Chapter Four

Mike Powell’s POV

Love is a scam

That's the first lesson I learned.

Not from cheesy rom-coms or grumpy old exes, but by watching my parents treat their relationship like a failing business partnership.

No affection. No tenderness. Just transactions and deals. Secrets behind every closed door and fake smiles that never really reached their eyes.

So, naturally, I never bought into the whole soulmate idea.

And by the time I started dating, the women that came into my life made sure to stomp that fantasy into dust.

Models. Heiresses. Influencers. Each one of them just wanting something—my life, my money, my last name.

They wore their desperation like a heavy perfume, pretending to care about me while they really just wanted the story that came with me.

And now?

Here I was, stuck going to a wedding with a girl I barely remembered meeting. A girl with big eyes, soft words, and a shaky voice that felt way too rehearsed to be genuine.

I wasn't falling for it.

Not for a second.

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

“You could do worse,” Juliet had said when she slid the contract my way three days ago.

“Are you out of your mind?” I shot back. “You actually want me to marry her?”

Juliet didn’t even flinch. “It’s either this, or the press gets their hands on that video and calls you a predator again.”

“Nothing even went down,” I snapped.

“Doesn’t matter.” Her tone was calm and collected. “They’ll believe whatever they want. You know that.”

I did.

I’d been torn apart by headlines before. “Heartless Heir.” “Powell the Playboy.” “Trust Fund Terror.”

They never ran out of names for me.

So this? This was just managing a crisis.

A performance to put on.

A contract signed under the threat of a scandal.

Definitely not a marriage.

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

The ceremony was a blur.

It was a private courthouse thing, no guests allowed. Juliet ran the show like the pro she was. A borrowed ring. A contract burning a hole in my pocket.

Bree showed up in a simple cream dress that looked like it cost next to nothing and reeked of heartbreak. Her eyes were puffy, and her lips barely moved.

She didn’t say a word.

And I didn’t care.

Let her cry. Let her have regrets.

For all I knew, this was her plan from the start—get close, get in my bed, and snag the Powell name.

Juliet might’ve bought into her innocent act, but I wasn’t that easily tricked.

I’d seen women who could cry sweeter than Bree and lie even better.

So I stood there next to her, cool as a cucumber, while the officiant read words that meant nothing.

Till death do us part.

What a joke.

The vows felt more like a funeral. The ring slid onto her finger like a heavy weight.

And when the officiant finally said, “You may kiss the bride,” I just nodded and walked away.

No kiss. No sweet smiles.

Not a single word spoken.

Because if they'd thought this was how my first kiss was going to be stolen, they must be joking.

***********

On the ride back, she sat next to me in the back of the town car, clutching her hands like they were keeping her from falling apart.

She hadn’t looked me in the eye since we left the courthouse.

Good.

Let her shrink away.

Let her stay quiet.

She didn’t say anything until we rolled up to the gated estate, the Powell townhouse standing there like a giant tomb.

“I didn’t plan for this,” she murmured.

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound cold and sharp to the ears.

“You really think I haven’t heard that before?”

She flinched. “You actually think I’m like them?”

I finally turned towards her, genuinely taking her in.

Her cheeks were pale, her lashes glistening. Her voice trembled like she was fighting to keep from drowning in her own guilt.

But I didn’t care.

Because I’ve been fooled before.

I’d given people the benefit of the doubt. I’d let my guard down once.

And it almost cost me everything.

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

*FLASHBACK*

Two years ago.

Her name was Olivia.

She claimed to love art. Claimed to love me. Said I was “different.”

She smiled through every lie and wormed her way into my life, into Juliet’s good graces, into my dad’s boardroom.

Until that day I caught her in my penthouse, copying sensitive files from my desk onto a flash drive.

Turns out, she was working for our competitors. Bought and paid for. Just a pawn. And I’d given her the keys to my entire life.

I didn’t just lose her. Oh no.

I lost a major gallery contract, the trust of the public, and whatever small shred of faith I had left in humanity.

So, yeah—maybe I came off as a bit cold.

But honestly, cold is safe. It’s like wrapping yourself in a thick, protective blanket that keeps the chaos of the world at bay.

Fast forward to the present moment, I swung open the car door and stepped outside, the evening air hit me, damp and heavy.

There was a hint of rain in the air, the kind that makes everything feel just a little more somber. I didn’t even glance back to offer her a hand as I climbed the worn steps to my house. Nope, no gestures of courtesy here.

Just left the door ajar behind me as I walked in, and I could hear her footsteps trailing after me, just like they always did, shadowing my every move.

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

Later that night, I found myself in the study, nursing a glass of scotch and watching raindrops cascade down the windows, distorting the outside world into a soft, impressionistic blur. It felt oddly therapeutic. Around ten, Juliet strolled in, her face serious and troubled.

“She’s not what you think she is,” she said quietly, breaking the silence that had settled like dust in the room.

“She’s exactly what I think,” I shot back, not in the mood for her attempts at diplomacy.

“She didn’t send the video,” she insisted, her voice barely above a whisper.

I shot her a piercing glance, skepticism written all over my face. “You sure about that?”

Juliet hesitated, fidgeting with her hair as a cloud of uncertainty crossed her features.

Then she dropped the bombshell: “I sent it.”

My heart stopped for a second. “What? You did what?”

“She needed saving. And you needed a leash,” she stated matter-of-factly.

My anger boiled over as I slammed my glass onto the table with a loud clatter. “You had no right to—”

“I’m your sister,” she cut me off, her voice rising in frustration. “For years, I’ve been cleaning up your mistakes. This time, I fixed it before it blew up in your face.”

I fell silent, my mind racing. Deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t completely off base.

It was just past midnight when I wandered to the guest bedroom. There stood Bree, still draped in that cheap dress, staring blankly out the window as if she expected the night sky to open up and swallow her whole.

“You can stop acting now,” I said, my voice firm and impatient.

She slowly turned to face me, her eyes wide and vulnerable.

“You got exactly what you wanted,” I stated, trying to keep my tone steady, although a part of me felt a twinge of remorse.

Her voice was a mere whisper as she replied, “I didn’t want any of this. I wanted a job. I wanted a life. Not whatever this has become.”

“Right,” I muttered, trying to mask my skepticism. “Just a poor girl with a tragic backstory and perfect timing.”

Her lip quivered, and she looked like she might cry. “Why do you hate me?” she asked, her voice breaking.

I stepped closer, studying her as she trembled, that mix of defiance and vulnerability twisting something inside me.

“You want honesty?” I growled, my patience wearing thin. “Fine.”

Leaning in, I let my voice drop to a low, bitter whisper, laced with venom. “Just because you somehow weaseled your way into my life—even into my pants—it doesn’t mean you’ve won some kind of trophy.”

Her eyes went wide, and she instinctively took a step back, the shock evident on her face.

“Oh no,” I said, a dark smile creeping onto my lips. “You have no idea what’s in store for you.”

“I’m going to make your life a living hell,” I continued, every word dripping with conviction, with a promise of the chaos I could unleash. And deep down, I knew I meant it with every fiber of my being.