It started with a phone call and ended with a wedding invitation on thick cream cardstock embossed with gold—sent to her office like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Lia Morgan stared at the invitation for a full minute before blinking, reading it again, and then setting it down slowly on her desk, as though it might detonate.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Miss Lia Morgan and Mr. Adrian Blackwell.

The name burned.

Adrian Blackwell.

She said it aloud. Testing it. Tasting it like poison on her tongue. “Adrian. Blackwell.”

Then she laughed.

"Good one, Grandma."

But her grandmother didn’t answer. The call had ended ten minutes ago, after a lot of cryptic nonsense and giggling that sounded suspiciously smug.

"You're not getting any younger, Lia," her grandmother had chirped. "And neither is he! Perfect timing, don't you think?"

Perfect timing. Lia rolled her eyes so hard they nearly fell out.

She didn’t have time for this. She was thirty, career-focused, and had just returned from four years of building an overseas consultancy branch that now practically ran itself. She was due a vacation, not a spontaneous engagement to a man she hadn’t seen since high school—if she remembered him at all. Which she didn't.

Well, that was about to change.

---

The Blackwell estate was a study in excess. Lia had been ushered through towering wrought-iron gates, past manicured hedges trimmed to unnatural perfection, into a home where marble floors reflected her anxiety back at her with blinding clarity.

She was here to meet him.

Him.

The man she was apparently marrying.

She adjusted her blazer, smoothed her skirt, and squared her shoulders. She had negotiated million-dollar deals with men twice her age and five times as smug. She could handle one overprivileged heir with a last name that sounded like a villain in a soap opera.

The butler led her through the halls, finally gesturing to a sitting room with arched windows and velvet chairs she wouldn’t dare sit on without signing a waiver.

“Mr. Blackwell will be with you shortly.”

Lia nodded, trying to look composed. Not at all like a woman who'd just learned she was allegedly engaged to someone she didn’t know.

The door creaked.

And then he walked in.

Tall. Dark. Impossibly confident.

He wore a navy suit like it had been made for sin—the fit impeccable, his stride measured, casual, dangerous. He wasn’t just handsome. He was... lethal.

Adrian Blackwell.

Her future husband. Maybe.

He stopped a few feet from her, eyes scanning her with mild interest. His gaze landed, lingered.

“So,” he said, voice low, cool. “You’re the girl I’m marrying.”

Lia raised a brow. “And you’re the guy who thinks that line works on people?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“Good. Because you didn’t.”

The silence between them stretched taut.

She took in the slight stubble on his jaw, the way he rolled his cuff back with precise movements. This was a man used to control. Power.

She wasn’t about to give him either.

“I assume you’re here to protest,” he said.

Lia crossed her arms. “Why would you assume that?”

“Because any woman forced into marrying me usually has strong feelings about it.”

“Forced?” She snorted. “My grandmother thinks she can still run my life like it’s a dating sim. This is just her latest fantasy.”

“Ah. So you’re not thrilled either.”

“Understatement.”

Adrian walked to the side table, poured himself a glass of bourbon, and didn’t offer her one. “You can relax. I’m not interested in marriage. Certainly not a convenient one.”

“Oh good,” she said dryly. “We’re in perfect agreement, then. We fake a few meetings, keep the old ladies happy, and stage a breakup before anyone buys matching towels.”

He paused. Turned. “You think we can fake this?”

“Why not? You clearly have practice with pretending.”

That did it. His eyes darkened, a shadow flitting across his expression.

“Be careful,” he said softly.

“Or what?” she asked, stepping closer. “You’ll seduce me into staying?”

His hand shot out, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“If I wanted to seduce you,” he murmured, leaning in so she could feel the whisper of his breath against her ear, “I wouldn’t have to try very hard.”

Her breath hitched.

And then she shoved him back with a single finger to his chest.

“Dream on, Pretty Boy.”

He grinned. “You just called me pretty.”

She turned to leave. “Accidentally.”

“Still counts.”

She walked out, heels clicking across the marble like gunshots.

This was a disaster. A ridiculous, dramatic, confusing disaster.

And worse?

Her heart was still racing.

---

That night, Lia lay awake in her apartment, staring at the ceiling.

Who was Adrian Blackwell, really?

She didn’t remember him from their supposed childhood. Just vague mentions. A blurry photo. An awkward family connection.

