"Open up!" Jalene's voice sliced through the stillness, louder than the faint buzz of crickets outside. The sleep I was clinging to vanished instantly.
Groaning, I sat up and hissed when my foot caught on a heap of clothes scattered across the cramped van. I shoved them aside with a sharp kick, stumbling to the door.
"What?" I snapped as I yanked it open, not even looking at her first.
Jalene didn't miss a beat, brushing past me with a bag slung over her shoulder. "Move aside. I'm crashing."
"You have an apartment."
She flopped onto my couch, already digging through her bag. "And you've got peace and quiet parked out here in the wilderness. My apartment? Nothing but neighbors staring into my soul through their windows."
I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes at her. "Don't you dare put that face full of makeup on my couch."
Jalene froze mid-lunge, rolled her eyes, and rummaged in her bag again. She pulled out a wipe and started scrubbing at her face like it owed her money.
"You have no idea how crazy work was today," she muttered, half her words muffled as she wiped at her nose. "That idiot gambled again, and everyone's earnings almost went up in smoke. The whole place was on edge."
She flung the used wipe into the corner of the van and finally turned to me. "Oh, and Felix says you're getting married. Is that true?"
My eyes narrowed. "That idiot never shuts up, does he?"
Her face lit up. "Wait—so it's true? Holy hell, are you pregnant with some rich heir's baby? How did you—"
I cut her off with a wave of my hand. "—do nothing of the sort. You believe everything Felix says? He's full of it half the time."
Jalene leaned back, crossing her arms, smirking. "Okay, so what part of it isn't true? Are you marrying some mysterious heir? Pregnant? Or just cozying up to Felix more than usual?"
"The only part that's clear, Jalene, is that I'm getting married. As for the husband, I don't know yet."
Jalene blinked at me, dumbfounded. "What do you mean, you don't know?"
I flopped back onto the bed with a groan. "I know I'll be married before the year ends, but I don't have a husband yet."
"Wow." She dropped onto the couch, staring at me like I'd grown two heads. "That's even more confusing. Where is this coming from? Do you hate living alone now or something?"
"You're awfully interested," I muttered.
"Why wouldn't I be? You're not making sense!"
"Yes, I hate living alone now," I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm desperate for someone to grope me after all the failed attempts at work every night. Happy?"
She wrinkled her nose. "You're weird."
I swung my legs off the bed and stood. "You know what? I might as well get to work right now." The vague, maddening conversations I'd had with Grant were starting to crawl under my skin again.
This was my last chance. My only shot at getting into Pembroke. It had to work.
Ignoring Jalene's barrage of questions, I headed to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me.
When I emerged a few minutes later, Jalene was still sitting there, arms crossed. "You know, sometimes you're unnecessarily confusing," she said with a huff.
"You should start heading home. I've got somewhere to be."
"I'll stay here."
"I'm taking the van."
"Oh, right." She stood reluctantly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "But you better tell me the whole story later. Otherwise, I'll have Felix fill me in—with every single version in his head."
"Good luck with that, Jalene," I said as I rifled through my clothes. Pulling out my most expensive dress, I tossed it onto the bed.
Jalene huffed dramatically as she opened the door. "Fill me in!" she yelled before leaving.
I dressed quickly, the knot in my stomach tightening with every movement. Determination swelled in my chest as I climbed into the driver's seat.
Grant. This was my only way forward. Without hesitating, I started the van and drove straight toward his company.
***
"Do you have an appointment, ma'am?" the young man by the clocking-in system asked, his eyes flicking up from his monitor. He had the bored politeness of someone who'd dealt with far too many uninvited guests.
"Does his fiancée need an appointment?" I asked, tilting my chin just enough to project confidence. "I've already called him. He'll be here soon—if he isn't already."
The words rolled off my tongue smoothly, but inside, my pulse was racing. One thing was certain: Grant wouldn't be able to ignore me once he saw me. He never could.
The man hesitated, shifting awkwardly. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said at last, his tone apologetic but firm. "If I let you through without clearance, I could lose my job. This is out of my control. Maybe the receptionist can help you."
At least he wasn't throwing me out. I nodded curtly, as though his response were a minor inconvenience instead of the roadblock it was, and turned toward the receptionist's desk.
