Chapter 3 - Rules, Red Flags, and Really Expensive Coffee

- Adelaine’s POV -

By the time we reached the hotel suite Dante had booked for us, my exhaustion had set in. The suite had two rooms, of course there was no way we’d share a room. I sank into a velvet chair at the corner and let myself exhale for real.

A few minutes later, Dante reappeared in the living room, loosened tie and all, like a movie villain who moonlighted as a hero.

“That was fun,” he said dryly.

“You’re completely insane.”

He smirked. “Says the woman who pulled a stranger into a fake engagement on a whim.”

“I panicked.”

“And I was available. Lucky me.”

“I owe you an explanation,” I said quietly.

“You think?”

“You didn’t have to go along with it.”

“But I did.”

“Why?” I turned to face him. “Why would you lie for a woman you don’t even know?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who said I don’t know you?”

My chest tightened. “I’m sorry — what?”

He stepped closer, his voice soft but deliberate. “I’ve known of you for years.”

“Meaning?”

“Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about,” he said, his face unreadable.

“Urgghhh! I should end this immediately,” I dig my face into the pillow cushion.

“But you won’t.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why not?”

“Because you need me.”

The words rang louder than they should’ve. I did need him, not emotionally, but logistically. With Dante on my arm, I wasn’t the heartbroken woman betrayed before her big reveal. I was the enigma. The comeback queen.

“I’ll have to tell my parents something. I have to explain things to my father,” I muttered.

“Let me guess. They never met the real guy either?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “I kept him a secret. As a PR person, I knew what the media could do. I’ve seen love stories torn apart before they even had time to breathe. I didn’t want to put Zain in the spotlight until I was sure.”

“Were you sure?”

I bit my lip. “I thought I was.”

He sat across from me, eyes unreadable. “Hmm, you’re good at hiding things.”

“You’re good at pretending.”

He tilted his head, a slow smile forming. “We’ll make a hell of a team.”

I let out a tired laugh. “I can’t believe this is my life right now.”

“I can,” he said. “You’re too composed to be ordinary.”

I blinked. That might’ve been a compliment.

“So what now?”

“It’s your call, sweetheart. Plan the next phase of the illusion,” Dante said, standing. “Public appearances. Joint statements. Romantic paparazzi moments.”

“And then we fake-breakup?”

“Eventually. Or maybe not.”

I stared at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I enjoy puzzles,” he said. “And right now, you’re the most interesting one in the room.”

He buttoned his cuff again and headed for the door.

“Sleep tight, fiancée,” he called over his shoulder.

And then he was gone.

______________________________________________________________________

I woke up to thirty-two missed calls, three back-to-back headlines, and a group chat explosion titled “ADELAINE WTF?” — in all caps. Zain’s name also pops up. He had the nerve to still text me.

Lovely. I open up the chat.

Zain (17 missed calls)

Zain (9 new voice notes)

Zain: We need to talk. Call me. Now.

Zain: You can’t seriously be pulling this stunt.

Zain: Adele, this is not how you handle things. You’re being emotional.

Zain: Don’t ruin your life because of one mistake.

Zain: We both know what this really is.

One mistake? He slept with my best friend, and somehow I’m the one being dramatic? Men are such gifted delusionists, truly. I open one of the voice notes, just to confirm that, yes, he's still the human embodiment of a douche bag.

“Adele, listen. I didn’t mean for this to happen. You’re blowing this out of proportion. Elaine was vulnerable—”

I stop the message there. For his safety and mine. Because if I listen to one more second of him weaponising Elaine’s “vulnerability” while she was very much almost naked with her hands and mouth all over him, I will walk into traffic.

My finger hovers over the screen. Block him? It’s so tempting to do that right now. But no, I don’t want silence. I want him to keep spiralling while I go through the chaos he made me start.

My phone buzzes again.

Zain: If you don’t fix this, I will. Don’t test me.

Ah. There he is. The real Zain. I take a breath, and I block him. As much as I’d enjoy him making a fool of himself, I think I love my peace more.

I can’t resist the urge to check the news. The Montclair Watchdog, naturally, was the first to go for the jugular:

BREAKING: Montclair Heiress Stuns With Secret Fiancé Reveal. Billionaire Dante Moreau Finally Off the Market?

And then:

Is the Power Couple of the Year Built on Lies? What Is Adelaine Montclair Hiding?

