CHAPTER 3: The Wrong Man at My Door

ARABELLA’S POV

There were several ways I had imagined meeting my fake fiancé.

I had imagined a charming gentleman arriving with flowers.

Perhaps he would have a confident smile, a warm handshake, and the kind of personality that made strangers feel comfortable.

I had even prepared a few questions to help us establish our fake relationship.

Where had we met?

How long had we been dating?

Who had proposed?

And, most importantly, what was his favourite food?

Because apparently, people who were engaged were expected to know these things.

I had not, however, imagined opening my apartment door to find Alexander Sterling standing in front of me.

The Alexander Sterling.

The billionaire.

The man whose face occasionally appeared in business magazines beside headlines about billion-dollar acquisitions.

The man whose company owned buildings, hotels, financial institutions, and probably half the things I had ever purchased.

And, apparently, the man whose photograph I had selected from an escort agency.

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

My brain briefly stopped functioning.

Then I laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

It was the sort of laugh people produced when reality became so ridiculous that their minds refused to cooperate.

“No.”

His expression remained unchanged.

“Afraid so.”

I blinked.

Then I looked behind him, half expecting a camera crew to emerge from the hallway.

“Is this some kind of prank?”

“No.”

“Are you actually Alexander Sterling?”

“Yes.”

I looked at his face again.

Unfortunately, there was no denying it.

The photographs had not done him justice.

He was taller than I expected, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and an almost unfairly attractive face. His charcoal suit fitted him perfectly, and his grey eyes possessed the sort of intensity that made prolonged eye contact feel like an unnecessary challenge.

He looked expensive.

Not merely wealthy.

Expensive.

Like a man who would consider a thousand euros an inconvenience rather than an expense.

I swallowed.

“Oh, my God.”

He glanced at his watch.

“Can I come in?”

I stepped aside automatically.

He entered.

And suddenly, my apartment felt approximately half its original size.

I closed the door.

Then turned around.

He was looking at my living room.

Not rudely.

Not with obvious judgment.

But with the quiet attention of someone who noticed everything.

His eyes moved from the bookshelf to the small dining table, then towards the framed photographs beside the television.

I suddenly became aware of the laundry basket near my bedroom door.

Wonderful.

The first billionaire I had ever invited into my home, and he was about to discover that I owned more mismatched socks than a responsible adult should.

“Would you like something to drink?” I asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Water?”

“No.”

“Coffee?”

“Miss Hayes.”

“Arabella.”

His eyes returned to mine.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Arabella. You can call me that.”

He considered me for a moment.

“Very well.”

Silence.

I folded my arms.

“So…”

“So.”

“You’re Alexander Sterling.”

“I believe we’ve established that.”

“And you are not an escort.”

“Correct.”

“You’re a billionaire.”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then I laughed again.

“This is unbelievable.”

“I agree.”

“Why are you here?”

“That’s an interesting question.”

“Is it?”

“Considering you hired me.”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Then pointed at him.

“I hired your photograph.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“That’s a distinction.”

“A very important one.”

“I’ll remember that.”

I pressed my fingers against my forehead.

This could not be happening.

“Would you mind explaining how my photograph ended up on an escort agency’s website?”

I looked at him.

Then at the sofa.

Then back at him.

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

“You selected the profile.”

“Yes.”

“You paid the deposit.”

“Yes.”

“And you expected someone to arrive pretending to be your fiancé.”

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly.

“Interesting.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it is.”

“Well, it isn’t interesting to me. It’s embarrassing.”

For the first time, something shifted in his expression.

Not quite a smile.

But close.

“Then we’re in agreement.”

I walked towards the sofa and sat down.

He remained standing.

“Are you going to sit?”

He glanced at the sofa.

“Is that an invitation?”

“No, I’m asking because you’re making me nervous standing there like a police officer.”

His eyes settled on mine.

Then, surprisingly, he sat.

Not beside me.

Opposite me.

Of course.

Even his sitting arrangements were intimidating.

I drew in a breath.

“Look, Mr. Sterling—”

“Alexander.”

“Right. Alexander. I genuinely didn’t know it was you. I found your photograph through the agency, selected it, and paid for the booking.”

“I understand.”

“And I wasn’t trying to deceive you.”

“I didn’t suggest you were.”

“Good.”

I paused.

Then added, “Although I suppose technically I was planning to deceive an entire wedding.”

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

His expression remained unreadable.

Then he said, “At least you’re honest about it.”

I almost smiled.

Almost.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why did you come here?”

He leaned back slightly.

“Your booking was unauthorized. My photograph was submitted without my permission. I initially intended to have the arrangement cancelled and your payment refunded.”

“That would have been reasonable.”

“However, the agency informed me that you were already expecting someone.”

I frowned.

“So?”

“So I decided to explain the situation personally.”

