When two worlds collide

Misunderstood fiancee

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Continuation

Inside his lavish bedroom, Wesley stood before a grand mirror, adjusting the crisp white collar of his shirt. He slipped his tie into place with a practiced motion, his jaw clenched tight. The entire mansion buzzed with preparation below — guests arriving, music humming faintly from the ballroom, the scent of roses and expensive cologne hanging in the air.

He hated this.

Another pointless social event.

Another parade of women chosen by his mother.

He let out a breath, running his hand through his hair. As he buttoned the cuffs of his tailored sleeves, he paused, hearing faint but distinct footsteps from the hallway.

He tilted his head, his instincts sharp. That wasn't the rhythm of his mother’s heels or a servant’s quick pace. This was slower… hesitant. Careful.

“Mom doesn’t trust anyone these days,” he muttered under his breath. “Probably some clueless guest trying to snoop.”

He stepped away from the mirror, his annoyance bubbling. “Stephen!” he barked, calling the nearest security detail.

Across the hallway, Phoebe froze in her steps, the sound of the commanding voice making her heart jolt. The name didn’t register — but the tone made her spine straighten.

Inside the room, Wesley flung his door open. And then… he saw her.

Her back was to him, a simple figure in jeans and a top, damp from a stain she was trying to hide. But something about her — the curve of her shoulder, the way she stood like she didn’t belong but wasn’t afraid — tugged at something in his memory.

“I know this person,” he murmured under his breath.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

Phoebe didn’t respond.

Without thinking, Wesley stepped forward and, before she could move, wrapped his hand firmly around her waist. Her body tensed under his grip.

“What the hell are you doing? Get your hands off me, you perv!” she shrieked, spinning around to slap his hand away.

Wesley raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. “Feisty. Good. I hate boring.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped, glaring at him.

“Easy. There’s some fire in you,” he said, lifting his hand as if to show surrender before casually letting go of her.

Their eyes locked.

“You...” Phoebe muttered under her breath, her mind flashing briefly to the man who had stared at her earlier at the flower stall. She hadn’t imagined it. It was him.

“I should be asking you what you’re doing,” Wesley said, folding his arms. “You’re wandering the hallway of my house like you belong here.”

“I came to make a delivery,” Phoebe said firmly. “Someone spilled wine on me. I asked for the restroom. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll clean up and leave.”

But Wesley’s lips curled into a smirk. “What if I don’t want you to leave?”

Phoebe blinked. “Then… that’s your problem. I’ve got nothing to do with whatever fantasy you’re spinning. My job here is done.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Hmm. You’re bold. I like that.”

“Don’t touch me again,” she said sharply as his hand brushed her waist.

“I don’t bite,” he whispered with a grin, pulling her just slightly closer.

Before she could push him off, a loud chime rang out — the clinking of glass, followed by a voice on a microphone echoing from the grand ballroom.

“Hello everyone,” Mrs. Smith’s voice rang with elegance and pride. “As many of you already know, this party isn’t just a dinner—it’s to celebrate my son. And more importantly, to help him finally meet the woman he’s going to marry. He’s a great catch, and—”

But her words were abruptly cut off.

“Actually,” Wesley’s voice boomed across the sound system.

Everyone turned. Heads swiveled. Mrs. Smith froze on stage.

Wesley strode into the ballroom, a shocked Phoebe slung effortlessly over his shoulder.

People gasped.

Leah, standing near the dessert table, nearly dropped a plate of mini croissants. “Oh. My. God,” she whispered, thrilled.

Wesley reached the center of the room and gently placed Phoebe down. She stumbled in disbelief, eyes wide as the entire ballroom of strangers stared at her.

“Everyone, meet my fiancée,” he declared.

The crowd erupted in confused murmurs. Guests exchanged glances. Mrs. Smith’s champagne glass tilted dangerously in her hand.

“What’s your name?” Wesley whispered, voice low beside Phoebe’s ear.

“Don’t listen to him!” she cried out. “I don’t even—”

But before she could finish, his hand found her waist again — not harshly, but firmly enough to make a silent threat.

“You wouldn’t dare embarrass me now,” he murmured again, this time colder.

Phoebe froze.

“She’s... Phoebe,” he announced to the crowd, smirking.

Mrs. Smith stormed forward, her calm exterior cracking. “This is ridiculous! Yesterday you told me you didn’t have a girlfriend. And now you bring... this girl? Do you take me for a fool, Wesley?”

“I didn’t ask you to throw this party,” Wesley replied coolly. “But I’m making it count. This is the woman I want to marry.”

Phoebe shifted uncomfortably, tugging at her stained top. Wesley noticed. Without a word, he removed his suit jacket and draped it gently over her shoulders. Her eyes met his — confused, angry, unsure.

“She’s not some random girl,” he said, turning back to his mother. “She’s the one I want. Only her.”

Mrs. Smith stared at her son in disbelief, face flushed red. “Fine. Party’s over,” she snapped. “Everyone — out.”

