Engaged to the Ruthless Billionaire

Eliana's POV

The Grayson Manhattan office building was so sleek and over-designed it looked like a Bond villain's second home.

Marble everywhere. Mirrors polished to a criminal shine. And enough subtle security to make me feel like I'd accidentally walked onto a CIA black site in heels.

I stood at the reception desk in a navy dress that said "future wife of a billionaire" and not "woman who was planning his elegant murder last night."

"Miss Rivera," the assistant said with a polite, practiced smile. "Mr. Grayson is expecting you. They're already upstairs with the planner."

Of course they were. He was already here.

Which meant he had the upper hand. Again.

I smiled sweetly and followed her into the elevator, already bracing myself for whatever version of Alexander I'd meet today-The Ice King? The Arrogant Tease? The One I Secretly Fantasized About Despite Hating Him?

We stepped into a bright lounge overlooking Central Park. A massive whiteboard was covered in mock-ups of wedding venues, color palettes, and guest list drafts.

And there he was.

Alexander stood by the windows, looking like he'd stepped out of a Forbes spread. Tailored charcoal suit. No tie. Hands in his pockets. Cold and composed as ever.

The moment he saw me, his eyes dragged over me with that same unbearable calm. The kind that made my skin feel like a battlefield.

"Eliana," he said.

I gave him a tight smile. "Alexander."

We were civil. Professional. Possibly homicidal.

The event planner, a sprightly British woman named Camille, clapped her hands as if we were her favorite couple and not a business arrangement wrapped in diamonds and disdain.

"You two are just so chic together," she beamed. "Very old money meets high fashion-exactly what the media eats up. Shall we begin?"

Alexander gestured for me to sit beside him on the velvet sofa.

I did. Slowly. Carefully. The closer I got, the more aware I became of the heat radiating from his body and the scent of cedarwood and sin clinging to his skin.

Camille flipped through her iPad. "So, engagement party. You mentioned wanting something intimate but high-impact."

"That's right," I said. "Classy but not cold. Exclusive but not obnoxious."

"Like you," Alexander murmured.

I didn't look at him, but I felt the smirk.

Camille laughed. "Oh, I love a couple who teases each other. It's so real."

I turned to him slowly. "If he gets any more real, I might just strangle him with a satin napkin."

"She's kidding," Alexander said smoothly, wrapping an arm around the back of the couch behind me. "She's very into crime podcasts lately."

Camille giggled. "Adorable. You're like the couple version of a murder-suicide waiting to happen."

I blinked. "Thank you?"

We went through catering options, color schemes, and floral arrangements while Alexander occasionally leaned in, just enough for our shoulders to brush. Every time, my breath caught like I hadn't spent the last ten years perfecting how not to show emotion.

After I move in, I'd have to spend every night with him, so I was clinging to my freedom while it lasted. The prospect of sharing a room, a bed with Alexander was...unnerving.

An unexpected heat ran between my legs.

We were thirty minutes into flower samples and venue mockups, and I was barely hanging on to the thread of the conversation. Camille was talking-something about seasonal peonies or color palettes that wouldn't "clash with Eliana's aura," whatever that meant-but my brain was off the clock.

Because he was sitting beside me.

His thigh brushed mine every time he shifted. His fingers tapped against his knee in slow, thoughtful rhythm, like a countdown to something I couldn't name. And then there was the heat-just his presence radiated enough heat to fog my concentration.

I remembered the club.

His voice against my neck.

The way he looked at me like he already knew what I sounded like falling apart.

I tried to shut it down.

But my body had other ideas.

My eyes drifted from the planner's tablet to his hands. Long fingers. Sharp knuckles. Precise and possessive.

God, those hands.

"...Eliana?" Camille said.

I blinked.

"What?" I asked, a little too quickly.

She tilted her head, confused. "I asked whether you preferred warm neutrals or jewel tones for the ceremony design. You looked a little... lost."

"Oh," I said, straightening. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

Alexander turned slowly toward me, the barest smirk tugging at his mouth.

"I'll bet you were," he said under his breath.

I shot him a look. "Don't start."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to."

His voice dropped, too low for Camille to hear. "Tell me, was it the memory of my hand on your thigh or the way you looked at me like you wanted to kill me and kiss me?"

My stomach flipped. My glare faltered.

He leaned in, his breath teasing the shell of my ear. "You're not good at hiding your thoughts, darling. Especially when they're dirty."

I shoved his leg with my knee-gently, because unfortunately we were pretending to be in love-but he only laughed under his breath and sat back.

Smug bastard.

Camille, oblivious, flipped to a new tab on her iPad. "Now! Let's look at table arrangements."

Camille eventually pulled up table arrangement mock-ups. "We also need a few engagement photos for press packets. I was thinking something soft and romantic-maybe candid shots?"

Alexander leaned forward. "We don't do candid."

"Maybe we should try," I said. "Loosen up the death glare a little."

He arched a brow. "You're not exactly sunshine and kittens yourself."

"We can fake it," I said sweetly. "Like everything else."

"Oh, I can fake it," he murmured, low and sharp. "Question is-can you hold a smile for the camera without baring your teeth?"

I turned to him with a smile so bright it could shatter glass. "Try me, darling."

Camille practically squealed. "This is so exciting. I love chemistry like this. It's electric."

I was ninety percent sure she thought we were soulmates.

I was also ninety percent sure I was going to commit a felony with a dessert fork.

After the meeting, she gave us a moment to "enjoy the view." Read: pretend to be in love long enough for her to take a few unofficial behind-the-scenes shots.

Alexander shifted closer.

"Put your hand on my leg," I muttered without looking at him.

"Is that a request or a challenge?"

"Just do it. Make it look natural."

His hand slid to my thigh-heavy, warm, slow. Too natural.

I sucked in a breath.

"Relax," he said near my ear. "We're supposed to look like we enjoy this."

"Enjoy is a strong word."

"I could make it accurate."

My heart did an awful little flip. "I'd rather you didn't."

"And yet," he said, eyes on mine, "you haven't told me to move it."

I hated that he was right. I hated that his touch burned through the silk of my dress like it was skin.

I hated that pretending to be his fiancée made my pulse race like I was actually getting married to him.

I turned toward him, trying to match his game. "Just because I let you touch me doesn't mean I like it."

He smiled, slow and lethal. "No. But it does mean you want more."

I pulled back slightly. "I don't. Don't get ahead of yourself, were just pretending"

I stood abruptly. "Meeting's over."

He followed me to the elevator, amused and unhurried.

"You're really good at pretending to hate me," he said once the doors closed.

"That's because I don't have to pretend."

He smiled.

And for the first time, it looked real.