Chapter 5

Lucy's POV

I shouldn’t have gotten in that car.

The leather seats were too smooth. The air was too quiet. And the man beside me was too unreadable.

Shane had the look of someone born to drive, our lips sealed together, hands not moving at all even as he’d recently tricked me into pretending to be his fiancée. Or perhaps that was the scariest thing, how unworried he seemed to be.

“You could’ve brought men lower dating at my place,” I said, with my arms crossed, staring at the skyline.

“You don’t live there anymore,” he said without looking at me.

I scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“It doesn’t fit the narrative,” he said. “My fiancée doesn’t sleep in a shoebox with a leaky radiator and three locks on the door. You’re staying with me now.”

“This isn’t real, remember?”

He finally looked at me. “It has to look real.”

The car slowed before a glass tower that glittered, like a weapon, in the night. Sure he was living here in the kind of place with valet parking and security guards in suits, not uniforms.

The instant we walked into the penthouse, I was struck…I mean b-o-w-l-e-d over. I couldn't get enough of the crystal chandeliers, and sparkling floors that must have been polished enough.

The sculptures and paintings probably cost more than my student loans.

A woman greeted us. “Miss Harper, welcome. I’m your stylist for the duration of your stay. Mr. Wilson arranged fittings in the side room.”

Fittings?

Shane just gave me a look that said, “This is what you signed up for.”

I let myself play along for a few hours.

The champagne. The wardrobe. The glowing skin under high-end lighting. I was somebody. Somebody seen. Somebody powerful.

But deep inside, something twisted.

Because even as I twirled in a mirror wearing a Valentino dress I could never afford, I knew it was all fake.

The only thing real was the lie.

~

Days drifted by in a blur of rehearsed smiles and whispered instructions. Paparazzi caught our exits. Blogs tracked my outfits. My following jumped by fifty thousand in one day.

But Shane? He was always on his phone. Always angry. Snapping in that cool, razor-sharp way. His words were low but lethal, like his whole empire could collapse if one person said the wrong thing.

And he never took calls around me.

That’s what got under my skin.

He said we were a team. A partnership. But he still locked doors and kept his screens tilted away from me.

Until the night I got curious.

He was out with the excuse of something about a dinner with investors. I couldn’t sleep. The air in my suite was too cold. My brain spoke loudly.

So I wandered.

I told myself I was looking for Tylenol or tea. Something harmless.

What I found was a drawer in his study, half open. And inside, a folder that got my attention.

When I opened it, I gasped.

It had my name on it. And his top.

On the Marriage Certificate.

Not a mock-up.

It didn't look fake.

It was signed, filed and stamped.

My signature was at the bottom. The same scrawl I’d scribbled during the photoshoot. Thinking it was a damn modeling release.

My heart slammed into my ribs.

This couldn’t be real. This was illegal. This was…

I tore the folder from the drawer and marched straight to his room. He’d just walked in, jacket still on, phone pressed to his ear.

He looked up, confused—then froze.

I held the folder out like a loaded gun. “What the hell is this, Shane?”

He said nothing.

“Say something!”

He ended the call. Took a breath. “Where did you find that?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” I shook the papers in my hand. “You lied to me. This isn’t a contract, it’s a marriage license. You tricked me into marrying you!”

“I didn’t trick you,” he said calmly.

“You forged a marriage without telling me!”

“You signed it.”

“You buried it under paperwork!”

“I did what was necessary.”

My hands trembled. “Necessary for what? Your brand? Your ego? Or your psychotic need to control everything and everyone?!”

He stepped forward, and I stepped back. “This is illegal, Shane. You could go to prison for this.”

He didn’t flinch. “You think a man like me goes to prison?”

I stared at him. “Unbelievable.”

He responded quickly. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Don’t be…?!” I let out a bitter laugh. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen through that cold, perfectly dressed mask of yours. You don’t care about me. You never did.”

He took another step toward me, slow and deliberate. “I care about outcomes.”

I shoved the papers against his chest. “Then here’s your outcome. I’m out.”

Startled, I spun toward the door, my heart pounding so loud, I could have heard an echo.

But I didn’t make it far.

He took my wrist, not hard but steady.

“Let me go.”

He wafted in closer, his voice soft, cool and terrifyingly serene.

“Just walk out, and I’ll make sure your name doesn't work in this town again.”

My breath hitched.

I stared at him, stunned. He squeezed, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who was boss.

“You think that the casting director dropping you was a coincidence?” he whispered. “That your face trending on gossip blogs is the worst I can do?”

“You’re threatening me?” I choked.

“I’m protecting an investment,” he said coolly. “You agreed to play my fiancée. Now you’re my wife. Publicly. Legally. You don’t get to run just because it got messy.”

My throat closed. “You can’t own me.”

His eyes burned into mine. “I don’t need to own you, Lucy. I just need you not to ruin what we started.”

I yanked my arm free. My skin burned where his hand had been.

He let me go, but didn’t move.

“You wanted protection?” he said softly. “You’ve got it.”

I stood there, breathless, humiliated, and trapped.

And the worst part?

Some twisted part of me… still wanted to fight.

Still wanted to win.

Because now it wasn’t just about escape.

It was about surviving him.

“I should warn you, Lucy,” he whispered. “I am a very hard man to please. Run away and I'll find you. ”

My heart pounded and I panted.