Chapter 2 The Wrong Guy

Ivy's POV

Adrian led me out of the hotel bar and into a quiet courtyard behind the Lark. The night air hit my face, cool and sharp. I stood there, pulse still racing, waiting for him to laugh and tell me he was joking.

He did not laugh.

"You need credibility," he said, leaning against the stone wall. "I need my family off my back. A public arrangement serves both purposes."

I crossed my arms. "You're actually serious."

"I don't make jokes about contracts."

We talked for twenty minutes. Terms emerged: public appearances together, no interference in each other's careers, separate residences, six months, clean exit. He spoke like a man who had done this before, or at least thought about it.

I should have said no. Instead, I shook his hand. A flash went off somewhere to my left.

I turned, blinking against the sudden burst of light. A figure was already moving toward the street, camera raised, the red eye of a recording light still glowing.

Adrian's jaw tightened. "That's going to be a problem."

---

The problem arrived at seven the next morning.

My phone exploded off the nightstand. I grabbed it, still half-asleep, and found seventeen missed calls from Zoe and a string of texts that escalated from call me to OH MY GOD to THAT IS THE WRONG GUY.

I opened the link she had sent. My stomach dropped.

VALE HOLDINGS CEO ADRIAN VALE SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY WOMAN

The photo was us in the courtyard. His hand on my elbow. My face turned up toward his. The headline sat above it in bold letters, already shared thousands of times.

Zoe called again. I answered.

"That's the wrong guy!" she screamed. "The one in green, not blue! Ivy, who the hell is that?!"

I opened another tab and typed his name. Adrian Vale. Vale Holdings. Net worth: estimated $2.4 billion.

My vision narrowed. I scrolled down. Forbes profile. Business journals. A photo of him at a charity gala looking untouchable. Another with a former supermodel on his arm. No personal social media. No interviews about his private life. Just cold, hard, terrifying numbers and the unmistakable aura of a man who belonged to a world I had never been part of.

"I proposed to a billionaire," I whispered.

"You what?"

"I thought he was the blind date. I walked up to him and asked him to marry me and he said yes."

Zoe made a sound like a dying animal. "You have to back out. Right now. Call him and say it was a mistake. Say you were drunk or you had a concussion."

"I had two glasses of wine."

"Temporary insanity!"

I stared at the screen. The photo. His face. That calm, impossible composure.

My phone buzzed with a new message. I looked down.

Daniel: Saw the news. You're engaged? Already? Call me.

My blood went cold, then hot, then something else entirely. The audacity. The timing. The way he still thought he had the right to reach for me after what he did.

I called Adrian instead.

He answered on the second ring. "I assume you've seen the news."

"I saw it. I also Googled you. You forgot to mention the billionaire part."

"It rarely comes up in casual conversation."

I pressed my palm against my forehead. "This was a mistake. I need to back out."

Silence on the line. Then: "Have breakfast with me first."

"I don't think breakfast changes anything."

"Humor me."

He was already seated at a corner table when I arrived, coffee waiting, his face unreadable. The restaurant was quiet. He looked like he had not slept either.

I sat down. "I can't do this."

"You can," he said, sliding a folder across the table. "But let me show you why you might not want to."

I opened it. Inside was a draft agreement. Six months. Public appearances only. Separate room. A financial package that made my eyes cross and a line that made me stop.

Neither party shall be subject to personal questions regarding their private lives or past relationships.

I looked up. "You put that in there."

"Daniel is going to reach out," he said. "He's going to try to insert himself into this narrative. This protects you from having to answer to him or anyone else."

I stared at him. "You don't even know me."

"I know you walked up to a stranger in a bar and proposed marriage because you refused to let a man who hurt you define your future." He leaned back. "That tells me everything I need to know."

My phone buzzed again. Daniel: Ivy, come on. We should talk.

I looked at the agreement. At Adrian's calm, steady face. At the photo still open on my phone of the man who had wasted five years of my life.

"I want one more thing," I said.

"Name it."

"No one asks me about Daniel. Not the press, not your family, not anyone. He doesn't get to be part of this story."

Adrian reached into his jacket and produced a pen. He set it on top of the folder. "Write it in. I'll sign."

I picked up the pen. I signed my name before I could talk myself out of it.

Adrian signed beneath mine. He closed the folder and slid it back across the table.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and something in his expression shifted.

"What?" I asked.

He turned the phone toward me. A message from an unknown number.

Congratulations on the engagement. Does she know about the terms of your trust?

I looked at him. His face was perfectly still.

"What trust?" I said.

He did not answer.