Chapter 3: The Press Announcement

10AM arrived far too quickly.

I hardly slept.

White room, white sheets, and Rule 3 looping endlessly in my head.

No touching. Not for photos. Not for anything.

Yet today there would be photos.

Plenty of them.

The dress was already waiting on the bed when I stepped out of the shower.

Cream silk. Long sleeves. High neckline.

Not sexy. Not revealing.

Safe—the kind of dress meant to keep all attention on the billionaire standing beside her.

A note was pinned to it.

His handwriting again.

Wear this. Hair down. No sneakers.

— O

I glanced at my scuffed white sneakers by the door.

Not today.

I left my hair down as instructed. Light makeup. The ring sat heavy on my finger.

When I came downstairs he was already waiting in the foyer.

Black suit. No tie.

He looked me over once, head to toe, and his jaw gave that small, sharp tick.

“Good,” he said. Nothing more.

The car ride was silent.

Tinted windows. Driver up front.

Me in the back, hands folded tightly over my knees so I wouldn’t twist the ring.

He stayed on his phone the entire time—emails, calls—like we weren’t about to tell the world we were getting married in thirty days.

“Rule recap,” he said suddenly, still not looking up.

“One: we look happy. Not in love. Happy.

Two: you don’t speak unless I introduce you.

Three: when they ask how we met, you say charity gala. I’ll handle the rest.

Four: no touching.”

I nodded. “Got it.”

He finally glanced at me. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re bouncing your leg.”

I stopped.

Vance Tower was all glass and steel, too tall to take in at once.

Reporters already waited behind barriers. Cameras. Microphones.

My stomach dropped.

“Last thing,” he said as the car stopped.

He turned to face me fully for the first time that morning.

“This is business. Remember that.”

I nodded.

The door opened.

Before I could step out, his hand appeared.

Offered.

Rule 3 flashed through my mind. No touching. Not for photos. Not for anything.

I stared at his hand.

He raised an eyebrow, as if asking whether I planned to make this difficult.

I placed my hand in his.

His palm was warm. Dry. Grip firm but not crushing.

He helped me from the car and didn’t let go.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Cameras exploded like lightning.

“Mr. Vance! Is it true?”

“Who is she?”

“When’s the wedding?”

He kept walking, my hand still in his.

His thumb brushed once across my knuckles—probably for the cameras.

My whole arm went cold, then hot.

Inside was worse.

More people. More cameras.

A backdrop stamped with VANCE TECH in huge white letters.

A podium.

His assistant, headset in place, hurried over.

“Two minutes. Stick to the statement. Smile.”

Smile. Right.

We waited behind the curtain.

He still hadn’t released my hand.

I tried to pull away discreetly.

He only held tighter.

“Don’t,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.

“They’ll notice.”

So I stood there, holding the hand of a man I’d met twenty-four hours earlier,

wearing a ring I hadn’t earned,

about to lie to millions of people.

The curtain parted.

The light was blinding.

More flashes.

He stepped to the podium and drew me with him, our joined hands on full display.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, voice steady, pure CEO.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

He spoke about the company. About growth. About stability.

Then he looked down at me.

“This is Nadia Carter. She’s agreed to be my wife.”

Another storm of flashes.

I smiled. I think. My face felt frozen.

“How did you meet?” someone called out.

He squeezed my hand once—our cue, I supposed.

“We met at a charity gala six months ago,” he said.

“She was working the event. We’ve been seeing each other since.”

Six months.

Not twenty-four hours.

“Why the rush?” another voice.

“Personal reasons,” he answered smoothly. “We’re keeping the ceremony small. Thirty days.”

Questions kept coming.

I answered none of them.

Just stood there smiling, hand in his,

while he invented a six-month relationship out of nothing.

When it ended, security moved us quickly.

Back through the curtain. Back to the car.

The second the doors shut, he let go.

Just like that.

The warmth vanished from my hand.

I tucked it under my thigh.

He returned to his phone immediately, as if nothing had happened.

“Did well,” he said without looking up. “No one suspected anything.”

I stared out the window.

My hand still tingled where he’d touched me.

“Rule 3,” I said quietly.

He didn’t look up. “What about it?”

“You said no touching. Not for photos. Not for anything.”

Now he met my eyes.

Something flickered there for a second—guilt? Irritation?

“The press needed to see it,” he said. “It was necessary.”

“Right. Necessary.”

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

Back at the mansion he went straight to his wing.

Off-limits.

I went upstairs.

I slipped the ring off and set it on the dresser.

My finger felt bare without it. And lighter.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

A text:

You looked good today.

We should practice looking married.

Dinner. 8PM.

— O

Practice.

Right.

I lay back on the stark white bed and stared at the ceiling.

Day 2.

98 left.

And Rule 3 was already broken.

The worst part?

For those ten minutes in front of the cameras,

with his hand in mine,

it hadn’t felt like acting at all.