The Stranger in a Suit

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.

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