Chapter 7

ALESSANDRE

I just wanted coffee.

That was it. A cup of coffee and maybe one of those warm almond croissants they always kept behind the glass. I hadn’t slept throughout the night and now, my head was a tumble of confused thoughts and a hangover still lingered at the fringes of my brain. Something about last night just kept nagging at me—the look on her face while she was in my arms.

Ophelia Wren hated me and that was a fact.

Her hatred was justified. Yet, I wished she didn’t hate me.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk, buttoning my coat up against the wind as I headed to the corner café that I used to frequent back when I had a driver, a PA, and less shame. Life was simpler then. Or maybe I was just clueless to my surroundings.

The scent of roasted espresso wafted to my nose before I even saw the café and I let out a breath of relief. One small ritual, one moment of normalcy—

"OH. MY. GOD."

I blinked.

"Is that—? It's him, right?!"

Suddenly, a cacophony of high-pitched voices descended upon me. I spun around in time to witness a group of teenage girls—five of them, all screaming like they'd spotted a damn rockstar.

"Wait, wait, wait. Can we get a photo with you?" one of them screeched. Yes, she practically screeched in my ears.

I took a small step backward. "I'm sorry… do I—?"

"You're Alessandre Marcello, aren't you?" another one gushed, cradling her phone as if it were a relic. "Ophelia Wren's fiancé?"

My face fell.

"I—what?"

There was no time to respond before they were already grouping around me. One girl had looped her arm through mine. Another had positioned the phone expertly, and the camera was already snapping away.

Click. Click. Click.

"Say power couple!" the red haired one squealed.

"Wait, what—?" My goodness, what the fuck was going on?!

"Oh my God, thank you, thank you, thank youuuuu,” another screamed again, a blonde one this time. “You're even hotter in person!" she continued as they scattered like confetti, screaming and laughing down the street.

I just stood there, stunned, having no clue what the hell had just happened.

Fiancé?

I wasn't anyone's fiancé let alone Ophelia not since I ruined any chance of that ever happening.

I pushed open the door to the café, still frowning, and stepped in. The warmth of the place wrapped around me like a soothing balm, and I walked straight to the counter.

“Morning, Mr. Marcello,” said the barista with a smile that felt a little too knowing. “The usual?”

“Yeah. Uh… coffee. Black. And that almond croissant if you’ve got any left.”

“You’re lucky. Last one,” she said, handing it over in a paper bag, then looking at me. “Congratulations, by the way.”

I stared. “On what?”

She gave me a small wink, then pointed toward the TV mounted above the espresso machine.

I turned slowly and faced the TV.

My face was on the screen.

And hers.

It was a six-year-old picture of Ophelia and me, grinning in some Paris café, our arms around one another. A headline was written on the bottom:

"BREAKING: OPHELIA WREN AND ALESSANDRE MARCELLO ENGAGED AGAIN?!"

At that moment, I forgot how to breathe.

The anchor continued in a tone of pure giddy speculation. "After their surprise reunion at last night's charity ball, sources close to the couple confirm that a rekindled romance could be on the horizon. While no date has been officially announced, their joint statement speaks volumes in that direction."

Joint statement? What fucking joint statement?

My grip around the coffee cup became tighter than it needed to be.

"Everything okay, sir?" the barista asked.

I didn't answer. Because I was standing in a coffee shop, croissant in hand, and watching the world declare me a groom in a wedding I never asked for.

What the hell was Ophelia playing at?

I left the café without the croissant.

The streets were louder now, or maybe I was. My ears buzzed loudly and my heart pounded to a beat I couldn’t understand. I didn’t even notice the black SUV pull up beside me until the window rolled down.

"Mr. Marcello?" a voice called stopping me in my tracks. One of the men in a charcoal suit stepped out and two others followed.

"I don't do backseat alleyway rides anymore," I said to him, my voice level. "Try someone else."

"We’re from PureWay Inc.," the bigger one continued.

That got my attention because that was the name of Ophelia’s company.

"We have to ask you to come with us. Something's come up and we require your presence."

"Where, exactly?" I asked, highly cautious of following anyone anywhere. I still had enemies and pissing them off wasn’t high on my list.

"The main headquarters,” he said. “It will not take long."

I should've gone home but I didn't.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in a conference room that smelled of new leather and tension. Polished glass, expensive chairs, subdued assistants typing softly on their tablets. Ophelia was not here. Not that I expected her to face me in person.

An older man in a tailored navy suit finally said something.

"Mr. Marcello,” he began. “Thank you for coming in. As you've no doubt seen, the relationship between you and Miss Wren has been made public."

"You don't say," I muttered bitterly.

He cleared his throat, seemingly not amused by me. "It was inevitable,” he carried on. “The public was spiraling out of control. We needed to control the narrative."

"By making me her puppet?" I deadpanned.

"No," interrupted a second voice—a younger woman with a sleek bob, dark skin and razor-sharp blazer. "By covering the two of you."

"Amusing,” I replied. “I don't remember approving a relationship between us."

“Your reputation was at stake more than it already is,” she replied. “Something had to be done to resolve it.”

She placed a folder on the glass table and pushed it forward. I took it cautiously and looked through it. Inside was a contract about terms surrounding our “engagement.”

I closed the file.

“We all know this whole thing wasn’t done to save my face but your boss. So, tell me,” I leaned forward. “Why should I sign this contract when I have nothing to benefit from it.”

The lady smiled and settled into her seat.

“Forgive me for starting on the wrong foot, Mr. Marcello,” she began. “I’m Charlotte Johnson, the head of this company’s PR team and we both know that this whole thing is in your favor because till now, you’re not over Ophelia.”

There was a long silence in the room.

I gritted my teeth. "So, what now? We do red carpet appearances and hold hands like teenagers?"

“Maybe,” she said. “Just sign the contract and you can think of that later. Also, there's an apartment waiting for you nearby. It will allow the press to capture your proximity, staged encounters and public sightings. The both of you would need just one magazine cover and no physical contact is required."

I stood up. "Is she behind this?"

"Miss Wren has approved all decisions," the man said smoothly.

Of course she had.

"Where's the apartment?" I asked.

They handed me a keycard and an address.

I took it from their hands, signed the contract and handed it over to them.

The woman—Charlotte—smiled. “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Marcello,” she said. And it was then I remembered where I knew her from. She was Ophelia’s friend and roommate back then.

I gave her a curt smile in return and left the room without thanking them.

-----------------

The penthouse was cold, beautiful, expensive and perfectly decorated with minimalist furniture and a bowl of oranges on the marble kitchen island that no one would ever eat.

The moment I stepped inside, there was a flash.

A photographer backed away through the doorway.

"Sorry!" he called out. "Just a welcome shot. For the press."

I slammed the door in his face.

I sat on the edge of the bed in the sterile, clean room for the next hour, staring at the engagement contract like it was written in a language I used to speak but could no longer understand.

I used to be a man who could read people. Who could sell biotech to billionaires and still charm a room with a crooked smile while wearing a designer suit.

Now?

I was just her accessory.

The fake fiancé.

Her weapon.

And part of me—some ugly, self-loathing part—knew that I deserved every goddamn bit of it.