When Love Wasn't Part Of The Plan.

SERAFINA

I didn't cry or scream.

Funny enough, I didn't even blink, really.

I just stood there, in my own doorway, watching my "Disney prince" fiancé go down raw on my freaking stepsister.

In my goddamn sheets.

I was hella sure they wouldn't be done anytime soon. I mean... judging from the size of him, she'd be busy all night.

My name's still saved in his phone as "Wife :)".

Cute.

It was a slow motion kind of betrayal. It was- expected. Because tell me why that bitch would laugh even when he just coughed?

Welp. I sensed it.

The flirty compliments, the nicknames, even down to the pink underwear I found under his drawer.

I hated pink.

I should've left then. God knows I had chances. But no - I stayed. Like an idiot.

Whatever happened there wasn't dramatic anymore, just Amia's perfect little foot digging into my comforter while Leo told her she tasted better than anything he'd ever had.

I didn't say a word.

I didn't even throw anything.

I was the perfect fiancée, and I'd literally do anything to make my "man happy"- even if it meant letting him rub her clit while telling her what a good little girl she was.

Fuck them both.

I just turned around, walked back out, and closed the door behind me. I knew they both saw me and pretended they didn't. They obviously didn't give a damn. So why should I?

"Where were we daddy?" Amia finally let out after giggling in the most mocking tone ever.

I didn't let it get to me, I was done doing that. They could enjoy their little fairytale while it lasted.

My Uber driver was still downstairs.

"Forgot something?" he asked.

I got in. "Yeah," I said. "My Sanity."

He let out a light scoff. Poor fella thought I was cracking a joke.

I didn't know where I was going to, but one thing was certain, it had to be a million miles away from them both. From all of this.

Three days later, they got engaged.

Gold balloons, string quartet, one of those proposals that's so public it makes you feel embarrassed just watching it.

The caption on her instagram post said, "Some things are just meant to be"

Sure, so was food poisoning.

I wasn't heartbroken, not really. Just...empty.

Like I'd been hollowed out and someone forgot to refill me.

It wasn't just the betrayal, it was how casual it was.

Like I was never the main character. Just the stand-in, the usual test run.

Richard Vale, my father, was an expert in making me remember my worth. Technically, what was really binding us both was that name, "Vale".

I wasn't even angry at Leo. I never expected much from him.

But Amia?

Amia I grew up with.

Amia used to sneak into my room when there were thunderstorms.

Amia braided my hair for prom when my mom wasn't there to do it.

Amia once cried in my lap over a boy and told me I was the only person who ever made her feel safe.

And now she is marrying my fiancé.

With Richard's full support, obviously.

Because why ruin your perfect PR family with feelings, right?

***

Rhea showed up that night with fries, tequila, and her laptop.

"I have a list," she said.

I blinked. "Of what?"

"Men desperate enough to marry you within forty-eight hours."

I didn't ask how she knew that. I didn't even want to know. She's THE Rhea.

Her plan was simple: fake marriage. Public, fast, and confusing. Just enough to shift the headlines before Amia's big Vogue spread came out next week.

The guy? A struggling model who needed money, exposure, and a green card. Nothing I hadn't handled before in client campaigns.

He'd meet me at a diner, sign the paper, smile for a staged photo or two, and then vanish. What could possibly go wrong?

I said yes. I didn't even care how I was going to pull this off, but I was in.

Hell, maybe I was finally cracking. But if I was going down, I wasn't going alone.

The diner was half-dead when I got there.

The usual red booths, flickering light above the counter, and a waitress who looked like she hadn't had a night's rest since the '90s.

I was...overdressed. I wore a white dress, nude heels and a blazer slung over one arm.

If this was going to be a mess, I was going to be the best-dressed person in it.

Rhea said Booth 7. Left wall by the counter.

I walked straight to it.

The meeting was scheduled at 9:30am. It was already a few minutes to 10.

"He's punctual Sera, be there on time,". Rhea added in the description, alongside what he'd wear.

