Chapter 3: Media Clash

MIA'S POV

The media found out in twenty-four hours.

THE FALLEN FIANCÉE IS NOW A BILLIONAIRE’S BRIDE!

IS IT LOVE, OR REVENGE? MIA EVANS AND ALEXANDER BLAKE STUN NEW YORK!

I stared at my phone screen as the headlines rolled in, each more sensational than the last. Clarissa’s angry texts came in waves, everything from Are you INSANE?! to He’s using you! You'll regret this.

Why is she acting like she cares after stealing my Fiancee from me?

I blocked her number.

Let her watch me from the sidelines. Let Liam choke on the silence I left him in.

I closed my eyes to let go of my surroundings and worries only to open it later and meet a pair of cold dark eyes staring at me.

“You’ll be moving in with me,” Xander said, voice sharp as ever.

How the hell did he get in here!

I hadn’t packed yet. I hadn’t told my parents. I hadn’t even let the burden from this decision settle into my bones. But he made it sound so easy. Like shifting the sky was nothing more than an appointment.

“Is this really necessary?” I asked. “Can’t we just… pretend in public?”

He stepped closer, dark eyes fixed on mine. “People will watch. They’ll dissect everything. If I want the board and the public to believe this marriage is real, then it has to be airtight. Appearances are everything.”

Not sure what hurts more,I pressed my lips tightly, to think, his coldness or the fact that he was probably right.

“And what happens if I slip up?”

The question left me feeling more vulnerable than I’d intended.

His eyes darkened, sharpening. “You won’t.”

But then, as if he hadn’t already set the stakes high enough, he added:

“However, if you do, the contract is void. You forfeit everything.”

This was no fairy tale. There was no glass slipper, no prince.

Just paperwork and power.

And a man whose eyes looked like they hadn’t cried in years.

~~*~~

The first night in Xander Blake’s penthouse was more like stepping into someone else’s life.

A life that wouldn't and couldn't fit me.

The ceilings were high. The walls were cold. There was no warmth, no softness, no signs of real life anywhere. It was like walking into a museum of isolation.

That night, I stood in the center of a room which was colder than the city outside. Xander’s penthouse was as grand as it was empty.

It didn’t feel like a home more like a place where everything was in its right place… but nothing ever lived here.

More like he was giving me a tour,Xander led me through his mansion,showing me everything that had no meaning to me. When we stopped in front of the guest room, the room he said was mine, he opened the door without hesitation.

“This is yours,” he said, his voice with no hint of emotion. His hand shoved into his pocket, his stance almost bored. “You’ll have your own space. I expect discretion, punctuality, and honesty.

“Honesty?” I echoed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “In a fake marriage?”

He didn’t shake, didn’t seem to care that my sarcasm was aimed directly at him. “About everything that matters.”

I didn’t ask what that meant. It didn’t matter.

He turned and walked out, and just as the door closed, quietness spread in, heavy and uninvited.

I stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do with myself.

How had I ended up here? How had I gone from wedding bells to contract clauses?

~~*~~

I woke up to a silent room.

Not the comforting kind. The kind that presses against your eardrums like you’re somewhere you don’t belong.

I sat up in the massive bed, too big, too cold, too… unused, and blinked at the spotless guest room. My first morning as the fake wife of New York’s most untouchable man, and the only thing I had to greet me was an automated blackout blind slowly rising like I was living in a tech commercial.

The reflection from the sun poured in, giving off a glow to the curtains but none of it touched me.

I dressed quickly and went down the hallway in borrowed slippers. No sign of life, no clinking dishes, no TV, no music.

Only when I reached the kitchen did I see him.

Xander.

In a black sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie carelessly hung around his neck like he hadn’t bothered finishing the last step. He stood scrolling through his phone with one hand and sipping coffee from a mug in the other.

His presence sucking the air out of the room.

“Morning,” I said, trying not to sound like a stranger in my own… contract.

He didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

“It’s eight-fifteen.”

“I said breakfast was at eight.”

My jaw twitched. “Right. Because this is a hotel.”

He finally met my gaze, dark eyes unreadable. “You agreed to maintain appearances. Discipline is part of that.”

“Does being five minutes late ruin the illusion?” I bit back, moving to the counter. “Or is it just easier to pretend this is all on your schedule?”

No answer. He just pushed a second mug toward me. No sugar. No cream. Just the same inky sludge he drank.

I stared at it. “Do you even know how I take my coffee? “You didn’t include that in your contract preferences.”

“Should’ve filed it under basic humanity,” I muttered.

Sitting across from each other, the silence was finally broken by the sound from his phone.

I tried not to let the awkwardness get to me. The feeling of being a performer with no script.

But then… BZZZT.

His phone vibrated again. He answered. “Blake.”

A pause. His eyes moved towards me, then narrowed.

“I said no comment. Schedule the PR response and make sure the leak is tracked.”

Another pause. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Yes, I saw the headlines. Handle it.”

He hung up, then slid the phone across the table to me.

I didn’t want to look. But I did.

#MiaTheManipulator

#FromBetrayedToBought

Cinderella or Schemer?

Insiders say she signed a contract to marry the billionaire, real love, or real PR?

My throat dried up.