Prologue

Celeste Harper had done a lot of desperate things in her life.

She had juggled three soul-crushing jobs at once, surviving on caffeine and sheer spite. She had lived on instant noodles for weeks, the salty broth a poor substitute for a real meal. She had even lied through her teeth just to land a voice-acting gig that barely covered the interest on her mounting debts. Poverty wasn't just a state of being for Celeste; it was a relentless predator, always snapping at her heels.

But this? This was a different kind of desperation. This was the first time she was about to look a man in the "eyes"—or where his eyes used to find her—and lie to his face while pretending to be his fiancée.

And not just any man. Lucian Aldridge.

Billionaire. CEO. A titan of industry who had been recently blinded in a high-speed accident that had dominated the headlines for months. And as far as he knew? She was Vivian Lancaster—the high-society socialite who had packed her designer bags and vanished the very second he lost his sight.

The lie sat heavy on her chest, a physical weight that made every breath feel like she was inhaling lead. As the sleek black town car glided through the massive, ornate iron gates of the Aldridge estate, the world outside blurred into a smear of gray. The rain lashed against the tinted windows, a frantic drumming that matched the storm brewing in the pit of her stomach. She gripped the buttery leather seat so hard her knuckles turned white, the luxury of the vehicle feeling like a mockery of her reality.

“This is crazy,” she muttered under her breath, her voice trembling just enough to betray her.

“What’s crazy is you second-guessing our agreement at the last minute,” came the smooth, clipped response from the woman beside her.

Emelia Aldridge, Lucian’s mother, didn't even look up from her tablet. She was the personification of old money: powerful, elegant, and as cold as a winter breeze across a frozen lake. She was the mastermind behind this twisted charade, the woman who had scoured the city to find a voice actress with the exact vocal timber of her son's runaway bride.

“You need the money,” Emelia reminded her, her tone laced with a clinical confidence. It was the kind of certainty only someone with an obscene amount of wealth could possess—the belief that everything, even a person’s soul, had a price tag.

Celeste clenched her jaw, the metallic taste of anxiety on her tongue. Emelia wasn’t wrong.

Across town, in a sterile hospital room that smelled of industrial antiseptic and lingering heartbreak, her younger brother Noah lay in a coma. He was eighteen, a boy who loved sketching and old jazz, caught in the crossfire of a gang fight he had nothing to do with. The wrong place at the wrong time. He didn’t deserve the machines keeping him alive, and he certainly didn't deserve a sister who couldn't afford to keep them running.

The universe didn’t care about fairness. Neither did the hospital administration, whose billing department sent letters that read like ransom notes.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat and forced herself to focus on the contract. One year. That was all Emelia wanted. Twelve months of playing a role, of slipping into Vivian’s silk slips and mimicking her melodic, haughty laugh. She had to ensure Lucian didn’t spiral further into the dark abyss he’d been drowning in since the crash.

And most importantly? She had to convince him to go through with the experimental surgery that could restore his sight—a surgery he had stubbornly refused out of a nihilistic spite for the world that had blinded him.

“You’ll play the role,” Emelia continued, crossing her legs with a sharp, practiced grace. “You’ll do what needs to be done. You will eat with him, talk to him, and convince him that Vivian came back because she realized she couldn't live without him. And when it’s over, and he can see again? You’ll disappear.”

Disappear. The word echoed in the car. It sounded so clean, so surgical. Like she was just a ghost being hired to haunt a house until the lights came back on.

“He’s going to hate me for this,” Celeste whispered. “When he finds out... the betrayal will be worse than the accident.”

Emelia finally looked at her, her eyes sharp as tempered steel. “He’s already miserable. He spends his days in a darkened room drinking Scotch and cursing the gods. What’s a little more rage if it saves his life?”

The car pulled to a slow, silent stop in front of the Aldridge manor. It was a sprawling estate that looked more like something out of a gothic tragedy than a modern billionaire’s home. High ceilings, towering stone columns, and massive oak doors that looked like they guarded the entrance to another century.

Celeste’s stomach twisted into a knot. She felt like an intruder, a peasant being ushered into the king's chambers to perform a trick.

She reached for the door handle, desperate for air, but Emelia’s voice stopped her one last time.

“One more thing,” the older woman said, her gaze pinning Celeste to the seat. “Lucian is… difficult. He is brilliant, and despite his blindness, he is observant. But under no circumstances do you drop the act. You sound exactly like Vivian. That’s why you’re here. Use that gift.”

“I know my lines,” Celeste said, her voice steadying as her professional training kicked in. She had to be Celeste Harper, the girl who would do anything for her brother, playing Vivian Lancaster, the woman who loved no one but herself.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Emelia warned, her lips curling into a cold facsimile of a smile. “You’re not here to fix his heart or find a fairy tale. You’re a medical intervention in a red dress. You make sure he gets that surgery, you take your check, and you walk away.”

Celeste nodded, exhaling a long, shaky breath. She could do this. She had to do this.

For Noah. For the brother who had always been her anchor, the one who believed she was meant for the stage. This was the performance of a lifetime, and the stakes were life and death.

She stepped out of the car, the icy rain immediately soaking into her thin coat and chilling her to the bone. She didn't run for cover. She let the water wash away the last traces of Celeste as she walked toward the mansion.

The massive doors groaned open, revealing a foyer that felt like a tomb. At the end of the long, shadowed hallway, she saw a figure sitting in a high-backed chair, silhouetted against a fireplace that held no heat.

Lucian Aldridge.

The man who would hate her the moment he realized she’d come back—and would destroy her the moment he realized she never had.

Taking a breath, Celeste adjusted her posture, smoothed her hair, and pitched her voice into the soft, melodic lilt of a woman who owned the world.

"Lucian?" she called out, the name tasting like ash. "I'm home."