CHAPTER TWO

The security guard at the Meridian Hotel entrance had the build of someone who'd done military service and the expression of someone who'd seen every possible scheme. He glanced at Catherine's name on the list his colleague was scrolling through on a tablet.

"I'm sorry, miss, I don't see a Catherine Hayes registered."

Catherine had anticipated this. She'd spent the three-minute walk from her car building the story, arranging her features into professional confidence rather than the screaming chaos she felt inside.

"I'm not a guest," she said smoothly. "I'm with Ever After Events—we're consulting on next year's foundation gala. Sandra Montenegro asked me to stop by tonight to get a feel for the space and the flow." She pulled out her business card, which listed her as owner and lead coordinator. "I realize this is last minute, but I was in the area finishing another event at the Plaza, and Sandra mentioned earlier this week that it would be helpful if I could observe tonight's setup."

It was a carefully constructed half-truth. Ever After Events had done preliminary consultations with several corporate clients about their annual galas, and the Meridian was definitely on that list. The guard wouldn't be able to verify it tonight, but the confidence in her delivery and the legitimate business card would probably be enough.

The guard studied the card, then glanced at his colleague, who shrugged. "She's in the database for venue consultations," the second guard confirmed. "Different event, but the company's legit."

The first guard handed back her card. "All right, Ms. Hayes. Just observe from the periphery, please. This is a high-profile event with some very private individuals."

"Of course. Thank you."

Catherine walked through the entrance, her heart hammering so hard she was certain everyone could hear it. What was she doing? This wasn't her. Catherine Hayes didn't crash exclusive galas. She didn't lie to security guards. She planned other people's perfect days and went home to her organized apartment and her reliable fiancé and her carefully constructed life.

Except none of that existed anymore.

The Meridian's grand ballroom was spectacular—soaring ceilings with crystal chandeliers, walls draped in ivory silk, tables arranged with mathematical precision. The crowd was exactly what she'd expected: Manhattan's elite in designer gowns and tailored tuxedos, champagne glasses catching light, conversation floating in that particular frequency of money and influence.

Catherine accepted a champagne flute from a passing waiter, not because she wanted it but because holding something gave her hands purpose. She drifted toward the edge of the room, scanning faces.

It took less than two minutes to spot Marcus.

He stood in a cluster of young executives near the bar, laughing at something one of them had said. He looked completely unbothered. No guilt. No shame. Just Marcus in his expensive suit, networking and charming his way up the corporate ladder like he hadn't left his fiancée devastated just hours ago.

Catherine's grip tightened on the champagne flute. The rage she'd felt in her apartment came flooding back, sharp and clarifying.

"The Yamamoto acquisition is going to make or break half the acquisitions team," a voice said nearby. Catherine turned to see two older men in conversation, not quite looking at her but standing close enough that she could hear every word. "Chen from acquisitions got assigned to it. Poor bastard. He'll fail, and Blackwell will probably fire him within the quarter."

Marcus. They were talking about Marcus.

"Blackwell doesn't suffer incompetence," the second man agreed. "Remember what he did to Peterson last year? Destroyed his career so thoroughly the man had to move to Singapore to find work."

Catherine's mind raced. Harry Blackwell was notoriously ruthless—she'd read about him in business magazines, seen his picture occasionally in society pages. He'd taken his family's already successful real estate empire and expanded it into something massive. He was known for cutting business ties without hesitation, for expecting perfection from his executives, for having no patience for failure or mediocrity.

If Marcus was already on a difficult assignment, if he was already at risk...

An idea formed. Dangerous. Probably impossible. But Catherine was operating on pain and rage and recklessness now, a combination that obliterated good judgment.

If she could get to Harry Blackwell, if she could somehow make Marcus's professional life as complicated as he'd made her personal life...

But she didn't know what Blackwell looked like beyond grainy business magazine photos. She pulled out her phone, intending to G****e him, when someone bumped into her from behind.

Champagne splashed across the front of her dress.

"Damn it," Catherine muttered, looking down at the spreading stain.

"I'm sorry." The voice was deep, cultured, with an edge of genuine concern that surprised her. "Let me help."

Catherine looked up into the most striking eyes she'd ever seen—steel gray, analytical, set in a face that was all sharp angles and controlled intensity. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a tuxedo that probably cost more than her monthly rent. His dark hair was precisely styled, and he carried himself with the kind of unconscious authority that made people instinctively move out of his way.

"I'm fine," Catherine said automatically, then registered the spreading champagne stain across expensive silk. "Actually, I'm not fine. I'm having the worst day of my life, and I need to make someone pay for it."

She hadn't meant to say that. The words just emerged, raw and honest in a way she never was with strangers.

The man raised one dark eyebrow, and something that might have been amusement flickered across his otherwise impassive face. "That's quite an honest opener. Most people at these events stick to boring pleasantries."

"Most people at these events haven't caught their fiancé in bed with their sister three weeks before their wedding," Catherine shot back.

The words hung in the air between them. Catherine felt simultaneously mortified and liberated—she'd said it out loud, made the betrayal real by speaking it to this beautiful stranger.

