I had been bound to Dominic Hale—my brother’s closest friend—for seven years. In quiet corners of dim-lit rooms and behind closed doors, we spoke of marriage, of a future sealed not by vows but by loyalty and blood. It was a secret no one in the family was meant to know.
That night, I followed the location he sent, my heels echoing softly against the marble floors of the estate. It led me to a private hall where his inner circle gathered—the men who handled deals that never saw daylight.
I stopped outside the carved wooden door.
Voices slipped through.
“Dominic Hale,” someone said with a low laugh, “your real woman’s back. What are you going to do about that little stand-in?”
Dominic didn’t answer.
The silence that followed was heavier than a loaded gun.
Then another voice, sharp with amusement, cut in. “Bold of you, Hale. Getting involved with the boss’s sister while waiting for the one who actually owns you. Used her for years… and now Adeline’s back.”
A second chuckle. “She walked away once. Guess she’ll enjoy seeing what filled her place.”
Something inside me stilled.
Adeline.
The name wasn’t new. It had always lingered—unspoken, but never gone. The woman he was supposed to end up with. The one even my brother respected.
I turned away before they could say more. In this world, you don’t break where people can see.
**
The next night, Dominic brought me to Adeline’s return banquet at the main hall of the estate—crystal lights overhead, armed men at every corner, power dressed as celebration.
He was gentle in public. Always was.
His hand rested lightly on my back, his voice low, intimate—like I mattered.
An illusion.
Then Adeline walked in.
White dress. Composed. Untouchable. The kind of woman men built empires for—and destroyed them over.
She barely spoke to him before her eyes glossed over, and she turned away, leaving the room in quiet tension.
Dominic’s hand left me instantly.
“Dominic—” I started.
He was already gone.
I stood there as whispers spread, as eyes turned sharp and knowing. Someone bumped into me in the rush—a tray tipped, scalding broth spilling over my arm. The burn stung, sharp and immediate.
No one stopped.
Not even him.
**
I returned home alone, the sting on my arm dulled by something colder.
His study door—always locked to me—was slightly open.
Inside, I saw it.
A framed photograph on his desk.
Dominic and Adeline. Younger. Closer. His hand at her waist, her smile like she already owned everything he was.
Before me. Before anything we ever had.
The air left my lungs.
I shut the door quietly and pulled out my phone.
My brother answered on the first ring. “Celeste,” his voice sharp, “did something happen?”
I swallowed everything.
“No,” I said lightly. Too lightly. “I’ve made a decision. I’ll accept the arranged marriage.”
A pause.
Then, softer, “Are you sure?”
I smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “It doesn’t matter who I marry. I’m getting married anyway.”
Silence stretched before he exhaled. “Alright. Come home soon. Do you want to meet him first?”
“No need. Set the date. One month.”
“As you wish.”
Then, almost casually, he added, “Dominic Hale’s woman is back. If you still speak to him, invite him. It might be… good for business.”
My fingers tightened.
So even he knew.
“Don’t bother,” I said quietly. “We’re not close.”
The call ended.
**
The door creaked open behind me.
Dominic stepped in, his presence filling the room like it always had—familiar, steady, suffocating.
“Not close to whom?” he asked, faintly amused.
“Not close to you,” I replied, not turning.
A pause.
Then a soft laugh as he moved closer, arms sliding around me like nothing had changed.
“Not close?” he murmured near my ear. “Then what do you call all those nights, Celeste?”
His breath brushed my skin.
Once, it would’ve undone me.
Now it felt like a lie tightening around my throat.
I shifted away.
That’s when I saw it.
A faint crimson mark on his collar. Lipstick. Fresh.
Not mine.
The burn on my arm throbbed sharply.
He noticed immediately. His grip loosened.
“Celeste,” his voice turned urgent, “what happened to your arm?”
He caught my wrist, pulling back the fabric.
The red marks were unmistakable.
His expression shifted—concern, confusion, something close to anger.
“When did this happen?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
For a moment, he almost looked like the man I trusted.
Almost.
But I remembered everything.
The banquet.
The way he left.
The door I was never meant to open.
So I said nothing.
Because I didn’t know anymore—
if telling him the truth would break his illusion…
or finally break me.