I stared at him.

“You drove all the way here to tell me you weren’t an escort?”

“Essentially.”

I looked at the ceiling.

“Of course you did.”

His gaze remained on me.

“Is that a problem?”

“No. Not at all. I did not expect billionaires appearing at my door to explain administrative errors.”

Silence.

Then he laughed.

It was brief.

Low.

Almost reluctant.

But it was definitely a laugh.

I stared at him.

Oh.

He could smile.

That was unfortunate.

Because it made him even more attractive.

“May I ask why you need a fake fiancé?”

His question caught me off guard.

I shifted slightly.

“It’s personal.”

“I see.”

He didn’t press.

For some reason, that made me more uncomfortable.

I had expected questions.

Judgment.

Perhaps a lecture about the absurdity of hiring strangers.

Instead, he simply waited.

I looked at him.

“My sister is getting married.”

“Congratulations.”

I laughed without humour.

“To my ex-boyfriend.”

His expression changed.

Only slightly.

“Your ex-boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

I pointed at him.

“Please stop saying that.”

He ignored me.

“And you want to attend their wedding with another man.”

“Preferably one who looks like he could buy the wedding venue.”

His eyes remained on mine.

“Why?”

I shrugged.

“Because I’m tired of being pitied.”

I looked down at my hands.

“They cheated on me. Then they somehow managed to convince everyone that I was responsible for what happened. My sister became the poor girl who accidentally fell in love, and I became the difficult older sister who couldn’t keep a man.”

I laughed quietly.

“Apparently, betrayal comes with a family discount.”

Alexander said nothing.

For a moment, I wondered whether I had said too much.

Then he asked, “And attending the wedding will change that?”

I looked up.

“No.”

“Then why go?”

Because I wanted them to see me happy.

Because I wanted Vanessa to wonder whether she had made a mistake.

Because I wanted Christopher to understand that he hadn’t destroyed me.

But I couldn’t bring myself to explain all of that.

“I suppose I want to remind myself that they didn’t win.”

His expression became unreadable again.

“People who betray you shouldn’t be allowed to determine how you measure your worth.”

I stared at him.

The statement was simple.

But something about the way he said it made it feel heavier than ordinary advice.

I looked away.

“Well, that’s unexpectedly philosophical.”

“Would you prefer something less philosophical?”

“Perhaps a joke.”

“I’m afraid I’m not particularly good at those.”

“That explains your personality.”

His eyebrows lifted.

I froze.

Had I just insulted a billionaire?

A very attractive billionaire?

In my own apartment?

Wonderful.

I began to laugh nervously.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

He looked almost amused.

My phone rang.

I glanced at the screen.

ELITE COMPANION GROUP.

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

I answered.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Hayes. This is the Elite Companion Group. We sincerely apologize for the confusion regarding your booking.”

I looked at Alexander.

He was watching me.

“Yes. I think I’ve noticed the confusion.”

“We would like to clarify that the gentleman you selected was not an active companion on our current roster. His photograph was included in an unauthorized profile submitted through a third-party source.”

I stared at the wall.

“So you’re telling me I paid money to hire a man who was never available?”

“We sincerely apologize.”

I rubbed my forehead.

“Fantastic.”

“We will process a full refund immediately.”

“Thank you.”

“And again, we apologize for the inconvenience.”

I ended the call.

For several seconds, I said nothing.

Then I turned towards Alexander.

“Well.”

He waited.

“Apparently, I’ve been scammed.”

“Technically, yes.”

I sighed.

“Wonderful. I have been betrayed by my boyfriend, humiliated by my family, and now financially inconvenienced by a man I wasn’t even supposed to hire.”

His mouth moved slightly.

“You seem to have had an eventful six months.”

I laughed.

“You have no idea.”

Alexander stood.

I looked up.

“Leaving?”

“Unless you have another reason for keeping me here.”

I frowned.

“I wasn’t keeping you.”

“Good.”

He adjusted his jacket.

For some reason, I suddenly felt the need to say something.

“Thank you for coming to explain.”

He looked at me.

“You’re welcome.”

“And I’m sorry about your photograph.”

“I’ll survive.”

I smiled.

Then he reached for the door.

“Mr. Sterling?”

He turned.

“Yes?”

I hesitated.

“Could I ask you one last favour?”

His expression became cautious.

“That depends.”

I almost laughed.

“I need a fiancé.”

He stared at me.

I immediately raised both hands.

“Not you. Obviously. I mean, you have a company and billions of euros and probably more important things to do than attend the wedding of a woman you met twenty minutes ago.”

He said nothing.

I continued.

“I just thought perhaps you might know someone who could help. Someone who wouldn’t mind pretending for one evening.”

His gaze remained fixed on me.

“Why would I know someone like that?”

I shrugged.

“You’re rich. Rich people know other rich people.”

