After My Fiancé Cheated, I Married His Greatest Rival

"It is financial suicide," Marcus Miller snapped. He tossed the script onto the mahogany table. "An unknown female director? A cast of rookies? We are Blackwell Entertainment, Scarlett. Not an indie charity."

I leaned forward, planting my palms on the cool wood. "The projected budget is under ten million. The script is raw, and the audience is starving for authentic female stories."

"The board votes no," Marcus countered, crossing his arms.

"The board doesn't own the majority share," a deep voice interrupted.

Damian sat at the head of the table. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.

"Give her the green light," Damian ordered.

Marcus flushed red. "Damian, she is your wife, but this is business—"

"It is business," Damian cut him off. "And she knows the market better than you do. Meeting adjourned."

Six months later, the box office numbers shut Marcus up permanently.

My office door swung open. Damian walked in, carrying a stack of trade magazines. He dropped them onto my desk.

"Read the headlines," he instructed.

I picked up the top issue. *Scarlett Hayes: The Visionary Behind the Year's Biggest Hit.*

"Four international festival nominations," Damian noted, resting his hip against the edge of my desk. "And a fifty-million opening weekend for a movie nobody wanted to make."

"They didn't want to make it because it didn't have a massive star attached," I said.

Damian tapped the second magazine. "Speaking of massive stars."

I pulled the issue toward me. Adrian's face covered the front page, but the headline was brutal. *Thorne’s Latest Action Flick Crashes and Burns.*

"Twelve percent on Rotten Tomatoes," Damian pointed out. "Investors are pulling out of his next three projects."

"Who is handling his crisis PR?" I asked.

"Nobody. His new team quit yesterday. They couldn't control his public meltdowns."

A strange sense of calm washed over me. For eight years, I would have been awake for three days straight, drafting apologies and calling in favors to fix this mess. Today, I just closed the magazine.

"Are we celebrating tonight?" I asked.

"Dinner at eight," Damian replied. "Wear something you like."

I left the Vanguard building at sunset. The underground parking garage was completely empty.

A shadow detached itself from the concrete pillar near my car.

"Scarlett."

I stopped. Adrian stepped into the harsh fluorescent light. He looked terrible. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. His designer suit hung loosely on his frame. No cameras. No entourage. Just him.

"What are you doing here, Adrian?" I asked.

"I need your help," he rasped, closing the distance between us. "You saw the reviews. They are tearing me apart."

"You have a team for that."

"They don't know me!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. He reached for my arm.

I stepped back, dodging his grasp. "Do not touch me."

Adrian dropped his hand. "Vivian doesn't understand the industry. She just complains that the paparazzi are being mean to her. I need you, Scarlett. I made a mistake."

"A mistake?"

"I got caught up in the hype," he pleaded. "I thought I could do it on my own. But I need you to fix the script for my next movie. Just look at it."

He shoved a crumpled manuscript toward me.

I didn't take it. I let it fall to the cement floor.

"You didn't lose me the day you chose Vivian," I said, my voice steady and cold.

Adrian blinked, confusion crossing his exhausted features. "What?"

"You lost me when you decided my sacrifices weren't worth acknowledging," I told him. "You lost me when you convinced yourself my genius was actually yours."

"I was stupid," he begged. "I love you. I always have."

"You love what I can do for your career. That isn't me."

I walked past him, unlocking my car door.

"You're just going to leave me here?" he yelled.

"Watch me." I slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

When I walked into the penthouse, Damian was pouring two glasses of champagne.

"I heard you had a visitor in the garage," he remarked, handing me a crystal flute.

"Your security team reports everything?" I asked, taking a sip.

"They intervene if there is a physical threat. Otherwise, I told them to let you handle your own battles."

I lowered the glass. "You didn't want to step in?"

"You didn't need me to save you, Scarlett," Damian said. His dark eyes locked onto mine. "You never did. You just needed someone to get out of your way."

My chest tightened, but not from pain. It was a completely new sensation. Adrian had demanded I shrink myself to fit into his shadow. Damian handed me a spotlight and stood back to watch me shine.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Don't thank me for treating you like an equal," he replied.

He stepped closer. His knuckles brushed lightly against my cheek. The touch sent a sharp jolt of electricity down my spine. The contract between us suddenly felt very fragile. The lines were blurring into something entirely real.

His phone buzzed on the kitchen island, shattering the quiet moment.

Damian picked it up. He glanced at the screen, and his jaw tightened instantly.

"What is it?" I asked.

He looked up, his expression hardening into stone.

"Vivian Moore just called a live press conference," Damian said. "She's claiming your new movie is based on a stolen script."