Now, "Mr punctual" was nowhere to be found.

"Light green shirt. Light green shirt. Light green shirt." I literally recited that line like it was supposed to summon my Prince Charming.

And...it kinda did.

Sitting by the right wall near the window seat, I saw him.

Or so I thought, because he was supposed to be seated at the left wall, probably waiting anxiously like a normal guy who was going to get married to a complete stranger.

But his composure looked rather calm afar, or maybe it was because I hadn't come close enough to see the face buried under his laptop.

He probably chose to sit there due to its distance from the window or maybe...the WiFi strength. Relatable.

This place was stuffy anyways, I couldn't blame the guy.

I adjusted my blazer one last time and finally took a step towards his direction.

I stood in front of him, hoping he'd stop typing and finally notice me. But he didn't, not until I let out a loud sigh.

He finally raised his head and Holy Smokes-

I was staring at a Greek god- possibly Poseidon himself..

I quickly snapped out of it.

Something was off, this ethereal being didn't look like he was a struggling actor, not one bit. He looked like he was THE director of the show.

Damn.

Green shirt, clean lines and a glass of water in front of him, untouched. He finally folded his hands like he was waiting for a verdict. That stillness wasn't just confidence. It was like... he already knew what I came to say.

I opened my mouth and closed it.

"Done staring ma'am?" The sexiest deep voice escaped his lips. I was too starstruck to also notice how beautiful his blue eyes were.

He looked down, then up again, slowly this time, like he already knew I'd come. Like I was interrupting a plan he'd set in motion days ago.

I finally stretched my hands forward for a shake, desperately praying he'd kiss them instead. To my surprise, he- he just raised those perfectly trimmed eyebrows and leaned back on the chair.

How rude!

I....I'm, um...Sera.

Sera..phina Vale.

I stuttered badly, and I was sure he knew why. It felt soooo embarrassing. I had to shove out an invisible strand of hair to regain my stamina.

I trusted Rhea to set me up with someone decent. But this? This was unreal.

"Dorian." He paused. Then added, slower, like he wanted it to land. "Dorian Everhart."

I cut the shy part, I had to brace myself. I could continue once the deal was done. Because naturally, I had already felt some sort of tingling feeling around this man. So playing lovebirds in public would be a piece of cake.

"Rhea, must have told you everything.

I... I need a husband," I said, finally sitting down.

He blinked once. "Okay."

I frowned. "That's it? Just..Okay?"

"You came to me, right? Or.. are my services no longer needed, miss?"

I paused.

He didn't look like someone who was used to being told no and something about that should've made me nervous.

Instead, it made me curious.

I reached into my bag, pulled out the form, and slid it across the table.

"You look calm."

"That a problem?"

"Only if you think this is going to be... painless."

He signed without hesitation. Like he'd been waiting for this exact moment. First name, last name, a slow signature that curved like it belonged on something heavier than marriage paperwork.

This man wasn't even trying to look reassuring. And that scared me more than anything he could've said.

I signed. Fast. Before I could talk myself out of it. Before the stupid voice in my head started asking questions I couldn't afford to answer.

That was it.

We were married.

One hour later, a bored clerk at City Hall stamped the license like he'd done it a thousand times.

No questions, no vows, not even a damn ring.

Just two strangers, standing side by side, letting a piece of paper tie up their lives like some weird legal prank.

We didn't speak on the way out.

I walked and he followed.

We didn't smile or fake any poses, obviously, we were just..silent.

He opened the car door for me like we'd done this a million times.

That was the first time I paused. The first time I really looked at him -

- and wondered what the hell I'd just gotten myself into.

The car wasn't mine, which was clearly not normal.

It was a Rolls-freaking-Royce. I stared like it might bite me. Who the hell was this man?

He didn't ask where I lived, he just- drove the car.

I checked my phone.

Rhea: Booth 7, right? Gray shirt???

