Zara Bello knew something was wrong the moment she walked into the room.
It wasn't obvious at first. The champagne was flowing. The chandelier lights were soft and golden. Laughter bounced off the high ceilings of the Kensington hotel ballroom like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong inside those walls.
But people were looking at her strangely.
Not warmly.
Not normally.
Strangely.
She adjusted the sleeve of her black dress — simple, elegant, the only expensive thing she'd bought all year — and searched for Daniel.
Her boyfriend of three years.
The man who had insisted she come tonight.
"It's important," he'd said. "Big night for me."
She'd left her second job early for this.
She'd told her manager she had "family stuff."
She'd rushed home, done her makeup in fifteen minutes, taken the Tube across London with nerves fluttering in her stomach because she thought…
She thought maybe tonight was it.
Promotion party.
Big investment firm.
Kensington ballroom.
Romantic lighting.
Her heart had been stupidly hopeful.
Then she saw her cousin.
Amara.
Standing beside Daniel.
Wearing white.
White.
Zara slowed.
Why was she in white?
Why was Daniel holding her hand?
The room shifted. Or maybe it was Zara's vision.
Someone tapped a spoon against a champagne glass.
The clinking sound echoed.
Daniel cleared his throat.
"Thank you all for coming tonight," he began, smiling in that polished, confident way Zara had once admired.
Zara's stomach dropped.
He hadn't seen her yet.
Or maybe he had.
"And this promotion means everything to me," Daniel continued. "But none of it would have been possible without the person who supported me from the very beginning."
Her heart started pounding.
Okay.
Okay.
This is it.
He's going to call me up.
He's going to—
He turned.
Toward Amara.
"I couldn't have done this without you."
The room erupted in applause.
Zara's brain stalled.
No.
No, that's not—
Daniel reached into his pocket.
Pulled out a ring box.
The kind that ends stories.
The kind that starts futures.
"Amara Bello," he said smoothly, dropping to one knee.
Not Zara Bello.
Amara.
Her cousin's lips trembled as if this was a surprise.
It wasn't.
It couldn't have been.
"Will you marry me?"
The applause got louder.
People were standing.
Standing.
Phones were up.
Recording.
Zara couldn't breathe.
Her ears rang.
Someone near her whispered, "Oh my God, that's his ex."
Ex.
Ex?
Three days ago, Daniel had been in her flat.
Three days ago, he'd slept in her bed.
Three days ago, he'd said he loved her.
Amara covered her mouth dramatically.
"Yes!" she cried.
The crowd exploded.
Daniel slid the ring on her finger.
They kissed.
Actually kissed.
In front of everyone.
Zara felt heat rush through her body — not embarrassment, not sadness.
Rage.
Pure, humiliating rage.
Daniel's eyes finally met hers.
And there it was.
Guilt.
Quick. Flashing. Then gone.
He stood, pulling Amara into his side like Zara had never existed.
Like three years had been erased in one rehearsed moment.
People turned to look at her openly now.
Some pitying.
Some entertained.
Some curious.
She felt small.
Tiny.
Disposable.
Amara's gaze met hers.
There was apology in it.
And something worse.
Victory.
That's when Zara moved.
She didn't think.
Didn't plan.
Didn't care about dignity.
She walked straight through the crowd.
People parted like they sensed something dangerous was coming.
Daniel stiffened.
"Zara—"
The slap echoed.
Sharp.
Clean.
Perfect.
The room went silent.
You could have heard a glass crack.
"You used me," she said, her voice steady in a way that surprised even her. "You built your success on my support. And this?" She gestured to the ring. "This is how you say thank you?"
Daniel's jaw tightened. "This isn't the place."
"No," she agreed. "It isn't."
She turned to Amara.
"And you."
Her cousin looked pale now.
"How long?"
Amara didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Zara let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in her chest for years.
"Congratulations," she said quietly.
Then she walked out.
No tears.
Not yet.
Not in front of them.
Outside, the cold London air hit her face like a slap of its own.
The city was alive. Cars passing. Distant sirens. Laughter from somewhere down the street.
Life moving like hers hadn't just cracked open.
She stepped off the curb without looking.
A car horn blared.
Headlights flooded her vision.
Brakes screeched.
The car stopped inches from her knees.
"What the hell are you doing?"
The voice was sharp. Controlled. Furious.
The driver's door opened.
And the man who stepped out did not look like someone used to chaos.
Tall. Tailored coat. Dark hair slightly wind-tossed. Expensive watch glinting under streetlights.
Power radiated from him the way heat rises from asphalt in summer.
He took one look at her tear-streaked face and then at the hotel entrance where music was still spilling out.
His eyes sharpened.
"You were inside," he said flatly.
She blinked at him. "I don't need a lecture."
"You nearly stepped in front of a Rolls-Royce Phantom."
She let out a humorless laugh. "Of course it was."
He studied her more carefully now.
Recognition flickered.
Not of her.
Of what had just happened.
He'd seen.
Or heard.
Or someone had told him.
The hotel doors opened again.
A few guests spilled out, whispering.
One of them pointed.
Phones came up again.
Great.
Viral humiliation.
Zara wiped her face angrily.
"Fantastic," she muttered.
The man followed their gaze. Then looked back at her.
His expression changed.
Not softer.
Colder.
More calculating.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"Zara."
"Zara," he repeated like he was testing how it sounded.
Then he extended his hand.
"Adrian Wolfe."
The name meant something.
Even through the haze of anger, she recognized it.
Tech billionaire.
Private. Ruthless. Headlines loved him.
She didn't take his hand.
"I don't care who you are."
"I know," he said calmly. "That's why this might work."
She frowned. "What might work?"
He glanced once more at the hotel entrance — at the whispers — at the spectacle.
Then back at her.
"I need a fiancée," he said.
The words landed heavier than the slap she'd delivered minutes ago.
She stared at him.
He didn't smile.
"I have a contract in the car," he continued. "One year. Public appearances. Mutual benefit."
She let out a breathless laugh. "You've got to be joking."
"I never joke about business."
"And why me?"
His gaze dropped briefly to the hotel doors.
"Because," he said quietly, "you look like a woman who has nothing left to lose."
The music swelled inside the ballroom.
Applause again.
Probably for the happy couple.
Zara looked at the ring lights reflecting in the windows.
Looked at her reflection.
Small.
Humiliated.
Angry.
Then she looked back at Adrian Wolfe.
"Show me the contract," she said.
And just like that—
The night wasn't over.