Something shifted in the man's expression. The amusement disappeared, replaced by recognition. Understanding. "That does sound remarkably terrible. Are you here to throw a drink in someone's face? Because I should warn you, security here is excellent."

Catherine laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "No. I'm here because I'm apparently self-destructive and couldn't stay home crying like a normal person."

She glanced across the room again and saw Marcus, still laughing, still networking, still completely unconcerned with the devastation he'd caused. The rage crystallized into something sharp and focused.

Catherine looked back at the stranger. He was watching her with an intensity that should have been unsettling but instead felt oddly grounding.

She made a decision that would change everything.

"Would you be willing to help me with something morally questionable but emotionally satisfying?"

The man's eyes gleamed with interest. "I'm listening."

"See that man over there? The one in the blue suit?" Catherine pointed at Marcus. "That's my ex-fiancé. Would you kiss me? Right here, right now, in front of everyone?"

It was insane. She'd never done anything like this in her entire life. Catherine Hayes didn't make impulsive decisions. She planned. She organized. She considered consequences and made spreadsheets and chose the safe, responsible option.

But safe and responsible had gotten her a cheating fiancé and a sister's betrayal and a mother who blamed her for the family embarrassment.

The stranger studied her for a long moment. His gaze traveled over her face, assessing something Catherine couldn't name. Then he asked, "What's your name?"

"Catherine. Catherine Hayes."

"Well, Catherine Hayes, I'm Harry." He extended his hand, and when she took it, his grip was firm and warm. "And yes, I'll kiss you. But I should warn you—I'm about to make your situation significantly more complicated."

Before Catherine could ask what he meant, before she could second-guess her reckless request, Harry Blackwell—because of course this was Harry Blackwell, she realized with dawning horror as people around them started noticing, started whispering—cupped her face in his hands.

His palms were warm against her skin. His eyes held hers for one suspended moment, giving her a chance to back out.

Catherine didn't back out.

Harry kissed her.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was possessive and demanding and sent electricity crackling through Catherine's entire body. His mouth moved against hers with practiced skill, one hand sliding into her hair while the other pressed against the small of her back, pulling her closer.

Catherine's mind went blank. She forgot about Marcus. Forgot about the betrayal. Forgot about the two hundred people watching them. There was only this—heat and want and the shocking realization that she'd never been kissed like this before. Like she was the only thing that mattered. Like he wanted to consume her.

The ballroom had gone quiet. Catherine heard the hush of surprise, the rustle of turned heads, the unmistakable sound of camera phones capturing the moment.

When Harry finally pulled back, his eyes were dark and unreadable. His thumb traced her lower lip, and Catherine shivered.

"There," he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Consider your revenge delivered. Though I suspect we've both just created a PR nightmare."

Reality crashed back. Catherine became aware of the hundreds of eyes on them, the whispers growing louder, the obvious shock rippling through the crowd. Across the room, Marcus stood frozen, his face a mixture of disbelief and something that might have been panic.

Catherine's heart hammered. "I should go."

Harry caught her wrist gently as she started to turn. "Wait. I think we should talk. Because that kiss is going to be on every gossip site by morning, and I have a proposition that might benefit us both."

"A proposition?" Catherine's voice came out steadier than she felt.

"Not here." Harry glanced around the ballroom, which was still buzzing with speculation. "Somewhere private. Five minutes of your time. If you don't like what I have to say, you walk away and we never speak again."

Catherine should refuse. Should leave right now and deal with the consequences of her impulsive decision. But something in Harry's expression—a controlled intensity, a hint of calculation—intrigued her despite her better judgment.

"Five minutes," she agreed.

Harry led her through the crowd, which parted almost unconsciously for him. People watched them pass with undisguised curiosity. Catherine caught fragments of whispered speculation:

"—that's Harry Blackwell—"

"—who is she?—"

"—thought he swore off relationships after—"

They reached a hallway leading away from the main ballroom. Harry opened a door marked "Private" and ushered Catherine into what appeared to be a small conference room—sleek table, leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

The door closed, muffling the party noise. Catherine turned to face Harry, suddenly aware that she was alone with a man she'd known for exactly ten minutes and had just kissed in front of five hundred witnesses.

"So," she said, trying for light despite the anxiety coiling in her stomach. "That was—"

"Effective," Harry interrupted. He leaned against the closed door, studying her with those analytical gray eyes. "Though I'm guessing you didn't realize who I was when you asked me to kiss you."

"I figured it out about halfway through," Catherine admitted. "You're Harry Blackwell. You own this company. You're Marcus's boss."

"Marcus Chen. Junior executive in acquisitions. Recently engaged." Harry's mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Or recently not engaged, according to your story."

"It's not a story. It's humiliatingly true." Catherine wrapped her arms around herself, the adrenaline from the kiss starting to fade and leaving her feeling exposed. "Three weeks before my wedding, I find my fiancé in bed with my sister. She's pregnant. They've been having an affair for four months. My mother thinks I should step aside gracefully to avoid embarrassing the family."