Rhea: Serafina. Serafina

Rhea: WHO DID YOU MARRY??

Rhea: THAT'S NOT THE GUY I SENT.

Rhea: I swear to God, if you sat with some random and signed that paper-

What the heck was she talking about? She literally told me he was going to wear a Gr-

Oh Crap-

Gray! Gray not Green! Gosh Serafina! I let out a sigh as I placed my right palm on my face.

I was probably too anxious to process anything at that point, even simple grammar. Ugh!

I locked the phone and slowly turned my gaze towards him. This wasn't just a mix-up, it was something else entirely....Something way above my pay grade.

He stared right back, this time, his eyes flickered differently.

His stare told me all I needed to confirm. He was obviously aware of whatever was happening.

He didn't even seem confused or worried like I was.

Who even was this guy?

Dorian Everhart.

That's what the license said. I'd never heard of him before but something about the name settled too easily in the back of my mind.

Like it was waiting there.

We finally arrived at my apartment. It was clean, literally, it was spotless.

I stepped out first. He didn't wait for permission. Just followed me in and stood in the center of my living room like he was casing the place.

"You knew," I said.

He looked at me.

"That I wasn't meeting you. That I was supposed to marry someone else."

He nodded. "You asked."

I narrowed my eyes. "You didn't think that was weird?"

"Well, you didn't seem concerned."

"I was distracted."

"So was I."

We stared at each other, for a long moment.

And then, this fine man turned and walked down the hallway.

Like he lived there. Like I was the stranger in this house, MY house.

***

The next morning, everything exploded.

The clerk leaked the paperwork and the gossip accounts posted blurry photos of us walking out of City Hall. Someone on Twitter said I looked "smug and suspicious." They weren't wrong.

Leo hadn't said anything yet.

Amia posted a blurry coffee pic with the caption "Good energy only."

Sure.

Richard's office issued a dry press release about respecting family privacy. Which, translated, meant: we hate this but we're pretending we don't care.

And Dorian?

He was sitting on my couch, in a black button-up, reading the Financial Post like he wasn't trending.

I stared at him.

"Um...you're not the guy she sent."

He turned a page. "No."

"You're not a model."

"No."

"You're not broke or struggling."

His eyes stayed on mine.

"No." His tone didn't change. "And I never said I was."

I folded my arms with my lips pouting.

"So? Who the hell are you?"

He finally looked up. His head first, then his jaw dropping blue eyes following right after.

"Your husband, ma'am".

SERAFINA

There should've been some kind of release.

Like... a scream. A breakdown or bottle thrown at the wall. Something.

But I just stood there, still in yesterday's shirt, watching my legally wedded hot stranger turn the page of a newspaper like he was waiting for coffee service.

"Your husband," he said, like he was telling me the weather.

We were both silent for a moment.

I should've been panicking. I should've been yelling. Instead, I blinked at him like an idiot and backed out of the room slowly, as if he was a very calm lion I didn't want to startle.

Which made no sense.

Because this wasn't just some random poor actor. This was Dorian-freaking-Everhart.

Okay, not freaking. I still didn't know who he was. But.. the name looked expensive. The posture definitely was. And no normal person signs a fake marriage license without asking at least one question.

He hadn't even flinched.

Not once.

Not when I sat down or even when asked him to marry me. Even when I pulled out the documents and pushed them across the table like I was ordering a sandwich.

And now, here he was, reading the Financial Post in my living room while I stood there wondering if I could legally file for annulment based on emotional sabotage and spiritual whiplash.

I went to the kitchen.

My hands went straight to the cabinet even though I wasn't hungry, and I wasn't reaching for food.

I opened the door and stared blankly at a box of quinoa I hadn't touched since 2022.

Behind me, I heard him move.

One step.. then the second. He didn't rush.

I turned before he got closer. "Don't,"

He stopped mid-step. Slowly.

"What am I not doing?"

"Existing, near me."

He raised an eyebrow. "That might be difficult mama, considering we're married."

