Discarded Bride, Billionaire's Obsession

I woke up in a bed that wasn't mine.

For a moment, I panicked—my heart racing, breath caught in my throat. Then I remembered.

Damien's penthouse. My new home. My new life.

I sat up slowly, taking in the guest room he'd given me. Calling it a "room" felt like an insult. It was bigger than my entire apartment had been. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. The bed was massive, covered in silk sheets that probably cost more than my car. There was a sitting area, a walk-in closet already filled with the clothes from yesterday's shopping spree, and a bathroom with a tub big enough to swim in.

This was temporary, I reminded myself. Six months. Then I'd take my five million and disappear.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Adrian:We need to talk.

Adrian:Emma, answer me.

Adrian:This is childish. Call me back.

Twelve missed calls. Twenty texts. All from last night after I'd turned my phone on silent.

I deleted every single one without reading the rest.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," I called, pulling the sheets up even though I was wearing perfectly modest pajamas.

The door opened, but it wasn't Damien. It was a woman in her fifties, elegant and composed, carrying a silver tray.

"Good morning, Miss Emma," she said with a warm smile. "I'm Margaret, Mr. Cross's housekeeper. I've brought you breakfast."

"Oh, you didn't have to"

"Mr. Cross insists." She set the tray on the bedside table. Coffee, fresh pastries, fruit, and what looked like an omelet that belonged in a restaurant. "He's already left for the office, but he asked me to make sure you're comfortable."

"He left?" I glanced at the clock. 6:47 AM. "It's barely seven."

"Mr. Cross is an early riser," Margaret said. "But he left this for you."

She handed me a note card. Heavy stock, expensive. The handwriting was sharp, precise.

Emma—

Make yourself at home. My credit card is in the kitchen drawer (black Amex, don't lose it). Buy whatever you need. Margaret will help you settle in.

We have dinner tonight at Rousseau's at 8 PM. Wear the navy dress.

—D

P.S. Don't answer Adrian's calls. It'll drive him crazy.

I couldn't help but smile at that last line.

"Mr. Cross mentioned you might need help unpacking?" Margaret asked.

"I don't really have much to unpack," I admitted. "Everything I own fit in three boxes."

Her expression softened with something that looked like sympathy, but she was too professional to comment.

"Well then," she said, "perhaps you'd like a tour of the penthouse? It's easy to get lost your first few days."

Damn!! Lost was an understatement.

Damien's penthouse took up the entire top floor of the building. Five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a kitchen that looked like it belonged on a cooking show, a home office, a gym, a library, and a living room with windows that made you feel like you were floating above the city.

"Mr. Cross doesn't entertain often," Margaret explained as we walked through the immaculate space. "But when he does, he prefers intimate gatherings. Ten people maximum."

"How long have you worked for him?" I asked.

"Eight years." Her face lit up. "He's a good man, Miss Emma. I know the media makes him out to be cold, ruthless, but he's been nothing but kind to me and my family. When my husband was sick, Mr. Cross paid for the best doctors, the best treatment. He didn't have to do that."

I filed that information away. Damien Cross—ruthless businessman with a soft spot for the people who worked for him.

"Does he..." I hesitated. "Does he date much?"

Margaret's smile turned knowing. "Mr. Cross has had companions, yes. But nothing serious. Not since—" She stopped herself. "I shouldn't gossip."

"Since what?" I pressed.

She looked conflicted, then sighed. "Since his sister left. He's been... different. More focused on work. Less interested in personal connections." She gave me a meaningful look. "Until now, apparently."

I wanted to tell her it was fake. That Damien and I were just playing a game. But that would defeat the entire purpose.

"He's been very kind to me," I said instead. Which was true, in a strange, calculating way.

"Good." Margaret patted my hand. "You seem like a lovely girl. And goodness knows Mr. Cross could use someone to soften those sharp edges."

If only she knew.

I spent the rest of the morning exploring the penthouse, trying not to feel like an imposter. Every surface was expensive. Every piece of art looked like it belonged in a museum. Even the books in the library were first editions.

This wasn't my world.

But it could be, whispered a traitorous voice in my head. For six months, this is your world.

My phone buzzed again. I almost ignored it, thinking it was Adrian, but the caller ID said "Unknown."

I answered. "Hello?"

"Emma Hartley?" A woman's voice, sharp and professional.

"Yes?"

"This is Victoria Chen from Metropolitan Magazine. I'd love to schedule an interview about your engagement to Damien Cross. Our readers are dying to know—"

I hung up.

The phone immediately rang again. Different number.

"Miss Hartley, this is James Park from City Elite News"

I hung up again.

By the third call, I'd turned my phone off completely.

Gosh!..How did they get my number? How did they even know who I was?

The answer came twenty minutes later when Margaret found me in the library, looking frazzled.

"Miss Emma, you should see this." She held out a tablet.

The screen showed a gossip website, and my face was plastered across the front page.

"WHO IS DAMIEN CROSS'S MYSTERY WOMAN?"

Below that, a photo from last night—me stepping out of the car in that red dress, Damien's hand on my back, looking at him like he was the only person in the world.

We looked real. We looked like a couple actually in love.

I scrolled down. More photos. Us dancing. Him whispering in my ear. The moment Adrian confronted us, Damien's hand protectively on my waist.

And then—

"Oh no."

There were photos of me from before. Old social media pictures I thought I'd deleted. Me at my college graduation. Me at some party I barely remembered. Me with Adrian, back when I thought we were happy.

Someone had dug into my entire history.

The article was brutal.

