Chapter 1

The smell of vanilla and cedarwood clung to the air, mixing with the soft hum of R&B floating through the penthouse. Alaya Moore sat sideways on Darius’s lap, her legs draped over his as they lounged on the cream leather sofa, sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He was shirtless, warm, and relaxed. One hand was tracing circles on her bare thigh, the other lazily flipping through emails on his tablet.

“You work too much,” Alaya teased, plucking the tablet from his hand and setting it on the coffee table. “You have a whole million-dollar view and you're looking at spreadsheets?”

Darius smirked, pulling her closer by the waist. “You’re my favorite view. But if I don’t work, who’s gonna pay for your shoe addiction?”

She laughed and swatted his chest. “You’re the one who bought me three pairs last week.”

“And you didn’t complain once,” he said, brushing his lips over her shoulder.

Alaya leaned her head against his and closed her eyes, breathing him in. Mornings like this — warm, unhurried, full of quiet touches — were why she stayed. Why she believed.

“I was thinking,” she murmured. “Maybe next weekend we could take a trip. Just us. Somewhere lowkey. Bahamas? Tulum?”

Before he could answer, his phone buzzed.

He shifted, subtly.

Alaya glanced at the screen out of habit — but he moved faster, flipping the phone face-down on the couch cushion.

Her smile faltered for half a second.

Darius noticed.

“Work,” he said quickly. “One of those dumb brand deals Janelle’s still roped into.”

Ah. Janelle. The politician’s daughter, the woman he was publicly seen with months ago — and the one he swore was just a PR arrangement. "Nothing to worry about," he'd said.

“Thought all that was over?” Alaya said casually, tracing her finger along his collarbone.

“It is,” he said, but his tone was clipped now. “Just loose ends.”

She didn’t push. She knew better. Darius didn’t like being questioned — especially not when he was already halfway out the door in his mind.

He kissed her cheek and stood. “I gotta head out. Meeting with the Mayor’s Fund committee. Don’t wait up, I’ll probably be late.”

Alaya stood too, smoothing the silk of her robe. “You’re always late these days,” she said, half-joking, half-not.

Darius pulled her into a kiss — deep, familiar. “You know I got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

And then he was gone.

She spent the next hour flipping through a fashion magazine, legs curled up under her, sipping mango juice from a wine glass just because it felt fancy.

Her phone lit up beside her.

Tasha: “Girl. Have you heard the news?”

Selena: “I thought you were his everything ”

Selena (again): [Video link]

Alaya narrowed her eyes. Her stomach tightened. She tapped the link.

The screen opened to an Inst*gr*m Live replay.

It took a second to load — then it hit.

There he was.

Darius.

In a tuxedo.

On one knee.

On a rooftop deck lit with string lights and flower petals.

In front of Janelle.

Alaya didn’t blink.

She watched, frozen, as Janelle covered her mouth, sobbing. The crowd of elite onlookers — media, influencers, politicians — gasped and cheered.

" Will you make me the luckiest man on earth...and marry me Janelle?"

“Yes! Yes, a thousand times yes!” Janelle cried.

The camera panned out as applause filled the air.

And then came the comments:

“So happy for them ”

“Finally, the power couple we needed!”

“Didn’t he have a side chick tho?”

“She’s probably crying somewhere on the floor lol”

The glass slipped from Alaya’s hand before she knew it. Juice splattered across the marble. Shards sparkled like tiny diamonds against the floor.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She could still hear his voice from the video. Still taste his kiss from twenty minutes ago. Still feel the warmth of his hands on her skin.

And now… this?

Her knees buckled as her body gave out. She sank to the floor, staring at the phone screen.

Tears slid down her face — slow, silent.

Not just because he proposed to another woman.

But because he lied. Straight to her face. Like she was nothing.

Like three years meant nothing.

And just as she gasped for air through the tears, her phone buzzed again — another message.

Concierge: “Ms. Moore, your access to the residence will be revoked in 24 hours as requested by Mr. Westwood’s office.”

Her heart stopped.

Another buzz. Another message.

"Correction: effective immediately.”