She said it flatly, without emotion, because if she let herself feel it right now she'd fall apart.

Harry's expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or understanding. "That's remarkably terrible. I'm sorry."

The simple statement, delivered without pity or judgment, threatened Catherine's composure more than sympathy would have. She blinked back sudden tears.

"So you crashed my charity gala to get revenge on your cheating ex," Harry continued. "Interesting choice. Most people go for slashed tires or angry social media posts."

"I wasn't thinking clearly." Catherine laughed shakily. "I'm still not thinking clearly. I should go. Apologize for disrupting your event. Pretend this never—"

"What if I told you I could make Marcus Chen's professional life extremely unpleasant?" Harry interrupted. "That I could ensure every project he touches at Blackwell Industries fails? That I could effectively destroy his career trajectory without ever directly intervening?"

Catherine stared at him. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I need something from you in return." Harry pushed off from the door, moving closer. "That kiss we just shared is going to be all over social media within the hour. My grandmother—who controls a rather substantial trust fund I need access to—is going to see those pictures and ask questions. Questions about my relationship status and why I'm suddenly kissing mysterious wedding planners at charity galas."

"I don't understand."

"My grandmother believes I need to settle down. Prove I've moved past my very public breakup three years ago and become a responsible, committed adult." Harry's tone was dry. "She's withholding access to a trust fund until I demonstrate suitable domesticity. The trust fund I need to close the Yamamoto acquisition—the largest real estate deal of my career."

"You're saying you need a girlfriend," Catherine said slowly.

"I'm saying I need a fiancée. A fake one. Someone who can play the part convincingly for approximately six months until the trust funds transfer and the acquisition closes. Someone who has her own life and isn't looking for a real relationship. Someone who, ideally, has her own reasons for wanting to participate in this arrangement."

Catherine's mind raced. "You want to fake an engagement."

"I want a business arrangement that benefits us both." Harry's eyes held hers steadily. "Six months of public appearances. Dinners with my grandmother. Corporate events. Enough to convince Victoria Blackwell that I'm seriously committed to someone. In return, I'll pay you half a million dollars and ensure Marcus Chen never advances in his career. I'll make sure every project he's assigned is set up to fail. He'll be lucky to find work at a decent firm after I'm done with his reputation."

Half a million dollars. Enough to expand Ever After Events significantly. Enough to start completely over if she wanted to leave New York and the humiliation behind.

But more than that—the chance to make Marcus regret every choice that had led him to her sister's bed.

"Why me?" Catherine asked. "You could hire any actress in New York. Someone without the baggage of a very public breakup and family drama."

"Because you're already emotionally unavailable," Harry said bluntly. "You're not going to fall in love with me or expect this arrangement to become real. You have your own motivation—revenge, financial security, whatever drives you. That makes you perfect for this. No one gets hurt because no one's genuinely invested."

Catherine should say no. This was insane. Fake engagements were the plot of romance novels, not real life. There had to be a thousand ways this could go wrong.

But she thought about Marcus and Lily. About her mother's blame and disappointment. About going home to her empty apartment and canceling two hundred wedding invitations and facing everyone's pity.

"Six months?" she asked.

"Six months. We'll have a contract drawn up. Clear terms, clear exit strategy. When it ends, we part ways cleanly. I get my trust fund and acquisition. You get payment and the satisfaction of seeing your ex-fiancé's career destroyed."

"I have conditions," Catherine heard herself say.

Harry's lips curved in what might have been approval. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't. Name them."

"I keep control of my business. Ever After Events is mine, and nothing about this arrangement affects my ownership or operations."

"Agreed."

"We maintain separate residences. I'm not moving in with you."

"We'll need to appear together frequently enough to be convincing, but yes, separate residences to start. My grandmother may expect us to cohabitate eventually. We can negotiate that timeline."

Catherine's mind spun with complications and considerations. "What about physical intimacy? What exactly are the expectations—"

"Nothing you're not comfortable with. We'll need to appear affectionate in public—hand-holding, occasional kisses like tonight, the standard couple behaviors. But behind closed doors, this is purely business. No pressure, no expectations beyond what the contract specifies."

"And after six months?"

"We have a clean break. Mutual decision to part ways, very amicable, remain friends. You'll sign an NDA about the arrangement's details, but you're free to date, move on, do whatever you want."

It was clinical. Transactional. Everything Catherine's romantic soul should reject.

But her romantic soul had gotten her engaged to a cheating liar and betrayed by her own sister. Maybe clinical and transactional was exactly what she needed.

"I want it in writing. Tonight. Before I agree to anything publicly."

Harry pulled out his phone. "My lawyer lives two blocks from here. He can draft something within the hour. Are you seriously considering this?"

Catherine looked at this beautiful, cold man offering her a business transaction dressed up as romance. She thought about the alternative—going home, facing the pity, watching Marcus and Lily build their life while she picked up the pieces of her shattered dreams.

"Yes," she said. "I'm seriously considering it."

"Then let's call Robert and get you a contract."