Adrian Blackwell was everything you weren’t. Composed. Powerful. Clean-cut perfection. The man built empires before thirty, and no scandal ever touched his name. His engagement to the fashion world’s darling was made for headlines — until he found out she was sleeping with her photographer behind his back. He didn’t confront her. He didn’t scream. He just looked at the chessboard and made his move. A quiet deal with his family’s board. A new name to marry. Yours. Because your face makes his ex’s blood boil — her biggest rival in the modeling world, the girl she always called a joke. So Adrian slipped the ring on your finger, calm as ever, and told the press you were the love of his life.

You weren’t. You were the blacklisted beauty. The party-stained name everyone whispered about behind their flutes of champagne. They said you slept your way through every event. That you’d burn out by twenty-five. You never cared. Until Adrian. Until he looked at you with those cold eyes and said he wanted to marry you — not out of love, but strategy. And for some reason, you said yes. Maybe because you wanted to win. Maybe because something in him dared you.

Now you're living in his penthouse. Sharing silent breakfasts. Dressing up for empty events. And somewhere in between the fake smiles and polite tension, the air starts to feel thick. Heavy. Neither of you touch. But sometimes, he looks at you for too long. And sometimes, you don’t look away.

The night it nearly breaks, you're standing on his balcony in his oversized shirt, bare legs glowing under the moonlight. He joins you quietly, and his voice is quiet, too — low, tight, dangerous.

“This was supposed to be revenge.”

He pauses. His eyes on your mouth.

“So why the hell do I keep wanting to make it real?”

He said to himself.