But there was something too familiar in the way he’d looked at her. Like he knew something she didn’t.

She hated that feeling.

Even more than she hated the thrill it sent down her spine.

She grabbed her phone. Searched.

Adrian Blackwell, CEO, Blackwell Ventures. Harvard grad. Philanthropist. Model-level jawline. Single.

One article caught her eye: "The Elusive Blackwell Heir: Still Waiting for Love or Just Playing the Game?"

She rolled her eyes but clicked anyway.

Photos. Glimpses of him at galas. At summits. Always poised. Alone. Untouchable.

Until now, apparently.

She sighed. Tossed the phone aside. And tried very, very hard not to imagine what that smirk would look like up close.

Or what he might sound like if he wasn't trying to keep his voice so carefully controlled.

Sleep did not come easily.

---

The next day, her grandmother texted her one line:

Lunch with Adrian. Wear something cute. Don’t fight in public.

Too late.

Lia smiled grimly as she slipped into a blood-red dress that clung in all the right places. If they wanted a show, she was going to give them one.

And if Adrian thought he could scare her off with arrogance and smirks?

He had no idea who he was dealing with.

The restaurant was the kind of place with wine lists longer than most novels and waiters who judged you silently for ordering tap water. Lia walked in like she owned the place, her heels a rhythmic defiance against the white marble. Heads turned. Of course they did.

Adrian was already there.

Seated at a table near the window, looking like a GQ cover shoot in progress. He wore another suit—charcoal gray this time, with a black shirt open at the collar. No tie. No shame. The shadows clung to his jaw in all the right places, and his posture practically screamed power.

He looked up, and his expression flickered. A brief pause. Almost admiration.

Almost.

“Nice dress,” he said when she approached.

“Nice face,” she replied coolly. “Too bad about the attitude.”

He chuckled and stood, pulling out her chair.

“What are we, civilized now?” she asked.

“For the next hour,” he said, “we’re the perfect couple.”

She arched a brow. “In what world are we perfect?”

“The one our grandmothers live in. Smile pretty, say something nice, and maybe don’t stab me with your butter knife until dessert.”

“No promises,” she said, but smiled anyway.

The waiter approached, and they ordered. Polite. Almost normal.

But under the table, their knees brushed.

And neither moved away.

---

“So,” Adrian said after a moment of silence, tilting his head. “Did you rehearse that entrance?”

“What entrance?”

“You came in like you were about to accept an Oscar. Hair just messy enough to be intentional, lipstick lethal, attitude cranked to eleven.”

“You sound impressed.”

“I’m entertained.”

Lia sipped her wine. “Your standards must be low.”

He smirked. “Not at all. But I didn’t expect this much fire.”

“What did you expect?” she asked.

“A bored heiress. Designer shoes and dead eyes. Someone willing to smile for the cameras and quietly fade into the background once the merger—I mean, marriage—was done.”

She laughed sharply. “Newsflash, Blackwell. I’m not a merger. I’m a hostile takeover.”

“Even better,” he said, and his eyes dropped—not to her chest, but lower. Her legs. Her crossed knees. The dress rode high.

Too high?

She let it. Just a little.

“Keep staring, and I’ll assume you want to renegotiate the terms of this engagement,” she said.

“Depends. What are your terms?”

She leaned in, voice soft and teasing. “No touching. No real kisses. No falling in love.”

His smile disappeared. “Fair enough.”

“That was too easy.”

He lifted his glass. “Then you’ll have to wonder what I’m not saying.”

Their drinks came. Appetizers followed. Still, the tension sat between them like a third guest.

Lia didn’t like it.

She loved it.

---

“Tell me something about you,” Adrian said suddenly.

She blinked. “What?”

“Something real. Not the version your resume tells the world.”

Lia tilted her head. “Like what? My secret dream to become a lounge singer?”

“You sing?”

“No. But I dream dramatically.”

He smiled. “Come on. Something real. A weakness. A fear. A regret.”

She hesitated.

Then: “Fine. I hate the dark. Completely. I sleep with a light on. Still.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “Next time you try to manipulate me, don’t do it in a blackout.”

“Duly noted.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Your turn.”

“I hate hospitals,” he said. “Even the smell of antiseptic makes me nauseous.”

“Bad memories?”

“Family history,” he said curtly.

A pause.

Then she softened. Just a fraction.