And finally:

“Let’s Talk About The Hand Placement In This Dance Photo 🧐”

I squint at the last one. There’s a screengrab from the party, Dante’s hand on my lower back, my head tilted toward him like I’m auditioning for a Hallmark Christmas special. The thread beneath it has more theories than a murder podcast.

@GossipGoddess:

“He’s never been spotted with a woman before. Ever.”

@BillionaireWatch:

“She’s clearly pregnant.”

@SocietySnitch:

“My cousin saw them arguing in Milan last month. #SoftLaunchFails”

I groan into my pillow. I’m not pregnant, and I’ve never been to Milan. Let’s see what Instaglam has to say. There are over 900 DMs. Some are congratulatory. Some are... colourful. One just says “Liar.”

The Montclairs have always had their fair share of scandal. But this, this is next level. I managed to survive that boarding school tabloid leak and the PR internship disaster of 2019, but this? This might actually kill me.

I throw the phone across the plush hotel bed and bury my head once again into the pillow. Just as I was about to consider trying to sleep off my new reality, a knock rapped at the door. Three beats. Not enough for room service and too impatient to be my mother.

I cracked it open to see Dante Moreau. Black shirt, pressed slacks, perfectly combed devilry. He had a cup of coffee in one hand.

“You look like you survived a very chic apocalypse,” he said.

“Thanks. It’s exactly what I was going for.”

I stepped aside. He entered without asking. Rude much?

“You’re trending,” he said, tossing a newspaper onto the bed. “Front page. ‘Mystery Moreau Revealed.’ Congratulations, Adelaine. You’ve officially broken the internet.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He took a seat, perfectly composed while I stood there, with my hair wild, still wearing the bathrobe I’d emotionally unravelled in. I couldn’t be bothered.

“You haven’t slept,” he observed.

“You haven’t smiled.”

“I never do.”

Of course not.

I crossed my arms. “Let’s just get to it.”

His brows lifted. “To what?”

“The terms. The arrangement. The… fake love story we now have to parade to the entire world because I couldn’t handle being humiliated.”

Dante leaned back against the sofa, watching me like he was waiting for a performance. “Go on.”

Fine. He wanted rules? He’d get them.

“Rule One,” I said, pacing the length of the suite. “We sell it. All of it. The public wants a fairy tale, so that’s what we’ll give them. Photos, kisses, handholding, the whole charade. If we’re in a room together, we look like a couple that can’t keep their hands off each other. No exceptions.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was amused. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“Crisis management is my speciality,” I shot back. “This is just another crisis with better lighting.”

He didn’t argue, which was somehow worse.

“Rule Two,” I continued, grabbing a pen from the desk and writing the words down like I was drafting a contract. “Consistency. No slips. No contradictions. If you say Paris was our first trip together, then Paris it is. If I wear a certain colour and the blogs decide it’s your favourite, then it becomes your favourite. We don’t feed them confusion.”

Dante tilted his head, studying me the way a scientist studies an experiment. “And what about feelings?”

I laughed, sharp and humorless. “Rule Three: There are none. In public, you’re mine. In private, you’re untouchable. Clear?”

His eyes flickered, just for a second, something unreadable in them. Then the mask slid back into place. “Crystal.”

I exhaled, steadying myself. “Rule Four: One hundred and eighty days. Six months is enough to sell the story, not enough for it to rot. After that, we stage the breakup. Irreconcilable differences. Mutual respect. Everyone walks away with their reputations intact.”

He pushed off the sofa and stepped closer, his presence filling the room in that maddening way it always did. “You’ve thought this through.”

“This is what I do,” I said, chin high. “I build stories people believe. And for the next six months, we are going to be just another story.”

Something like a smile ghosted over his lips. “Interesting,” he murmured, like the idea of being herded into a script by me was more entertaining than insulting.

I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the one who’s supposed to slip.” He didn’t answer. “You don’t care what people think, do you?”

“Not unless it affects my stock.”

God, he was infuriating.

“What’s in this for you?” I asked finally.

“Leverage.”

“Over what?”

“Let’s just say having Montclair media on my side could be useful.”

That was vague. “How do I know you won’t use this to destroy me later?” I asked.

He didn’t blink. “You don’t.” The next thing I knew, he was turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To prep for our next performance. You have a family to face. And, please, do have a bath. I noticed the air here was quite…unpleasant.”

My mouth fell open before I could stop it.