A Fake Marriage With The Real Tycoon

The kiss stretched on, a public declaration carved into the humid night air. Caiden's hand slid from Averie's hair down to the small of her back, pressing her against him. It was a gesture of ownership, of familiarity. It was everything he'd never been with Alayna.

Her blood felt like ice in her veins. The last flickering ember of hope inside her—the tiny, stupid part that whispered it's a misunderstanding—was extinguished. The truth was a cold, hard stone in her gut.

Finally, they broke apart, both of them breathless. Averie's gaze drifted over the pool area and landed on the mascot.

She laughed, a tinkling, cruel sound. "God, that thing is hideous."

Caiden glanced over, his eyes dismissive. "What do you expect? It's cheap entertainment for the new-money crowd."

His words, casual and unthinking, were a fresh wound. Cheap. That's all she was to him.

Inside the costume, Alayna's nails bit into her palms again. The physical pain was a welcome distraction, a focal point in the overwhelming sea of hurt. She wanted to scream. She wanted to rip the turkey head off and show him the face of the girl whose heart he had just systematically destroyed.

But her body wouldn't move. She was paralyzed by the sheer, stunning cruelty of it all.

"Mascot! Get to work!" Brendan's voice cut through her trance. He slapped the fuzzy back of the costume.

The slap jolted her. She forced her heavy, plush feet to move, shuffling toward a dark corner of the patio, away from the glittering crowd. Once she was hidden behind a large potted palm, she reached up with trembling hands and yanked the head off.

Cool, fresh air rushed over her sweat-slicked face. She gasped, gulping it down like a drowning victim. Her reflection in the dark glass of the patio door was a monster. Mascara ran in black rivers down her cheeks, her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her eyes were wide with a pain so deep it looked like madness.

She fumbled for her phone in the apron pocket. The screen lit up, displaying her message thread with Caiden. There it was—the picture of the textbook he'd sent just an hour ago, followed by the goodnight message from last night. Two separate lies, stacked one on top of the other. The goodnight message she'd fallen asleep smiling at. The textbook photo she'd believed without question.

Goodnight, babe. Dream of me.

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her lips. It sounded like a sob. She shoved the phone back into her pocket, the lie of it burning a hole through the fabric.

And then, it vibrated. A frantic, insistent buzzing against her leg.

She pulled it out again. The screen read: BRENDA MCCOY. Her next-door neighbor. An elderly woman who checked in on her mom.

Her finger shook as she answered. "Brenda?"

"Alayna, thank God." Brenda's voice was thin and panicked. "It's your mother. It's Laura. She collapsed. The paramedics just took her. They're going to New York-Presbyterian."

The world dissolved.

The party, the costume, Caiden, Averie—it all vanished. There was only Brenda's voice and a terror so absolute it stole the air from her lungs.

"I'm coming," she choked out, the words tasting like ash.

She dropped the turkey head on the ground. Her hands flew to the back of the costume, fumbling with the zipper. The heavy, musty fabric resisted, then finally gave way. She tore the plush body off, kicking her feet free from the oversized turkey legs. The costume collapsed in a heap on the patio. She didn't look back. In nothing but her cheap server's uniform, she ran.

She burst through the club's ornate gates, past the valets, ignoring Brendan's furious shouts behind her.

The sky had opened up. A cold, torrential rain was lashing the pavement, turning the streetlights into blurry halos. She didn't have an umbrella. She didn't have a coat. She didn't care.

She ran to the curb, her cheap server's uniform instantly soaked through, and waved her arm frantically at the passing headlights.

A luxury sedan sped by, its tires throwing a curtain of grimy water that soaked her to the bone. She flinched back, invisible to the wealthy occupants cocooned within. None of them even slowed down. To them, she was just a crazy girl in a cheap, wet uniform, screaming in the rain.

Desperation clawed at her throat. Her mother. She had to get to her mother.

Tears mixed with the rain on her face. A sob tore from her chest, raw and animalistic. Her legs gave out, and she sank to her knees on the wet asphalt, the fight draining out of her. The world was collapsing, and she was at the epicenter.

A pair of brilliant headlights cut through the downpour, stopping directly in front of her. The car was a sleek, black Maybach, its engine a low, powerful hum that was barely audible over the storm.

A door opened. A large black umbrella snapped open, creating a perfect circle of shelter in the chaos. A polished black leather shoe stepped out, landing firmly in a puddle.

A man walked toward her.

Alayna looked up, shielding her eyes from the rain. Through the watery curtain, she saw a face. A face she hadn't seen in person in four years, but one that was seared into her memory. Chiseled jaw, intense dark eyes, an expression of calm authority.

Haskell Knight.

The boy from her prep school scholarship days. The untouchable, brilliant, quiet boy she had watched from afar, the one who existed in a completely different universe. He was standing in front of her, holding an umbrella over her head.

Her mind went blank. She couldn't form a thought.

He held out a folded, linen handkerchief. His voice was low and steady, cutting through the sound of the rain.

"Alayna Heath?"

He remembered her name.

She took the handkerchief, her fingers numb and clumsy. How could he possibly remember her name?

He didn't wait for an answer. He took her by the wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Come on."

He pulled her to her feet and guided her toward the open car door. She moved like a sleepwalker, her mind still reeling.

The door shut behind them, and the world went silent. The roar of the rain was instantly reduced to a soft, rhythmic drumming on the roof. The air inside was warm and smelled of leather and clean, sharp cedar.

She was shivering violently, dripping water all over the pristine leather seat. She tried to curl into herself, to take up as little space as possible.

Without a word, Haskell shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It was heavy and warm, carrying his body heat. The scent of cedar was stronger now, surrounding her.

She flinched at the contact, the memory of his name on the library dedication plaque, the hushed whispers about his family, all of it rushing back. She felt her own pathetic, drenched state more acutely than ever.

He leaned forward, his voice calm and directed at the unseen driver.

"New York-Presbyterian. And step on it."

Alayna's head snapped up. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

He knew. How did he know where she needed to go?