Elara's POV
If humiliation were a person, it would have been sitting on my bed, grinning like it had just moved in permanently.
I woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing again and again — an obnoxious, never-ending reminder of last night. The light from my cracked blinds painted dusty lines across my bedroom wall, and for a moment, I wanted to pull the covers over my head and pretend the world outside didn't exist.
But the buzzing wouldn't stop.
I reached for my phone, my fingers trembling. Thirty-eight unread messages. Twenty missed calls. My notifications feed was a disaster zone. The first video I clicked made my stomach drop — shaky footage from the engagement party, capturing the moment.
The bouquet falling from my hands.
The camera catching my stunned face.
The gasps in the background.
Caption: #RunawayBride — but wait till you see why.
I didn't have to. The clip switched to Gregory — my fiancé of two years — with his hands all over my best friend. Her head thrown back in laughter. His mouth whispering something against her ear that used to be meant for me.
I turned the phone off and dropped it onto the bed like it was diseased.
The humiliation burned, but underneath it was a colder, heavier weight: the knowledge that my life was already unraveling, and it had only been twelve hours.
By the time I dragged myself downstairs, the smell of burnt toast filled the air. My mother stood at the counter in her faded blue robe, stirring a cup of coffee she hadn't even sipped from. She was staring into the mug like it could give her answers.
She looked up when she heard my footsteps. Her eyes softened, but I could see the worry lines around her mouth tightening.
"Elara…" Her voice was gentle, careful, like she was afraid I might break apart if she said the wrong thing. "You're all over the internet."
I didn't trust my voice, so I just nodded and poured myself a glass of water.
"And there's something else." She set the spoon down, her fingers curling around the coffee mug. "I just got a call from your boss this morning."
The dread in my stomach thickened. "Please don't say—"
"You've been let go," she finished quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "Effective immediately."
Of course. Gregory's family owned enough shares in the company to have me erased with a single phone call.
"We'll be fine," my mother said, too quickly to be believable. "We've been through worse."
I almost laughed. Worse? No. We'd never been through worse. Not since the Blackwell takeover five years ago, when my father's company was devoured, our home sold off, and our comfortable life replaced with bills we could barely manage. The man behind that? Lucien Blackwell. Ruthless billionaire. Gregory's biggest rival. My family's sworn enemy.
I didn't think I'd ever see him in person again.
But fate, apparently, was in the mood to kick me twice in the same week.
At noon, the doorbell rang.
When I opened it, I was met with six feet of perfectly tailored menace.
Lucien Blackwell stood on my front porch like he had every right to be there, dressed in a charcoal suit that fit him too well and a crisp white shirt that looked like it had never met a wrinkle. His dark hair was neatly styled, his steel-gray eyes cold and unreadable.
"Elara," he said, his voice a low, smooth drawl. "We need to talk."
"I have nothing to say to you," I replied instantly.
"That's fine. You can listen instead."
Before I could protest, he stepped inside — like the house belonged to him — and let his gaze sweep over our modest living room. His eyes lingered on the scuffed coffee table, the outdated furniture, the neat stack of unpaid bills. He didn't have to say anything; I could feel his silent assessment.
"I'll get to the point," he said, turning toward me. "Your family is drowning in debt. I can make that go away."
I stiffened. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I want something in return."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek black folder. He opened it with precise, deliberate movements, and then placed it on the coffee table between us.
"Marry me."
For a moment, I just stared at him. Then I laughed — a sharp, humorless sound. "You're insane."
"Probably," he said without missing a beat. "But I'm also your best option."
I folded my arms across my chest. "And why would I even consider this?"
He leaned back slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Because you need me. And because I want you. Not in the way Gregory did — not for love, not for romance. This is business. I get a wife to stand beside me in public, to give certain… appearances. You get your debts cleared, your mother taken care of, and a generous settlement at the end of one year."
"And what do you get besides a fake bride?"
He let the silence stretch before answering. "Your ex's face when he realizes you belong to me."
My pulse kicked up. I hated him for saying it. Hated the way it got under my skin.
"This is insane," I said, pushing the contract toward him.
"Think about it," he replied, already moving toward the door. "But not for too long. Offers like this don't last."
When the door shut behind him, I sank onto the couch.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to rip that contract to shreds. But my eyes kept straying to the black folder. I could almost hear his voice, low and certain: You belong to me.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. I lay awake listening to the ticking clock, to my mother moving restlessly in her room, to the sound of my own breathing. I thought about the bills stacked in the kitchen. I thought about the eviction notice we were pretending wasn't going to come.
And I thought about Gregory, whose betrayal had burned away whatever naïve hope I'd had left about love.
At 3:00 a.m., I got up and went downstairs. The black folder was still on the coffee table, its presence a challenge. My fingers hesitated only once before flipping it open. The contract inside was terrifying in its detail — clauses about appearances, media statements, travel schedules, joint events. He'd thought of everything.
At the end was the settlement figure. My breath caught.
Enough to pay off everything. Enough to start over.
By sunrise, I'd made my decision.
---
Lucien was waiting for me at a corner table in a private café uptown. He didn't look surprised to see me — in fact, the faint curve of his mouth told me he'd expected it.
"You've decided?" he asked, sipping his coffee like we were discussing the weather.
I slid the signed contract across the table. "I'll do it."
His gaze dropped to the papers, then back to me. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.
"Good," he said, his tone clipped but satisfied. "Then we're engaged."
And just like that, my life — already in pieces — was no longer mine at all.