“Well,” she said, “looks like we both have baggage.”

He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Cheers to our emotional damage.”

She clinked his glass, lips quirking.

---

They were halfway through dessert when Adrian’s phone buzzed. He ignored it.

Lia noticed.

“Someone important?”

“Not today,” he said.

The silence stretched again, but it was different now. Warmer. Like the tension had morphed into curiosity. Like the walls were still up, but the doors had cracked open.

“I have a question,” she said.

“Ask.”

“Do you always play it cool, or is that just your strategy with me?”

He leaned forward, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “It’s not an act. I just don’t give people the power to rattle me.”

“So what do you do when someone does?”

He smiled slowly. “I rattle them back.”

Challenge accepted.

She rose from the table, smoothing her dress. “Then I guess I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow. My grandmother insists on more bonding time.”

“Looking forward to it.”

She bent slightly, close enough to feel his breath.

“And Adrian?”

“Yes?”

“Next time, bring your A-game. Because I’m done playing nice.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him staring after her with an expression that was no longer amused.

It was intrigued.

Possibly dangerous.

Definitely interested.

---

That evening, Adrian stood at his office window, watching the city lights blink below.

She wasn’t what he expected. Sharp, bold, quick with comebacks and even quicker with walls.

But that spark...

She didn’t even realize it, but she made the air electric when she entered a room.

He poured himself a drink, recalling the flash of her thigh, the quirk of her lips when she teased him.

And the challenge in her voice:

No touching. No real kisses. No falling in love.

Oh, Lia.

He was going to break all three.

---

Meanwhile, Lia sat on her couch, laptop open, fingers motionless over the keyboard.

She hadn’t written a single email.

Instead, she stared at the screen saver, thinking about Adrian’s hands, the way his fingers had wrapped around his glass. Precise. Controlled.

What would it take to make him lose that control?

And why did she care?

She groaned, tossed a pillow over her face, and screamed into it.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Adrian: You left your bracelet. I'll drop it off tomorrow.

Her breath caught.

She hadn’t even noticed it missing.

Lia: You keep tabs on my accessories now?

Adrian: Only the ones I undressed with my eyes.

She stared.

Then flushed.

Lia: Try harder next time. Maybe you'll get to remove it for real.

No reply.

For five minutes.

Then:

Adrian: Careful, Lia. I'm very good with my hands.

She dropped the phone.

And laughed.

Maybe this fake engagement wouldn’t be so fake after all.

The following evening, Lia stood in front of her closet, glaring at silk, lace, and sequins like they’d personally offended her. Her grandmother’s dinner invitation—or rather, royal summons—had been made clear: formal attire, sharp punctuality, and no fighting with Adrian in front of the staff.

She’d agreed to two out of three.

After rejecting five dresses and one particularly dramatic jumpsuit, she settled on a navy velvet slip dress that clung to her like a secret. Paired with diamond studs and a wine-red pout, she was elegance with bite. A vision—albeit one with a vendetta.

Adrian arrived exactly one minute late.

He walked in like sin in tailored form: black suit, no tie, white shirt with the first two buttons undone. His cufflinks glittered like promises. His eyes darkened when they landed on her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned, taking his coat without asking.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re imagining me against a wall.”

“I was thinking desk, actually,” he said casually.

She nearly choked on her own spit. “We are going to a dinner with your future in-laws.”

“And I’m preparing emotionally. By picturing you in compromising positions.”

“Charming,” she muttered, spinning on her heel.

He followed, of course. With a grin.

---

The mansion was lit up like Versailles. Crystal chandeliers. Golden trim. A butler who looked like he could recite your blood type by how you held your wine glass.

Lia felt Adrian’s hand press lightly to the small of her back.

She flinched.

He leaned down. “Relax. It’s just optics.”

“I don’t do well with being handled.”

“Noted,” he said, but didn’t move his hand.

The dining room was a parade of powerful people, family and otherwise. Her grandmother sat at the head of the table, all pearls and imperial judgment. Adrian’s uncle—the oil magnate—sat on her left. On her right was a diplomat Lia had once publicly insulted for stealing cultural artifacts. Awkward.

“Adrian, Lia, finally,” her grandmother said. “You two look…” She hesitated, assessing. “Coordinated.”

“Thank you,” Lia replied sweetly. “We dress together now. For synergy.”