"God, you're smug."

"I'm accurate."

"Are you always this annoying?"

He blinked. "I thought I was being polite."

I rolled my eyes blankly, I had nothing to say to this man.

My phone buzzed on the counter, again.

I checked the screen and immediately regretted it. Twenty-three new notifications. Headlines and gossip accounts. People tagging me in blurry photos like I'd faked my own death and returned with a new identity. Twisted rebirth storyline.

The top headline read:

"From Betrayed to Betrothed: Serafina Vale's Rebound Marriage Shocks LA Society"

Below it:

"Who Is Dorian Everhart?"

Yeah. I'd actually like to know that too.

They all had an opinion, but none of them remembered who I was before this mess. Hell, I wasn't even sure I did.

Rhea called three times before I picked up.

"Tell me you didn't marry him," she said, no greeting.

"I... I did."

"You what?"

"I married him."

"You married the wrong guy?"

"Not on purpose Rhea, I wasn't aware he was the wrong guy."

"You didn't!"

"Rhea, I don't even know what this man does when I'm not looking at him."

"Oh my god." Pause. "Is he still there?"

"Yes."

"Did he kill the model?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't know, Rhea, am I qualified to check for bodies now?"

She groaned. "Do you even know his last name?"

"Everhart."

Silence.

"I've heard that before," she muttered. "That name's not small."

Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed to hear. Not only had I married a complete stranger, he might be a rich stranger. Possibly even dangerous.

"I have to go," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I need to Google my "husband" before he finishes my almond milk."

Back in the living room, Dorian was sitting on the edge of the couch, scrolling through his phone with the energy of someone who had nothing to hide.

I didn't sit. I just stood near the hallway, arms crossed like a defense line he hadn't asked for.

"What exactly do you do for a living?" I asked.

He glanced up. "I'm in acquisitions."

That told me nothing. "Like... um...real estate?"

"Sometimes."

Corporate speak. Love that.

"Are you famous?" I tried.

"No."

"Criminal?"

"No."

"Then why are there zero public photos of you?"

"I don't like photos."

"You married someone who works in branding. That's going to be a problem."

"Then un-marry me."

He said it casually. Not defensive. Not even sarcastic. Just flat, like he was giving me the out if I wanted it.

I didn't respond.

Because I didn't know if I wanted it, not yet.

*

An hour later, I sat in my bedroom surrounded by half my closet and the one working outlet that didn't spark every time I plugged in my flat iron.

My inbox was exploding. My assistant had emailed six times. The words "brand stability," "potential fallout," and "crisis control" all came up, and that was just in the subject lines.

Two clients had pulled out.

A third wanted to pause our campaign "until things settled."

I stared at the wall for five minutes. Not crying or even panicking. Just... empty. Like I'd left my body on the couch and floated somewhere safer.

Like I'd walked out of my own damn life and left the lights on.

Leo and Amia got engaged and I got completely ruined. Not by accident, by choice. I walked into that diner to ruin them. To take the headline and avoid being termed the psycho ex-fiancée.

Well, I took it. And now it was eating me alive.

There was a knock on my door. I was on my bed in a towel and two unmatched socks, questioning every decision I'd ever made since age fourteen.

The knock came again.

"Serafina," Dorian's voice was calm. That seductive voice was always calm. "There's a man at the door."

I sat up. "What?"

"A man. Says his name is Russell."

I jumped to my feet and ran to the living room, nearly tripping on a hair straightener I hadn't used in three weeks.

Russell was my publicist.

"What the hell," I hissed, grabbing my phone. "Why is he here?"

"I let him in."

"You WHAT?"

Dorian stepped aside. Russell walked in like he owned the place - tinted sunglasses, a half-buttoned shirt, and the sleep schedule of a man on twelve lawsuits.

"This is not how we do things honey," he said, not bothering with hello. "We don't get married to strangers. We don't hijack the press cycle and we surely don't leave Vogue photographers on read."

