My Fiancé Proposes But Not to Me

The video loaded. The stream counter showed 47,000 viewers and climbing. The camera angle was perfect—professional lighting, the marble lobby serving as a backdrop, the company logo subtly visible on the wall behind. Someone in production knew what they were doing. The frame centered on a figure kneeling, and my breath caught. Alan. My Alan, in his charcoal Tom Ford suit, the one I'd helped him pick out last month. The overhead lights caught the silver at his temples, making him look distinguished, powerful. In his hands, he held a small velvet box, open to reveal a diamond that threw prismatic light across the polished floor. Pride swelled in my chest for a moment. He'd actually done it. He'd eventually prepared so delicately to propose— The camera panned up. Not to me.

Chapters

Chapter 1

The quarterly PR metrics blurred on my screen as I leaned back in my leather chair, mentally calculating which campaigns needed adjustment before the board meeting next week.

The numbers told a good story—brand sentiment up twelve percent, crisis response time cut in half. Alan would be pleased.

We'd worked too hard building this company's reputation to let it slip now.

A sudden eruption of voices shattered my concentration.

Footsteps thundered past my office door. Chairs scraped against floors. The usual hum of productivity dissolved into chaos as employees abandoned their desks, clustering around computer screens like moths to flame.

"The CEO is going live with a major announcement!" someone shouted, their voice pitched with excitement.

I frowned, fingers hovering over my keyboard. Alan hadn't mentioned any announcement. As head of PR, I approved every public statement, every press release, every social media post. This wasn't protocol.

My phone sat silent on the desk—no warning text, no courtesy heads-up from my fiancé about whatever surprise he'd planned.

Through the glass walls of my corner office, I watched the entire floor transform into a viewing party. Screens glowed with the company's livestream logo. Someone laughed. Another person gasped.

The energy felt celebratory, anticipatory, like they were witnessing something momentous.

Curiosity overrode my irritation.

I minimized the spreadsheet and opened the company's official livestream platform. Maybe Alan had finally decided to announce our engagement publicly. He'd been hinting at making some grand gesture, something that would cement our partnership in the eyes of the company. Perhaps this was his way of combining the personal and professional—very him, very calculated.

The video loaded. The stream counter showed 47,000 viewers and climbing.

The camera angle was perfect—professional lighting, the marble lobby serving as a backdrop, the company logo subtly visible on the wall behind. Someone in production knew what they were doing.

The frame centered on a figure kneeling, and my breath caught.

Alan.

My Alan, in his charcoal Tom Ford suit, the one I'd helped him pick out last month. The overhead lights caught the silver at his temples, making him look distinguished, powerful. In his hands, he held a small velvet box, open to reveal a diamond that threw prismatic light across the polished floor.

Pride swelled in my chest for a moment. He'd actually done it. He'd—

The camera panned up.

Not to me.

To Luna.

His secretary Luna, standing there in a cream dress I'd never seen before, both hands pressed to her mouth, tears already streaming down her face. Her eyes—wide, disbelieving, overwhelmed—stared down at Alan with an expression I recognized because I'd imagined wearing it myself.

The office sounds faded to white noise. My coffee cup felt cold under my palm.

Alan's voice carried through my speakers, warm and intimate. "Luna, from the moment you walked into my life, everything changed. You make me want to be a better man. Will you marry me?"

She nodded, sobbing. "Yes! Yes, of course!"

The livestream chat exploded with heart emojis and congratulations. The view count hit 89,000.

My hand remained frozen on my coffee cup, the ceramic smooth and familiar against my skin, anchoring me to reality even as my mind rejected what my eyes were seeing. Through the glass wall, I felt the shift—colleagues no longer watching their screens but stealing glances at my office. Whispers rippled through the floor. Someone quickly looked away when I met their eyes.

The coffee had gone cold. When had that happened? My reflection in the darkened corner of my monitor showed a woman with perfect posture, immaculate makeup, and a face that revealed nothing.

Good. That face had gotten me through countless corporate disasters. It would get me through this one.

I set the cup down with deliberate care and opened my crisis management software. The interface blinked to life—social listening tools, media monitoring, rapid response protocols. My fingers moved across the keyboard with mechanical precision, each keystroke a small act of control in a moment designed to strip me of it.

On screen, Alan slipped the ring onto Luna's finger while 127,000 people watched. She threw her arms around his neck. Employees in the lobby—my employees, people I'd trained and mentored—applauded and cheered.

I pulled up the company's PR crisis channels, accessing backend admin controls I'd built myself for managing emergencies. My hands didn't shake. They couldn't afford to.

Because Alan had just made a critical miscalculation.

He'd forgotten exactly who I was. What I did. What I was capable of when someone handed me the perfect storm.

And he'd just gone live with 200,000 witnesses to his biggest mistake.

