Kieran's POV
Four Weeks Later
I was starting to think James hated me.
Not openly—he is too professional for that. But the evidence was piling up. Why else would he keep scheduling these god-awful dates? Every single one was worse than the last.
Six women. Six disasters. All handpicked from my grandmother's "women of quality" list. Whatever that meant.
The first one showed up with a dog in a stroller. She ordered steak… for the dog. Only water for herself.
The second told me—within thirty seconds—that her ex was her therapist. And they still hugged regularly "for healing."
The third didn't bother introducing herself. She stared at her phone, chewed loudly, and hummed between bites.
By the fourth, I was finished. By the sixth, I was strongly considering celibacy.
I was going through a file when James knocked once and entered quietly.
"You have one last meeting this evening, sir."
"No, I don't."
He waited.
"It is the final one on your grandmother's list. She asked me to remind you."
My hands stilled above the keyboard.
"The seventh one."
I exhaled slowly. My grandmother's ultimatum flashed through my mind like a blade: Get married in two months or your uncle takes everything.
Fine. One more.
Then I'm done.
I stood and left.
The restaurant was quiet, warm, dim—exactly how I liked it. My eyes scanned the room and landed on the table James booked. Two glasses. One woman already seated.
My steps slowed. Not intentionally. Something in me reacted before I could reason with it—a twinge of curiosity I didn't want to acknowledge. My fingers itched to adjust my cufflinks. My spine straightened.
From behind, she looked… striking. Soft waves falling near her shoulders. A low-back dress revealed a silver chain tracing her spine.
For the first time since this ridiculous dating circus began, I felt… aware.
I approached the table, pulled out the chair, and sat.
She lifted her head.
The world didn't spin—but it shifted. Hard.
My breath caught, just enough that I noticed it.
Because I knew that face.
And she knew mine.
Her wineglass trembled, staining the napkin underneath. The faint scent of her perfume drifted to me.
A long second passed.
James' voice echoed in my head.
She is the seventh one.
Of course she was.
---
Sienna's POV
Nope. Nope nope nope.
This couldn't be real.
I nearly aspirated on my own spit. Not because my date was that charming—he was unfortunately.
It was because there was absolutely, positively no way the man sitting across from me was my date.
He wasn't just any rude guy, he is the one I had bumped into at the hospital and again at the Velvet party.
My lungs forgot their job. My palms felt sticky.
I managed a polite, strained smile. The kind you give a stranger you hope will walk away quickly.
"Uhm… I think there has been a mix-up. You're probably at the wrong table."
He just stared at me—blank, cold, unreadable. The kind of stare that made me want to slide under the table and pretend I was a spilled drink. My heart thumped, a little too fast.
I pushed my chair back slightly. "I am pretty sure this isn't—"
"Sit."
One word. Sharp.
A chill ran through me.
I stayed standing. Chin high. "Not a fan of commands. Or you."
His gaze flicked over the necklace. The heels. The borrowed elegance. "You got two families or something? Rich by night, broke by day?"
My mouth opened—but he didn't wait.
His jaw tightened. A faint twitch at the corner of his eye.
"You are here because my real date paid you to take her place. How much?"
I laughed—a dry, incredulous sound. "Oh, sure. Because I voluntarily signed up to sit through dinner with you out of the kindness of my heart."
He leaned back slightly.
"In case it is not obvious to your billionaire brain," I snapped, "some of us weren't born with silver spoon."
His jaw ticked. "And what—you will do anything for money?"
That one hit straight in the gut. Heat crept up my neck.
"I didn't say—"
"Then let me use you."
I froze. "I'm sorry, what?"
He didn't blink. "I'm done with these ridiculous setups. Pretend to be my wife for six months."
I shoved my chair back so hard it screeched. "Wow! You're unbelievable."
"Five hundred thousand."
My legs forgot how to function.
Five. Hundred. Thousand.
I could clear my debts. Pay rent for a year. Sleep at night without imagining utility bills chasing me like demons.
But—
What if this was a trap? A trick? A setup?
"Seven hundred," he said quietly.
My pride screamed no. My bank account screamed HELL YES. My knees folded like cheap lawn chairs. My fingers dug into the table.
Suddenly I was sitting again, pulse hammering. "Why me?"
"Because you are already a con artist." His napkin dropped to the table. "At least now you will get paid for it."
That one hurt. Deep. My chest constricted.
I swallowed hard, throat tight.
He leaned forward slightly. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the aroma of food nearby—subtle, unsettling. "You can fool everyone else. But not me. I see through your act. Obviously."
I inhaled, ready to defend myself—
"You have got three days," he said, already rising. "That's generous. I don't like waiting."
He dropped a card onto the table.
Then he walked away.
No glance back. No apology.
Just gone.
I stared at the card. Then at the empty chair.
What the hell just happened?