"I didn't leave them on-wait, how did you get my address?"

Russell waved a dismissive hand. "You're not that private."

He turned to Dorian, studied him, and then turned back to me.

"Is he staying?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want him to?"

"I also don't know."

Russell sighed and pulled a folded sheet from his bag. "Well, congratulations, you just made page three of the Daily Watch. We've got twenty-four hours to flip the narrative or you're going to be the poster girl for impulsive instability."

Dorian tilted his head. "And that's a problem?"

Russell blinked. "Are you her husband or her handler?"

"Neither."

"Could've fooled me."

The meeting lasted less than fifteen minutes.

Russell left with a plan. I was supposed to release a vague "we met in private" story and smile through it.

I didn't argue or agree either.

After the door closed, I just turned to Dorian.

"You could've told me not to let him in," I muttered.

"You looked like you needed the help anyways, you're welcome."

"Ugh! He was such a diva!

I just pouted my lips while he studied me for a moment. Not like a man looking at his wife. No. More like a man looking at a very complicated puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.

"You should eat something," he said, like it was an order disguised as care.

And then walked away.

***

That night, I sat on my balcony with a glass of wine I couldn't taste and a world that suddenly didn't feel like it was mine anymore.

My name was everywhere.

My face, my marriage.

But my story?

It was still missing.

He was in the guest room. I think.

I hadn't seen him in two hours, and part of me was glad. The other part kept glancing at the hallway like maybe he'd show up again and answer a question I hadn't asked.

Then again... maybe I didn't want to know.

I woke up the next morning with my bedroom door slightly open.

I never leave it open.

Never, ever...

SERAFINA

My bedroom door was open.

Just a crack. Like it didn't want to be obvious, but also didn't care enough to hide that it was.

And that's what made it worse.

I stood there, staring at it like it was going to explain itself. Like the door would suddenly turn and say, "My bad, girl. I slipped."

It didn't.

I always close my door, always. I don't care if I'm dead tired, drunk, or borderline emotionally comatose - I close it. I lock it.

Because I like boundaries.

So no, it didn't drift open. And no, I wasn't going to play dumb just to make myself feel better.

I got dressed in silence. Hoodie, black leggings and hair in a bun that I half-pulled together like it owed me money. No makeup or jewelry. And definitely no intention of pretending I was okay.

Because I wasn't.

I was confused, suspicious, and sharing my space with a man who made less noise than an air purifier but somehow felt louder.

Dorian was already in the kitchen.

Of course he was.

He was pouring coffee like we'd lived together for six years. Barefoot, calm and button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves. Like some stock photo husband who read the financial section while his wife posted about their healthy marriage on Instagram.

Except I didn't know his middle name. Or where he was from. Or how he knew where the coffee filters were - because I sure as hell didn't.

"You were near my room," I said, standing in the doorway.

"No," he said simply.

"My door was open."

He poured. "Then you left it that way."

"No, I didn't."

"Then, maybe it opened on its own."

"It's not a horror movie, genius."

He turned and handed me a mug like we were about to debrief a mutual friend's wedding. "Drink. You'll feel better."

I didn't take it.

"Is this your thing? Gaslighting before breakfast?"

"Is this yours? Wild accusations about your husband mixed with caffeine?"

"You're not my husband."

"Legally, I am."

"Spiritually, you're an Airbnb guest with control issues."

I drank the coffee.

Not because he told me to. Because I was exhausted and stupid curious. Of course it was perfect. Rich, smooth and expensive.

"You brought your own beans, didn't you?"

"I brought everything."

"Why?"

He sipped his own mug. "I don't like feeling unprepared."

"You married a stranger. I'd say the window for preparation is closed."

He didn't answer that. Just walked past me toward the hallway like the conversation bored him.

And honestly, it probably did.

***

By 10 a.m., I was already three emails deep in panic.

