Christiana

The smell of fresh croissants and bitter coffee should have been comforting. Instead, it only made my stomach twist.

Samantha, my oldest friend, leaned across the café table, chin propped on her hand. “You’ve been glaring at that latte for ten minutes, Chris. What did it ever do to you?”

I sighed, stirring the foam into oblivion. “It’s not the latte. It’s—” I cut myself off. How did I even explain this? ‘My father sold me to a billionaire devil, and I might be engaged against my will by the end of the week?’ Yeah, not exactly brunch conversation.

Sam raised a brow. “It’s him again, isn’t it? That Pierson guy? You’ve been off since that meeting.”

I forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Really.”

But before she could call me out on my obvious lie, I got a strange feeling. That strange, prickling awareness crawled down my neck—the kind that told me I was being watched.

And then I heard it. The rapid click-click-click of camera shutters.

“What the—” I started, just as the café doors burst open.

A wall of flashing lights and shouting voices descended. “Christiana! Over here!” “Is it true you’re engaged?” “How did you meet?” “When’s the wedding?”

My heart slammed into my ribs.

“Engaged?” Sam choked, eyes wide. “What are they talking about?”

I froze in my seat, blindsided. My name, his name—tangled together on the reporters’ tongues like it was fact. Like it had already been decided.

And in that awful moment, I realized exactly who had orchestrated this circus.

Jordan Pierson.

The bastard.

I shoved my chair back, shielding my face from the cameras as Sam tried to push them away. My pulse hammered in my ears. My hands shook, not with fear—no, never fear—but with raw fury.

He wanted to humiliate me. He wanted to drag me into his game on his terms.

And God help me, it was working.

…

By the time I stormed home, the headlines were already online. My phone buzzed nonstop—texts from acquaintances, “congratulations” messages from people I barely knew, articles with pictures of me at the café, looking horrified while reporters shouted about weddings and rings.

I kicked the door open so hard it rattled on its hinges. “Dad!”

He stumbled out of the living room, pale and trembling. “Christiana, sweetheart—”

“Don’t you dare ‘sweetheart’ me.” My voice shook with rage. I held up my phone, the screen blaring Billionaire Jordan Pierson Engaged to Moretti Heiress. “Did you know about this?”

His silence was answer enough.

“Oh my God.” I laughed, bitter and broken. “You did. You let him do this.”

“Honey, listen—”

“No!” My throat burned. “You sold my company. You sold our lives. And now you’re letting him sell my future too?”

He flinched, shrinking into himself, and for one wild second I wanted to shake him, scream until he felt even a fraction of the betrayal rotting me from the inside. But he just stood there, useless, while the walls closed in.

…

When the knock came, I already knew who it was.

I opened the door ready to rip him apart.

And there he was. Jordan Pierson. Immaculate as ever, suit tailored, expression cool, as if he hadn’t just detonated a bomb in my life.

“Good evening, fiancée,” he said smoothly.

My hand twitched, aching to slap the smugness off his face. “You bastard. You set me up.”

“I corrected the narrative,” he replied, stepping inside without invitation. He looked around like he owned the place. “Now the world knows. You should be grateful. Public opinion is a powerful shield.”

“Shield?” I scoffed. “You mean a leash. You made me a headline so I couldn’t escape.”

His gaze slid to me, sharp and merciless. “Exactly.”

I balled my fists. “I will not marry you.”

He tilted his head. “Of course not. You’ll announce it to the world yourself, won’t you? Deny everything. Watch the press crucify you for toying with me. Watch investors laugh at your name. Watch the little legacy you cling to rot into ashes.”

I swallowed hard.

“Or,” he continued, voice like velvet wrapping around a blade, “you could play along. Smile for the cameras. Stand at my side. And in exchange, your father breathes, your company survives, and you live a life most women would kill for.”

“You’re insane.”

“No,” he said softly. “I’m inevitable.”

The way he said it—so calm, so certain—made the floor feel unsteady beneath me.

“You’re a monster,” I whispered.

“Perhaps.” His eyes flickered, something unreadable flashing there for half a heartbeat. Pain? Regret? Humanity? It was gone before I could pin it down. “But I’m the monster you need.”

I wanted to scream. To claw at him. To make him feel even a fraction of this helpless fury twisting inside me. Instead, all I could do was stand there, trembling, as he closed the distance between us.

“You’ll learn, Christiana,” he murmured, close enough that his breath ghosted against my cheek. “You can fight me. You can hate me. But the more you resist, the deeper you’ll sink. Better to learn to play my game.”

For one dizzy second, my pulse betrayed me. My body hummed with something I refused to name.

Then I shoved him back, shaking with fury. “Get out.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous. “Pack a bag.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Pack a bag,” he repeated, straightening his cuffs. “The media expects us together now. You’ll move into my home by the weekend. Appearances, after all.”

My jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m deadly serious.” His eyes pinned me in place. “Consider it your first lesson in playing Mrs. Pierson.”

And with that, he left, leaving the taste of ashes in my mouth.

…

I collapsed against the door, chest heaving. My father hovered in the hallway, useless, small.

“This is a nightmare,” I whispered, half to myself.

But deep down, in the darkest corner of my mind, one thought terrified me more than all the rest.

Maybe the nightmare had only just begun.