"Sources close to the situation reveal that Emma Hartley, 26, was previously engaged to billionaire heir Adrian Castellan. The engagement ended dramatically just three months ago when Hartley allegedly walked out of her own wedding. Now she's been spotted with Damien Cross, 32, Castellan's known business rival. Coincidence? Or calculated revenge?"

"This is bad," I whispered.

"Mr. Cross called," Margaret said gently. "He said not to worry. His PR team is handling it."

"His PR team?" I looked up. "He has a PR team?"

"Of course, dear. When you're that wealthy and that private, you need people to control the narrative." She squeezed my shoulder. "Just breathe. This will blow over."

But it didn't feel like it would blow over.

It felt like a storm was coming.

---

At 7 PM, I stood in front of my closet, staring at the navy dress Damien had specified.

It was beautiful—elegant, sophisticated, with a neckline that was modest but still showed just enough. I put it on, zipped it up, and looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked like someone else.

Someone confident. Someone who belonged at fancy restaurants with billionaires.

Someone who wasn't terrified out of her mind.

"You can do this," I told my reflection.

The intercom buzzed.

"Miss Emma?" Margaret's voice. "Mr. Cross is here."

My heart jumped. "I'll be right down."

I grabbed the clutch that matched the dress—also chosen by Damien—and headed downstairs.

Damien was waiting in the foyer, checking his phone. He'd changed into a different suit—charcoal gray, perfectly tailored. When he heard me on the stairs, he looked up.

And his expression shifted.

"Perfect," he said quietly. "You look perfect."

"You chose the dress," I pointed out.

"I chose well." He offered his arm. "Ready?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really." But he was smiling. "Come on. We have a reservation."

---

Rousseau's was the kind of restaurant that required reservations six months in advance. Unless you were Damien Cross, apparently.

We were shown to a private table in the back—intimate, candlelit, impossibly romantic. The other diners were staring, whispering behind their hands.

"They're all looking at us," I murmured once we sat down.

"Good." Damien unfolded his napkin. "That's the point."

"I saw the articles," I said. "About me. About us."

"I know. I sent them."

I blinked. "You what?"

"Not the content—I don't control what gossip rags write. But I made sure they knew where we'd be tonight." He looked completely unbothered. "The more public our relationship, the more it will eat at Adrian."

"You leaked our location?"

"Emma, everything we do from now on is a performance. Dinner at exclusive restaurants. Weekend trips. Charity events. All of it designed to show Adrian exactly what he lost."

I should have been angry. Should have felt manipulated.

But honestly? He was right. Adrian needs to know what he'd lost.

"So what's tonight's performance?" I asked.

"Tonight, we're madly in love." His eyes locked on mine. "You can't stop smiling. You laugh at everything I say. You touch my hand across the table. You look at me like I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you."

"That's a lot of acting."

"Is it?" He leaned forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're already doing most of that."

My cheeks heated. "I'm just following instructions."

"Sure you are." His smile was infuriating.

The waiter appeared before I could respond, taking our drink orders. Damien ordered wine without asking what I wanted—but somehow picked my favorite.

"How did you know I like Pinot Noir?" I asked once the waiter left.

"I told you. I know everything about you."

"That's creepy."

"That's thorough." He leaned back. "I don't do anything halfway, Emma. If I'm going to destroy Adrian Castellan, I need to understand every piece on the board. Including you."

"I'm a piece on the board?"

"You're the queen." His eyes glinted. "The most powerful piece in the game."

---

Dinner was... surprisingly nice.

Damien was charming when he wanted to be. Funny, even. He told stories about his early days building his company, about the mistakes he'd made, the risks he'd taken. He asked about my life, my dreams, the things I'd given up when I was with Adrian.

"I wanted to be a writer," I admitted over dessert. "Not like, novels or anything fancy. Just... travel writing. Going to interesting places, telling stories about the people I met."

"Why didn't you?"

"Adrian said it wasn't practical. That I should focus on being his wife, building his life instead of chasing pipe dreams."

Damien's jaw tightened. "He's an idiot."

"Yeah," I said softly. "I'm starting to realize that."

He reached across the table and took my hand. His touch was warm, solid.

"When this is over," he said, "when you have your five million and your freedom—go chase those dreams. Write about every place you've ever wanted to see. Don't let anyone tell you it's not practical."

I stared at our joined hands.

"Why are you being nice to me?" I whispered.

"Because despite what the media says, I'm not actually a heartless bastard." His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "And because you deserve better than what Adrian gave you."

For a moment, I forgot this was fake.

For a moment, I let myself believe that Damien Cross actually cared.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his expression turned predatory.

"What?" I asked.

"Adrian's here."

My heart stopped. "What?"

"In the restaurant. He just walked in with Melissa." Damien's smile was pure satisfaction. "Right on schedule."

"You knew he'd come?"

"I made sure he'd come. His assistant is on my payroll." He squeezed my hand. "Remember—you're madly in love with me. Show him what he lost."

I didn't have to look to know when Adrian spotted us. I felt his stare like a physical weight.

"Emma," Damien said softly. "Look at me."

I did.

"Forget he's here," he murmured. "Just focus on me."

So I did. I looked at Damien Cross—at his sharp blue eyes, his perfect features, the way he was looking at me like I mattered.

And then he leaned across the table, his eyes locked on mine—not with tenderness, but with something sharper. Before I could process what was happening, his lips were on mine.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was heated, sudden…he needed to prove something to Adrian.

My body froze, but my heart didn’t get the memo, it raced, wild and confused. I tasted a mix of fire and frustration in that kiss. And when he finally pulled back, breath shallow, I just sat there, stunned, unsure whether to pull him back in.

Because it felt like it wasn’t just a kiss.

It sounds like it is a message.

And every nerve in my body received it loud and clear.