One major sponsor was pulling out. Another wanted to "put our project on hold" until the public settled down. My assistant forwarded me a thread from a PR watchdog account dissecting my marriage like it was a new blockbuster Netflix documentary.

"This is giving crisis rebrand energy," one tweet read.

"Sis is spiraling."

I scrolled through the comments, unreadable and numb.

Then I saw it - an email from Richard's office.

Not from Richard. My father never wasted a direct line on me.

It was from his senior comms rep.

"At this time, the family requests no public statements be made regarding internal matters. Please act accordingly. Regards."

No name or signature. Just a slap disguised as a "suggestion".

Right.

Because the last thing Richard Vale wants is people asking why his illegitimate daughter is suddenly trending - and not for something controllable like a campaign launch or engagement announcement. He doesn't do chaos unless he's the one spinning it.

And right now, he couldn't spin me. That era was surely ending.

***

I heard Dorian's voice down the hall.

He was on a call, calm and confident.

I walked to the edge of the hallway and listened, not even trying to pretend I wasn't eavesdropping.

"Yes," he said. Pause. "It's moving faster than expected."

Another pause.

"No, she doesn't know yet."

I stepped back.

I took a step back - too fast. My foot caught the wood and the floor creaked like it was tattling on me.

The door swung open.

He stared at me, phone still in hand, eyes steady like I hadn't just caught him in the middle of a very suspicious sentence.

"Enjoying the hallway? hm?" he asked.

"Just passing through."

He nodded, like that made sense. "You look pale."

"You look..um..caught."

A tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. "I was ordering lunch."

"Oh, is that what they're calling it now?"

"You want Chinese or Lebanese?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Lunch."

"You're serious."

"I don't joke about food."

I walked away before I could respond. Not because I was scared, because I had nothing smart to say to that.

Rhea texted me mid-afternoon:

Update: Your father's pissed. Major donors pulling out of three appearances. Your marriage is not helping his "family values" brand.

Followed by:

Also, who the hell is Dorian? I asked around. No real hits. One person said he used to work in corporate law and another said offshore investment. Nobody knows for sure, and that's not normal.

I stared at the messages for a long time.

Then finally texted back:

"Well, he made me coffee and insulted me before 8 a.m. So, I'd say we're off to a great start. :)"

She just replied with the eye rolling emoji, I literally had nothing to say anyways.

That night, I found Dorian sitting on the couch. He wasn't watching TV or using his laptop. Just him and a notebook.

I walked past him, grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge, and sat down across the island, flipping through my calendar even though I had nothing left on it.

He finally spoke.

"Are you okay?"

I looked up. "You don't actually care."

"Would you feel better if I said no?"

"I'd feel better if you stopped acting like this is normal."

He leaned back. "I'm not acting."

I studied him.

His shirt was unbuttoned. I'm pretty sure he was teasing me on purpose, because damn, those were one toned set of abs.

His sleeves were still rolled, his watch was still too expensive. And surprisingly his face was still too calm for someone whose fake wife was currently being investigated by every major gossip account on the internet. And that was NOT okay.

"Why are you still here?" I asked.

"I'm....married."

"You could've left."

"You could've asked me to."

A pause.

"But you didn't."

"Fine. Now I'm asking."

"It's too late now, princess," he said quietly. "You already let me in."

I didn't respond.

I poured another glass of wine I couldn't taste and walked back to my room like the silence wasn't following me.

I got there, closed the door - and this time, I checked it twice.

I sat on my bed, phone in hand while blankly staring at my lock screen like it owed me some freaking answers.

Then- I checked my notifications.

And there it was.

A post from Amia.

Fresh, just about thirty minutes ago.

There was no caption. Just a blurry shot of me and Dorian at the courthouse. Someone must've sold it. We weren't facing the camera, but you could see everything - the dress, the paper in his hand, the way he was looking at me like he already knew how it would end.

The comments were blowing up.

But it was the second photo in the carousel that made my stomach turn.

I- I couldn't believe what my eyes were looking at-