Continue to next part

My five-year-old daughter was dying in the ICU, her heartbeat replaced by the continuous, electronic scream of a flatline. I gripped her cold hand, my throat sealed shut by a terror so absolute I couldn't even cry out. I dialed my husband Grayson's private number, the one reserved only for me and his assistants. He declined the call instantly. A second later, a text buzzed against my palm: "In a meeting. Do not disturb. Stop calling." Five miles away, Grayson was at a luxury gala, adjusting his silk tie and laughing with Belle Escobar. He told her I was just being "dramatic" and using our daughter's "fever" as an excuse to avoid the event. He had no idea Effie's heart had already stopped. When I finally reached our penthouse, soaked from the rain and carrying Effie's small socks in a plastic bag, Grayson didn't even look at me. He snapped at me for ruining the hardwood floors and asked if I'd left Effie with the nanny just to "feel sorry for myself." Three days later, while I buried our daughter in a small, lonely ceremony, Grayson was at the Hamptons. Belle posted a photo of him golfing with the caption: "A mental health day with the boys." He didn't even attend the funeral, but he returned home demanding I clear out Effie's room to make a study for Belle's son. The injustice burned through me until there was nothing left. I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills, desperate to join my daughter. But instead of the darkness, I woke up to blinding lights and the scent of Grayson's expensive cologne. I was standing in a ballroom, wearing a blue silk dress I had already burned. Above me, a banner read: "Happy 5th Birthday Kaiden & Effie." I was back, exactly one year before the tragedy. This time, I wasn't going to be the grieving wife. I was going to be their worst nightmare.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.2

After My Husband Fired Me, I Became His Rival's Partner

9.2

The morning light glinted off the glass facade of the Price Enterprises building as I strode across the marble lobby in my charcoal Armani suit. The click of my heels echoed confidently with each step, a rhythm I'd perfected over years of being the company's invisible backbone. Today was different. Today was bonus day—the one time each year when results couldn't be hidden behind corporate politics or flashy presentations. I smoothed my hands over the tailored suit, mentally rehearsing the brief acceptance speech I'd prepared for the "Top Sales Champion" award. For the fifth consecutive year, I'd single-handedly secured over sixty percent of the company's revenue. Not that anyone besides the accounting department and Ethan knew this. My husband had always insisted I maintain a low profile, claiming it was strategic for negotiations if clients underestimated us. "Good morning, Ms. Jenkins," the receptionist called, her smile genuine but tinged with something I couldn't quite place.

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.6

Divorce After Discovering Husband's Betrayal

8.6

My phone rang just as I was finishing a report for next week's board meeting. The number wasn't saved in my contacts, but I recognized the area code—the hospital near my father's office. "Claire Wright?" The voice was clinical, detached. "Yes, this is she." My pen hovered over the signature line as I waited for whatever routine inquiry this call might bring. "Ms. Wright, this is Mercy General Hospital. Your father has suffered a massive cardiac event. He's in critical condition. You should come immediately." The pen slipped from my fingers, splattering ink across the pristine document. "What?

Billionaire Modern Romance

8.6

Divorcing The CEO: I'll Take Your Empire

8.6

I spent three years being the perfect wife to tech mogul Cash Ferguson, a forensic accountant playing the role of a low-risk asset to stabilize his public image. My world shattered when I saw a live CNBC broadcast from Sundance showing Cash tenderly hoisting a two-year-old boy onto his hip—a secret son born to a socialite mistress while he was supposedly at a business roadshow. When I confronted him with divorce papers, Cash didn't apologize; he laughed, calling me a "liability" and weaponizing my mother’s history of mental illness to claim I was genetically unfit to carry his heir. He didn't just reject the split; he locked the penthouse elevator and froze every one of my accounts, reclassifying me from a wife to a piece of disputed company property. "You came from nothing, Isidora," he sneered, tossing a credit card at me like a leash. "Stop being dramatic. I can afford a pet, but don't think you can survive a day in the real world without my name." The betrayal turned lethal when I discovered Cash had tracked down my mother’s stolen emerald brooch—my only connection to my past—and bought it as a gift for his mistress. He was using my trauma and my heritage to decorate the woman who had replaced me in his secret life. I realized then that Cash had made a fatal accounting error: he forgot that I was the one who built his shadow accounts and knew exactly where the fraud was buried. He wanted to treat our marriage like a hostile takeover, so I decided to give him a market correction he would never forget. I escaped down forty flights of stairs with nothing but a burner laptop and a plan to burn his empire to the ground. If he wanted to play dirty, I’d show him what happens when a forensic accountant initiates a liquidation protocol. I’m not just leaving; I’m going to make him crawl.

Billionaire Modern Romance

7.9

My Husband Forced Me to Donate a Kidney to His Mistress

7.9

The ticker tape on the news crawl was still burning behind my eyelids: *Foster Enterprises Declares Insolvency.* The words were a neon slash across my vision, turning the gray Manhattan skyline into a blur of vertigo and rain. My phone had been vibrating against my hip for an hour—lawyers, creditors, panic—but I didn't answer. I only had one destination. Zain. He was the only solid thing left in a world that had liquefied beneath my feet this morning. I bypassed the doorman at the Obsidian Tower, my breath hitching in my throat as the elevator surged toward the penthouse. I needed his voice. I needed him to tell me that money was just paper, that my father wasn't going to prison, that we would survive this. The penthouse door was unlatched. That should have been my first warning.

Billionaire Modern Romance

9.3

My Sexy Boss

9.3

Cherry Mae Banaag, an exceptional and hardworking woman, had one main goal: to provide a better life for her father, who was battling a heart condition. Faced with life's challenges and the lack of financial resources for her father's surgery, Cherry found herself with no option but to accept an offer from Rexon Del'Torre, the renowned lead vocalist of Logistic Band, whom she had recently met at the Resto-Bar where she worked. Initially agreeing to be his personal assistant, Cherry soon found herself in a situation where Rexon requested something more. How could she resist his charisma, his captivating scent, and his provocative touch? How could she turn down Rexon Del'Torre when he seemed to be the only one capable of fulfilling her desires and claiming her body and soul?

Billionaire Modern Romance

My Fiancé Proposes But Not to Me

Chapter 1

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