A pause.

Then he said, “That’s your reasoning?”

“Would you prefer a detailed proposal?”

He looked at me for another moment.

Then he opened the door.

“Good luck with your wedding, Arabella.”

“Thank you.”

He stepped into the hallway.

I watched him leave.

And just as I was about to close the door, he stopped.

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let those people make you feel small.”

I blinked.

He gave me a brief nod.

Then walked away.

I stood there for several seconds.

What an extraordinarily strange man.

ALEXANDER

I had attended meetings with heads of state, negotiated acquisitions worth billions, and spent entire evenings surrounded by people who carefully measured every word they said to me.

Yet, somehow, a twenty-five-year-old woman in a cream blouse had managed to insult me three times in less than an hour.

She had also asked me to find her a fake fiancé.

I entered the lift.

My phone vibrated.

Ethan.

I answered.

“Yes?”

“Well?”

“What?”

“How was the meeting with your bride?”

“She’s not my bride.”

“Yet.”

I closed my eyes.

“Ethan.”

“Was she beautiful?”

I remembered her dark hair, expressive eyes, and the way her entire face changed whenever she laughed.

“She’s…”

I stopped.

Ethan became suspiciously quiet.

“She’s what?”

“Troublesome.”

He burst out laughing.

“That’s usually how it starts.”

I ended the call.

The lift doors opened.

I walked towards my car.

But before getting inside, I glanced back at the building.

Apartment 4B.

Arabella Hayes.

She was impulsive, sarcastic, and clearly determined to prove something to people who had hurt her.

She also had a peculiar habit of saying exactly what she thought.

I wasn’t accustomed to that.

Most people wanted something from me.

She wanted a fake fiancé.

And somehow, I had become involved in the arrangement.

I entered the car.

“Home, sir?” the driver asked.

I nodded.

Then my phone vibrated again.

A message from Daniel.

Daniel: The agency has confirmed the refund. The unauthorized profile is being removed.

I typed a brief response.

Alexander: Good. Close the matter.

I put the phone away.

The matter was closed.

It should have been.

But for reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself remembering the exact expression on Arabella’s face when she realized who I was.

And the way she had looked at me when she spoke about betrayal.

There had been hurt beneath her humour.

A kind of hurt she was trying very hard to disguise.

I knew something about disguises.

I had spent most of my adult life wearing one.

The car pulled away.

I looked out of the window.

For the first time in months, I found myself wondering about someone I had no business thinking about.

And I didn’t particularly like it.

ARABELLA POV:

I closed the door and leaned against it.

Then I looked at the ceiling.

“Well, that was humiliating.”

My phone vibrated.

A message from Olivia.

OLIVIA: HAS YOUR FAKE FIANCÉ ARRIVED?

I stared at the screen.

Then typed.

ME: You will never believe what just happened.

Her reply came immediately.

OLIVIA: IS HE UGLY?

ME: Worse.

OLIVIA: MARRIED?

ME: NO.

OLIVIA: CRIMINAL?

ME: HE’S A BILLIONAIRE.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then my phone rang.

I answered.

“Hello?”

“ARABELLA HAYES!”

I moved the phone away from my ear.

“Hello to you too.”

“YOU MET A BILLIONAIRE?”

“Yes.”

“IN YOUR APARTMENT?”

“Unfortunately.”

“AND YOU DIDN’T CALL ME?”

“It happened twenty minutes ago!”

“WHAT DID HE LOOK LIKE?”

I sighed.

“Like a man who has never experienced financial hardship.”

Olivia screamed.

I laughed.

Then she asked the question I had been expecting.

“Was he handsome?”

I paused.

Unfortunately, I remembered his eyes.

His voice.

The way his suit fitted his shoulders.

And that brief, almost reluctant smile.

I sighed.

“Olivia.”

“What?”

“He was ridiculously handsome.”

She made a sound that was somewhere between a scream and a prayer.

“Oh, this is getting interesting.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Nothing is interesting. He’s gone. The agency is refunding my money, and I’m back to square one.”

“Did you get his number?”

“No.”

“His email?”

“No.”

“His business card?”

“Olivia!”

“Fine. I’m only asking because your fake fiancé situation has officially become a national emergency.”

I laughed.

Then I walked towards the kitchen.

“Can we please focus on finding me another man?”

“Absolutely.”

I opened the refrigerator.

Olivia continued.

“Although, I have one suggestion.”

“What?”

“Perhaps you should stop looking for a fake fiancé.”

I frowned.

“What are you suggesting?”

She paused.

Then said, with complete seriousness:

“Find a real one.”

I stared at my refrigerator.

Then laughed.

If only she knew.

Because somewhere in Bellacourt, the real billionaire I had accidentally hired was already driving away from my apartment.

And neither of us knew that our paths were far from finished.