His Counterfeit Bride

horne & Co. annual charity gala. Our first public appearance as Ronan Vale and his supposed fiancée. For two days, I had been a human canvas, molded a

felt like second skins, perfectly tailored to my figure, whispering luxury rather than shouting it. This evening's choice was a deep emerald green, a rich jewel tone that Ms. Gwen insisted would complement my d

med Lily, had expertly applied subtle makeup that enhanced my features without masking them, making my eyes seem larger, more luminous. Looking in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. T

rt intimacy. It must seem genuine, but controlled." I had practiced in front of a mirror until my cheeks ached, forcing the curve, memorizing the angle of my head, the placement of my hands.

rt exhibition Ronan sponsored. You were an aspiring artist; he, a patron with an eye for talent. It's romantic, plausible, and it avoids any... inconvenient truth

st to hear Tabitha's voice, to reassure myself of the reason for all this. Tabitha's voice, though weak, had been filled with her usual optimism. "Don't you worry, sw

ager, entered, her serene expression unwavering. "Mr. Vale is wait

of my dress rustling softly as

ine it seemed to absorb the ambient light. He looked less like a man and more like a statue carved from midnight, radiating an almost intim

. It wasn't a compliment, but it wasn't a criticism

rodded and polished, and "appropriate" was all he had to say? I pu

defaulting to the polite, distan

else. His daughter, Amelia, is more modern, but fiercely protective of the brand. His son, Robert, is ambitious but easily influenced. They are wary of my 'new money' origins, despite

You will smile, you will listen, and you will defer to me in all matters. You will act as if our engagement is the most natural, joyous thing in your life." His hand, warm and firm, suddenly sett

warm under his touch, an unwelcome blush. This was part of the act, I reminded myself. This forced intim

ficial day. A cacophony of shouts, questions, and the whirring of camera lenses assaulted my ears. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against my elegant gown. I ins

almost tender look that I knew was entirely for the benefit of the cameras. He squeezed my hand, which he had now taken from my back, intertwining our fingers. The ge

ming answers to shouted questions about our "whirlwind romance," and steered me expertly past the clamor and into t

y surface, live classical music drifted from a hidden orchestra, and the air shimmered with diamonds and designer fabrics. I felt a dizzying s

l detached tone, the charming fiancé persona dropped as soon as we were out of direc

ason for all of this. I squared my shoulders, summoning every

the stage, I saw him-Julian Thorne. An imposing man with a shock of white hair and shrewd, intelligent eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Besid

place. "Julian, Amelia," he greeted, his voice warm, extending a

ng me feel as though I was under a microscope. "Ronan," Thorne said, his voice deep and gravelly. "So, this is t

to introduce my fiancée, Sophie Carrington." He turned to me, his eyes softening with a theatrical t

rm, but not overly familiar. "It's an honor to meet you both," I said, my voice clear and steady, d

t's quite a legacy. And Ronan speaks highly of your... artist

irectly. "It was through his foundation's exhibit that we first truly connected. His vision for supporting emerging artists truly res

ual boardroom talk, I suppose. And you, Miss Carrington, are truly committed to Ronan? To this

unlike anyone I've ever met. And I believe in his vision, both for his business and for the future we're building together." I placed my free hand over

erhaps even a hint of approval, crossed his face before he smoothly covered my hand with his own, pressing it gently.

"Perhaps Ronan is finally settling down. We certainly hope so." The im

lite, vague answers when pressed about personal details. I heard snippets of gossip about Ronan – his ruthless business tactics, his reputation as a formidable negotiator, his penchant for brief, high-profile r

hausted from the constant vigilance. I excused myself to the ladies' room at one point, needing a moment of solitude. Splashing cold water on my face, I looked

st a marble pillar, arms crossed. The charming facade had dropped again, his face

I replied, my own p

ulian seemed... satisfied. Amelia is still cautious, but not

he sheer performance, that was all I got? "I believe I performed exactly a

shing a stray strand of hair from my cheek, a gesture that was so unexpected it startled me. His touch was brief, al

unned. Almost looked convincing. It was a backhanded compliment, an acknowledgment of my

in the silent confines of Ronan's limousine, speeding through the deserted city streets, I felt utterly dr

the car pulled into the mansion's driveway. "Get some rest, Miss Carrington," he said, his voice flat. "Tomo

t, torturous heels, I collapsed onto the ridiculously soft bed in my suite. The silk gown felt heavy now, like a shroud. I pulled out the charcoal sketch of Tabitha from my small bag, the one I'd insisted on bringing. I