My Billionaire Fiancé Sent His Best Friend to Ruin Me

That evening, I set the table for three.

"A thank-you dinner," I told Damian on the phone. "Rhys carried our wedding gift all the way from London. The least we can do is feed him."

"You're too sweet, sweetheart."

"I know."

The gift sat on the sideboard when they arrived. A crystal decanter, hand-cut, wrapped in silver paper. Rhys set it down like it weighed a hundred pounds.

"It's from the Mayfair shop you liked," he said. He didn't meet my eyes.

"You remembered." I touched his arm for exactly one second. "Thank you, Rhys."

Damian's hand landed on the small of my back before I could pull away.

---

He sat so close our knees touched under the table. Damian, who usually texted through dinner. Damian, who once told a photographer that public affection was "for people with nothing else to sell."

Tonight he cut my steak for me.

"Smaller pieces, sweetheart. You always rush." He slid the plate back in front of me and kissed my bare shoulder. "There."

"I'm not five, Damian."

"No. You're almost my wife." He reached for his wine and smiled across the table. "Rhys, did she tell you about the honeymoon suite? Maldives. Overwater villa. Glass floor right under the bed."

Rhys's fork scraped his plate. "She didn't mention it."

"Ten days. No phones. No board meetings." Damian's thumb stroked the side of my neck, right where Rhys had left a mark I'd covered with concealer. "Just the two of us. I plan to keep her very busy."

I tucked my head against his shoulder and laughed. Soft, pretty, the laugh of a girl in love.

Across the table, Rhys gripped his glass so hard his knuckles went white.

"Sounds great," he said.

"It will be." Damian kissed my hair. "Won't it, Nora?"

"Perfect," I murmured.

Rhys drained his wine in one swallow.

Damian checked the empty bottle and pushed back his chair. "We're out. I'll grab the Bordeaux from the cellar. Don't have too much fun without me."

His footsteps faded down the stairs.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

I stood and moved to the sofa, smoothing my skirt. "You should slow down on the wine, Rhys. You're—"

He was already in front of me.

One hand slammed into the cushion beside my head. The other braced on the armrest. I was caged in, my back pressed into the leather, his face inches from mine.

"Don't do that," he said. "Don't lean on him like that in front of me."

"He's my fiancé."

"He's a fucking liar, and you know it."

Then his mouth crashed onto mine.

It wasn't gentle. His tongue pushed past my lips, hot and desperate, tasting like red wine and anger. His fingers drove into my hair and tilted my head back so he could take more.

For one heartbeat, I kissed him back. My hand fisted in his shirt. My tongue met his.

Then I shoved.

"Stop—Rhys, stop!" Tears spilled down my cheeks. I let them. "I'm getting married. Saturday. In four days, I'm getting married."

He jerked back like I'd burned him.

"Nora. God. I'm sorry." He stumbled away from the sofa, one step, two, three, until his back hit the bookshelf. "I'm sorry. I didn't—I shouldn't have."

I wiped my mouth with my wrist. My lipstick smeared across my skin.

He didn't say anything else. He just stood there with his hands hanging at his sides, chest heaving, staring at the carpet like he wanted it to swallow him.

The cellar door creaked.

Damian walked in holding the bottle. He stopped.

His gaze traveled over me. My hair, tangled on one side. My lips, swollen and red. Then over to Rhys, frozen against the shelves, rigid as a statue.

The bottle didn't move in his hand.

"Found it," Damian said lightly. "Two thousand five. Good year."

Nobody answered.

He set it on the table and began peeling the foil, slow and careful, like nothing in the room had changed.

I rose. "I need to wash my hands. The steak sauce."

"Take your time, sweetheart."

---

I didn't go to the bathroom. I closed the hallway door most of the way and pressed my shoulder to the frame.

Damian's voice came low and sharp.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Keep your voice down."

"In my house. With me one floor below." The cork popped. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

"I wasn't." Rhys sounded hollow. "That's the problem, isn't it?"

"The problem is you don't know your place. I asked for one weekend. One. And now you're pawing her on my couch like some lovesick—"

Rhys laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound.

"You asked. Listen to yourself, Damian. You set this up. You put her in that dress, at that table, with me. You handed me the key to your apartment." A glass clinked down hard. "When you were planning all this, did you ever once think about what would happen after?"

"Nothing happens after. She's marrying me."

"She cried in my arms. Twice now. Over you."

"Then stop holding her."

I counted to ten. Then I pushed the door open and smiled.

Both of them went silent. Damian's hand stopped mid-pour. Rhys turned toward the window.

"Did I miss something?" I asked.

"Just wedding logistics." Damian held out a glass. "Seating chart. Rhys is being difficult about his speech."

"Be nice to him, Damian. He flew a long way."

I crossed the room and slipped my arm through Damian's. I leaned into his side, resting my cheek against his shoulder, and gazed up at him like he was the only man in the world.

"Rhys didn't mean anything by it," I said softly. "Whatever it was. He's your best friend."

Damian's arm tightened around me. "Of course."

Over his shoulder, I caught Rhys's reflection in the dark window. His jaw clenched. His eyes were fixed on my hand curled around Damian's sleeve.

He looked like a man watching someone walk into traffic.

Good.

---

The doorbell rang.

Damian's whole body went still under my hand.

"Expecting someone?" I asked.

"Maybe." He kissed my temple and slid free. "Stay here."

I didn't. I followed him to the foyer, two steps behind.

He opened the door.

A woman stood in the hall. Dark hair pinned up, red dress, a smile sharpened to a point. She held a bottle of wine in both hands like a trophy.

I knew her face. I'd seen it on the security camera, climbing the steps of my family's beach house with her suitcase.

Selene.

"Sorry I'm late," she said. "Traffic."

Damian turned to me and dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Sweetheart, don't be mad. This is Selene Marrow. Rhys was crazy about her back in college, but she moved to Paris before he worked up the nerve." He squeezed my hand. "I thought, why not give my best friend a little reunion? Before the wedding."

I stared at him. He stared back, perfectly innocent.

Behind us, I heard Rhys set his glass down.

Selene lifted the bottle. "Château Pétrus, '82. I hope I'm not intruding."

I smiled until my cheeks ached.

"Intruding? Don't be silly." I stepped forward and took her arm. "Please, come in. Stay as long as you like."

Her perfume washed over me as she passed.

Jasmine and vanilla.

And dangling from her left ear, catching the light, a single diamond teardrop.

The right one was missing.