and broken. "Your mom is unpredictable. My mom is dying. And we're standing here like any of this matters."
"It matters to me."
"Well, congratulations. You're the only one."
I went back inside. Closed the balcony door behind me. And for the first time since the elevator, I didn't look back.
---
Liam called at noon.
I was in my room, packing. Not because I was leaving—I didn't know where I'd go—but because I needed to do something with my hands.
His name lit up my screen. I almost didn't answer.
Then I did.
"You have nerve," I said.
"I have survival instincts. There's a difference." Liam's voice was smooth. Pleased with himself. "I saw the news. Rough morning?"
"Go to hell."
"I've been there. It's got good WiFi."
"What do you want, Liam?"
"Same thing I've always wanted. What's mine."
I stopped packing. Sat on the edge of the bed. "Adrian didn't steal from you."
"He stole everything. My father's love. My grandfather's company. The only woman I ever—" He stopped. Took a breath. "Never mind."
"Isabel?"
Silence.
"You were in love with her," I said.
"She was supposed to be mine. Adrian took her. Like he takes everything."
"She left him."
"Because I asked her to." Liam's voice was quiet now. Almost sad. "But she wasn't supposed to stay gone. She was supposed to come back to me. Instead, she came back to him. And now you're in the middle."
"You're insane."
"Maybe. But I'm not wrong about this. Adrian doesn't love you. He can't. He's not capable."
"He paid my mother's bills."
"Because he wanted something from you. The same way he wants something from everyone. Adrian Wolfe doesn't give. He acquires."
I hung up.
Then I sat on the floor and cried until there was nothing left.
---
Adrian knocked at three.
"Ivy. Open the door."
"No."
"Please."
"You wore out that word."
A pause. Then, softly: "I have something to show you."
I didn't move.
"Ivy. Please."
I opened the door.
He was holding a cat carrier.
Inside it, meowing indignantly, was Pickles.
- Writer