Guests began to murmur awkwardly and move toward the exit, grabbing one last pastry or whispering gossip as they passed.

“Wes,” his mother said firmly. “A word. Now.” And she turned, walking away before exploding in full rage.

Phoebe jerked herself away from Wesley’s hand, storming back toward Leah.

“Girl, what the hell just happened?” Leah squealed, grabbing her arm. “You have to tell me everything.”

“Let’s just go,” Phoebe muttered.

“One minute,” she added, turning back.

Wesley stood in a corner of the ballroom, now on the phone, voice low and unreadable. Phoebe walked up slowly, placed his suit jacket on the side table next to him, and turned to walk away.

But his hand shot out and caught her wrist.

“Hey—” she yanked.

“Let go of me!”

In a panic, she bit his arm — hard.

“Damn it!” Wesley shouted, pulling back.

Phoebe ran, not stopping until she reached the doors. She and Leah disappeared into the cold night air, the mansion lights fading behind them.

Whatever had just happened… it had changed everything.

And there was no undoing it now.

***********************

Phoebe's Apartment, 10:43 PM

Phoebe slumped against the door the moment she stepped into her small but cozy apartment, her chest rising and falling with exhaustion. She hadn’t even taken her shoes off when her phone buzzed on vibrate inside her back pocket.

Leah.

“Hey girlie 👀 Ready to spill what happened? Like—WHAT was that!?”

Phoebe let out a frustrated groan and flopped onto her couch, still in her clothes. Her fingers danced tiredly across the screen.

“Just shut up 🙄 I’ll tell you tomorrow in class.”

Almost immediately, the typing bubbles appeared again.

“Okay, but like… lectures resume tomorrow and you know it’s our last semester. No more sneaking around with boys, okay?”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. She could practically hear Leah’s voice through the text. Always nosy. Always extra.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

But before Phoebe could say more, Leah sent a final voice note.

“That’s why you need to GET a man. Anyway, bye! My boyfriend is coming over. Don’t stay up overthinking, girl. You were hot today 🔥 See you tomorrow.”

The message ended with a cheeky giggle before the line cut off.

Phoebe dropped the phone on the side table and let out a long, dry sigh. “Get a man,” she muttered. “Like that solves all problems.”

Too tired to argue with herself, she peeled off her jacket, let it fall to the floor, and made her way to the bathroom. The water from the shower was warm, almost therapeutic, washing away the chaos of the night. Still, her mind lingered on one thing: Wesley Smith.

What was that stunt he pulled at the party? Fiancé? Was he serious, or was it all for show? The sound of clinking glasses, his warm breath on her neck, the way his hand had wrapped around her waist with uninvited confidence—it all replayed in her mind like an unwelcome movie.

No answers tonight. Just questions. Endless questions.

By the time she stepped out of the shower and crawled into bed, the clock read 12:07 AM. A new day had begun, but the last one still hadn’t ended in her mind.

Back at the Smith Mansion

The atmosphere inside the Smith mansion was anything but peaceful. A storm had rolled in—one without thunder or rain, just anger, tension, and disappointment.

Wesley stood at the edge of the living room, his jaw clenched and his hands still in his pockets, as his mother paced the tiled floor like a queen denied her crown.

“I can’t believe you ruined the party I spent weeks planning!” Mrs. Smith snapped, her voice sharp and cold like glass breaking in slow motion. “Do you think this is a game, Wesley? You think you can just point at a girl in the crowd, claim her as your bride, and that’s how this works?”

Wesley didn’t flinch. He leaned against the doorframe, shoulders relaxed but eyes burning.

“She’s not just any girl,” he said, voice lower, firmer. “And if you think I’m going to marry someone you picked out for me like a new watch, then maybe you’ve forgotten I’m a grown man.”

Mrs. Smith’s heels clicked to a stop. She turned sharply to face him.

“Then act like one! You’re thirty-three, Wesley! Thirty-freaking-three. You run a business that’s as powerful as it is dangerous. Do you think this is the image of a future leader? Picking up bakery girls off the street?”

Wesley’s jaw tightened, but before he could answer, she redirected her fury.

“And you, Ryan—say something to your friend! Talk some damn sense into him.”

Ryan had been standing awkwardly by the bar in the corner, pretending to admire a bottle of bourbon that had long lost his interest.

“Look, Mrs. S,” he said cautiously, holding up his hands, “I get it. You're upset. But Wes is... well, he’s never really followed the rulebook, has he?”

Mrs. Smith threw her hands up and stormed toward the grand staircase.

“I’ll say this once: this stunt you pulled better not embarrass this family any further. There’s too much at stake. Fix it, or I will.”

Without another word, she turned and ascended the staircase, heels echoing like gunshots on marble.

Silence filled the room once she disappeared.

Ryan turned to Wesley. “Dude…”

“I don’t want to talk,” Wesley muttered, grabbing his coat from the rack. “Let’s just get a drink.”

Ryan nodded, already knowing better than to ask questions. Together, the two men stepped into the night, leaving the weight of the mansion—and its expectations—behind them.