I should have known he wouldn’t let me rot in peace.

No, Pierson had to drag me into the lion’s den.

The gown came first—delivered in a glossy black box, laid out on my bed. It is a beautiful dress, I’ll give him credit for that. Sleek black silk, slit to the thigh, neckline plunging like a crime scene. A note pinned to the hanger in his precise handwriting: Wear this.

I nearly set it on fire.

Instead, I wore it. Because Pierson doesn’t ask. He orders. And apparently, I take orders now.

The car that picked me up was all tinted windows and a silent driver, and when I entered inside, he was already there—tailored suit, cufflinks that probably cost more than my entire college tuition. Of course, he didn’t even look up from his phone.

“Nice dress,” he said casually, like he hadn’t chosen it himself.

“You’re a control freak,” I shot back.

He smiled faintly, eyes still on his screen. “And yet you look stunning.”

Damn him.

…

The gala was exactly what I’d expected: chandeliers dripping light like diamonds, champagne glasses tinkling, conversations that smelled of money and deceit. Everyone was dressed like royalty, but I could feel the weight of their stares as we entered—like they knew something I didn’t.

Or maybe they just knew who Pierson was.

He placed a hand on my back, guiding me through the crowd like I was some wayward pet. His touch burned, not gentle, but firm. Possessive.

“Smile,” he murmured.

“Go to hell,” I muttered back.

His lips twitched, like he was actually amused. “Already there, sweetheart. You’re the welcome party.”

I almost tripped on my heels. Did Jordan Pierson just… make a joke?

Before I could recover, we were swallowed into a sea of sycophants. Men in expensive suits shook his hand. Women eyed me like I’d been dragged from the bargain bin. Everyone wanted a piece of him—except me.

I was just trying not to drown.

The worst part? He thrived on it. Pierson moved through that room like it was his private kingdom. Every nod, every smirk, every calculated pause—it was all orchestrated. And me? I was the prop.

“Is this your fiancée?” one woman purred, her diamonds flashing.

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

Pierson didn’t blink. “She is.”

I nearly choked on my champagne.

I opened my mouth to protest, but his hand pressed a warning against my back. To anyone else, it looked like an affectionate touch. To me, it was a leash.

“You—” I hissed under my breath.

“Play along,” he said smoothly, his eyes never leaving the crowd. “Or would you rather embarrass yourself in front of half the city?”

I wanted to embarrass him, not myself. But with every pair of eyes burning into me, I pasted on the fakest smile of my life.

And then came the dance.

Of course, there was a dance. A string quartet started an elegant piece, couples floated to the center of the floor, and Pierson extended his hand to me.

“No,” I said flatly.

“Yes.” His green eyes pinned me in place.

“I don’t dance.”

“Good thing I do.”

Before I could escape, his hand closed around mine, pulling me onto the floor. My body collided with his—hard, unyielding, infuriatingly warm.

The music swelled, and suddenly, we were moving.

I tried to keep my distance, but he closed the space like a predator. One hand at my waist, the other holding mine, he steered me effortlessly through the steps. My body obeyed even as my mind screamed.

“You’re insane,” I muttered.

“And you’re surprisingly graceful for someone who claims not to dance.”

“That’s because you’re dragging me around like a rag doll.”

He chuckled—low, deep, sending an unwanted shiver through me. “Funny. You don’t feel like a rag doll.”

Heat crawled up my neck. I hated him. I hated how close he was, how his cologne curled into my lungs, how every brush of his hand left me trembling.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I snapped, glaring up at him.

“Of course it does.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “Now they all believe you’re mine.”

“What—”

“Smile,” he interrupted, spinning me just as a dozen cameras flashed.

I wanted to kill him. Slowly. Painfully.

The song ended, but he didn’t release me right away. His hand lingered at my waist, his eyes burning down into mine. For a heartbeat, the world went quiet—just us, tangled in something chaotic. It felt both dangerous and exhilarating.

Then a reporter’s voice shattered it.

“Mr. Pierson! Care to confirm the rumors? Are you officially engaged?”

The room hushed. Dozens of eyes turned.

I shook my head, opening my mouth to deny it—

“Yes,” Pierson said, smooth as silk. “We are.”

Gasps rippled. Cameras exploded. My stomach plummeted to the floor.

I turned on him, fury blazing. “What the hell—”

He leaned down, lips brushing my ear, and whispered: “Congratulations, Mrs. Pierson.”

My palm itched to slap him. My heart ached to stop racing. My life? Officially ruined.

…

That night, as the car carried us home in silence, I stared out the window, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The city lights blurred, mocking me.

“Why?” I finally demanded.

His reflection in the glass was unreadable. “Because now, they can’t touch you. Or your father. Or your company. You’re under my name. Untouchable.”

“I didn’t agree to this.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“You arrogant, smug, manipulative—”

His hand shot out, catching mine before I could jab a finger into his chest. For once, his voice softened.

“Christiana,” he said quietly. “You may hate me. You may fight me. But you’re safer as my fiancée than you’ll ever be alone.”

I yanked my hand back, furious at the tremor in my chest.

“Go to hell,” I whispered.

His faint smile returned. “I told you already. You’re the welcome party.”

And God help me… I almost laughed.