Adrian chuckled under his breath.

Dinner began. Five courses. Four wine pairings. Three side-eyes from her cousin who clearly didn’t believe the engagement was anything more than a tax maneuver.

Adrian played the perfect partner. He poured her wine. He laughed at her jokes. He touched her wrist when he spoke, light enough to look intimate, firm enough to feel like possession.

She hated how good he was at this.

Halfway through the main course, someone asked the fatal question:

“So… how did you two meet?”

Lia blinked. Adrian looked at her.

She smiled. “It was raining.”

“Classic,” someone murmured.

“I was running late for a client meeting, heels soaked, umbrella snapped in the wind. He was getting into a car. I mistook him for my driver.”

Laughter around the table.

Adrian picked it up seamlessly. “She gave me the address, demanded I drive, and spent ten minutes on the phone scolding someone named Claire.”

“My assistant,” Lia added. “Poor girl didn’t know I’d hijacked a billionaire.”

“And I didn’t know I was kidnapping a hurricane in heels,” Adrian said smoothly.

More laughter.

Her grandmother raised a brow. “And you didn’t recognize Adrian Blackwell? The face of half the tech world?”

“I thought he looked familiar,” Lia lied. “But I was too busy fuming at Claire.”

Adrian winked at her behind his wine glass.

Somewhere between dessert and digestifs, her hand found his under the table.

Not for affection.

For leverage.

She squeezed. Hard.

He didn’t flinch.

But he looked at her. And smiled.

---

An hour later, they were alone on the balcony, city lights shimmering below.

“Let go of my hand,” she said calmly.

“I did,” he replied. “Ten minutes ago.”

She glanced down. Empty air.

“God, you’re good,” she muttered.

“Was that… praise?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He stepped closer, crowding her against the balcony railing.

“Tell me something,” he said.

“No riddles tonight. I’m full of soufflé and lies.”

“You played the part well.”

“You too,” she admitted. “But I saw your uncle watching me.”

“He’s vetting you. That’s his job.”

“And?”

“And he likes you. A little too much. Which makes me uncomfortable.”

She smirked. “Jealous?”

“No. Territorial.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One is a feeling. The other is a decision.”

Their eyes locked.

The air tightened.

Lia tilted her head. “Do you always flirt like it’s chess?”

“No,” he said softly. “Only when I want to win.”

She licked her lips, suddenly too warm. “And what exactly would winning look like?”

He stepped even closer. “You. Saying my name. Like you mean it.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

She stared up at him, heart racing, words caught between war and want.

Then the glass door slid open.

“Ah, there you are,” her grandmother called. “Photos. We want photos.”

They froze.

Then simultaneously stepped apart.

Lia grabbed his arm with a practiced smile. “Coming, Nana.”

The photos were a nightmare: fake-laughing, fake-hand-holding, fake-couple goals.

But his arm felt real around her waist.

Too real.

---

Later, in the car ride back, silence settled between them like fog.

Lia stared out the window, mascara perfect, heart a mess.

“Do you regret it yet?” he asked.

“The deal?”

“The engagement. The lies. Me.”

She didn’t look at him. “I don’t regret anything I choose.”

He was quiet a long moment.

Then: “I kissed someone once. Just to prove I didn’t feel anything. It backfired.”

She turned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because if I kiss you, it won’t be a test.”

She swallowed. Hard.

“Then don’t kiss me, Adrian.”

He leaned in.

“Too late.”

But he didn’t.

Instead, he brushed his lips near her ear. Barely a ghost of contact. Enough to burn.

Then he pulled back, eyes blazing.

“Goodnight, Lia.”

And left her alone with her heart thundering like war drums.

---

Back in her apartment, Lia stared at herself in the mirror.

She’d won battles tonight. Impressed the family. Outplayed the rumors. Flirted with the devil.

But something inside her had shifted.

Adrian was supposed to be an obstacle. A checkbox. A challenge to conquer.

Instead, he’d become a storm she wasn’t ready for.

Worse—she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop it.

---

Meanwhile, in his penthouse, Adrian looked at the bracelet still in his pocket. The one he hadn’t returned after all.

He held it up to the light. Ran a thumb over its delicate etching.

He could still smell her perfume.

Still hear her laugh.

Still feel her hand on his.

He closed his eyes.

And smiled.

Let the games begin.