Chapter 3

Lucy's POV

I gaped at him for three full seconds and then swung for the nearest thing I could use as a weapon…one of my ceramic pineapple vases. Since I moved in, it had been gathering dust on the window ledge. I never even liked pineapples.

“Get out!” I screamed, lifting it over my head.

Shane didn’t flinch or even blink. He just went in and closed the door like a man who’d never heard the word “no.”

He said more calmly. “I didn’t come here to fight you.

“You invaded my apartment uninvited!” I yelled.

I needed to stop shouting. It was taking a toll on my voice and health.

“You weren’t answering your buzzer.”

“So you just stalked me like some Wall Street lunatic?”

I watched him slid his hand into the pockets of his tailored coat. “Can we sit…”

“Touch one chair and I swear to God…”

“Lucy.” His voice cut through mine like steel. Not loud. Just… steady. “I’m trying to fix this.”

I lowered the vase an inch. “Fix what? My life? You ruined it.”

“I didn’t ruin it.”

“You didn’t stop it either.”

He stepped farther in, scanning my little living room like he was still trying to convince himself I wasn’t some sort of con artist. “You think I wanted this? The cameras? The headlines? The internet calling you names and me a womanizing sociopath?”

“You didn’t stop it,” I repeated, quieter this time.

His jaw tightened. “I’ve spent the last few hours trying to trace who leaked the photos. My security team’s on it. So is my PI. However, we do not have the luxury of waiting at this very moment, which explains my presence here.”

I folded my arms. “To what? Apologize?”

“No,” he said simply. “To offer you a deal.”

I blinked. “A what?”

He took out his phone and handed it to me.

I hesitated, then snatched it. The screen was already open to a headline. This one was worse than all the others.

“Mystery Girl Lucy Frank: Struggling Actress or Billionaire’s Side Chick?”

Below it, a slideshow of every humiliating shot imaginable—me leaving the suite, Shane with his rumpled shirt, me mid-blink, looking wrecked. Comments were brutal. Endless. People who didn’t know me laughed about how I “landed the bag,” or worse, how I “must be really good in bed.”

My stomach turned.

It got worse. Another notification popped up. But this time it was from my own phone. I picked it up. A voicemail from Dana, my casting agent.

I pressed play.

“Lucy… hey. Listen, with everything blowing up, the production’s decided to go in another direction. It’s not personal, but you know how networks are. Maybe next time, okay?”

My hand dropped. The phone nearly fell from my grip.

That role was supposed to be it. My breakthrough. My first speaking part on a national show. Three years of auditions, rejections, bartending night shifts and it just vanished like it was nothing.

I put my hand to my mouth and took a step back.

He grabbed for his phone and crammed it into his pocket before it could hit the pavement. “I’m sorry you had to hear it that way.”

Luckily for me, my phone fell on the couch.

I sat on the edge of my couch, spinning, and said nothing.

“My team thinks we can spin this,” he continued. “Clean up both of our reputations with one narrative.”

I looked up. “What narrative?”

He met my eyes. Calm. Cold. Strategic.

“We’re engaged.”

I let out a short, broken laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not some one-night stand. You’re my fiancée. Longtime girlfriend. Private. Out of the spotlight. That’s the story. We go public, show a united front, give the press something to obsess over.”

“You want me to lie to the entire world?”

“Temporarily,” he said. “Until the noise dies down and people forget.”

“People don’t forget,” I said flatly. “They screenshot. They stalk. They drag your name through comment threads for years.”

“Then we give them something better to talk about.”

I stared at him, stunned. “So your big plan to save your image is to turn me into your fake bride?”

“It saves us both.”

“No, it saves you. You’re trying to protect your IPO, your investors. I’m just collateral.”

His voice was quieter now. “You’re not collateral. You’re the only one they’ll believe.”

My breath caught.

He sat across from me, elbows on his knees. “You’re not a model. Not some influencer. You’re real. People will see that. Believe it. And when we show up holding hands at the right gala, looking madly in love, they’ll stop calling you names and start calling you lucky.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“It’s temporary,” he said again. “Strictly business. But it’ll give you a clean break. Maybe even open some doors instead of closing them.”

I stared at him. At the man who somehow wrecked my week and still thought he could charm his way into fixing it.

And the worst part? He might be right.

“Do I even have a choice?” I asked bitterly.

“You always have a choice,” he said. “But this one comes with PR protection, top-tier legal shielding, and a paycheck that’ll make sure no casting director dares blacklist you again.”

I hesitated. Every instinct in me screamed that this was dangerous. That it wasn’t just fake engagement—it was signing a contract with fire.

But then I remembered Dana’s voicemail.

The photos. The comments. My name was trampled by strangers I’d never met.

I looked at him slowly. “Fine. One condition.”

He raised a brow.

“This is temporary. Strictly professional. No blurred lines. No surprises. And when this ends—”

“It ends,” he said. “Cleanly. Quietly.”

We stayed silent. I waited anxiously, confused as the seconds ticked by.

“Say something. Darn it,” I thought.

I didn't need to keep my brains busy because he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box.

He pushed it closer to my face. I got even more confused.

“What's that?” I asked.

He smirked. “Something to make my plan very convincing.”

He opened it and I gasped. Then he spoke gently, “Marry me, Lucy.”

“What?” I screamed.