The woman behind it greeted me with a practiced smile, but as I explained my "situation," her expression faltered. Confusion replaced her professionalism—not the kind that hinted at disbelief or suspicion, but genuine puzzlement.
"Miss Isabella was here a few weeks ago," she said finally, her brow furrowing. "She made the same claim before Mr. Mark came down to meet her."
Isabella. The name struck like a slap, but I didn't let it show. Instead, I wrinkled my nose in carefully calculated disdain. "You said who?" I demanded, letting my voice rise in anger. "Call Grant. Or Mark. Now."
The receptionist flinched and reached for the phone in front of her, dialing with trembling fingers. "Right away, ma'am," she stammered.
At least she was taking me seriously. And why wouldn't she? The dress alone screamed money, elegance, and the kind of effortless sophistication that someone like Grant would absolutely fall for—. It was no accident I'd chosen it.
I glanced at my reflection in the glass behind her desk, and a wry smile tugged at the corner of my lips. I looked like Grant's fiancée—or, at the very least, one of the many he seemed to collect like trophies. That was the point.
This wasn't stalking. It was strategy. A little digging into his dating history had told me everything I needed to know: the polished hair, the designer outfits, the well-practiced air of entitlement. His type wasn't surprising, and it wasn't unique, but it was clear.
Predictable, like most men when you see their pattern of dating
Still, I couldn't help the irritation. Just how many "fiancées" had he paraded through here for his employees to take me at face value? For a CEO running two major companies, you'd think he'd have better taste—or at least better discretion.
I shook the thought away and adjusted my posture. It didn't matter. What mattered was that I had their attention.
The receptionist turned back to me, mustering another polite smile. "Mr. Mark is on his way, along with the CEO. If you could just take a seat in the lounge for a little while, they'll be here shortly." She gestured toward the seating area ahead.
I returned her smile, tight and curt, before nodding and making my way to the lounge.
The space was tastefully designed, with white couches and brown-accented single chairs arranged in neat clusters. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the bustling main road and the sleek office buildings across the street, while the lighting and ceiling fixtures added to the polished, modern aesthetic. Everything about this place screamed efficiency and excellence.
Grant Pembroke in a nutshell.
From the profile I'd pieced together and the murmurs I'd heard about him, he was a textbook overachiever. But even with my expectations, I hadn't anticipated this level of perfection. It was annoying, in a way.
I sank into one of the white couches, pulled out my phone, and began scrolling through another article about him. Every piece seemed to have more to say, each paragraph extending into endless speculation and praise.
The latest headline speculated on his status as his father's favorite. It figured. The devil should get a delivish treatment. And really, who could ever willingly love someone like Hunter Pembroke if not his own mother?
I snorted quietly at the thought, shaking my head. That woman would have to despise me on principle once I married Grant. The family matriarch wouldn't tolerate losing any of her carefully curated support network—especially since her so-called power came from manipulating people's emotions. If she lost that, she'd unravel.
What Good riddance will that be?.
I scrolled further but quickly grew bored. The truth was, I didn't care about any of them. Not Hunter, not Grant's mother, not even Grant himself—except in the ways he'd be useful to me.
The only person I cared about in all of this was my baby.
At the thought, my stomach dropped. It felt as if everything inside me had stopped working all at once. My body grew heavier, my legs colder, and my hands began to tremble. I clasped them together, trying to steady myself, but it didn't help.
What if this didn't work?
What if the baby didn't make it? What if they killed it? What if, no matter what I did, they truly couldn't be fought?
The questions swirled, each one darker than the last, chipping away at the determination that had carried me this far. The confidence I'd built was crumbling, replaced by an overwhelming wave of helplessness.
A tap on my shoulder jolted me back to the present. My heart skipped several beats as I snapped my head around.
Grant stood behind me.
I exhaled shakily, my vision blurring slightly as I tried to fully process his face. He looked... well, the same as ever—composed, calm, and irritatingly self-assured.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice measured.
"Quit asking if I'm okay," I snapped, turning away briefly to compose myself. When I faced him again, I added sharply, "Why haven't I heard back about the proposal?"
Grant raised an eyebrow, his calmness infuriating as always. "Do you even know who I am?" he asked, his tone low and even, as though the answer should have been obvious.
The way he stayed so composed—using the absolute minimum energy to respond—only made me want to push harder. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Every argument with Grant felt like a challenge, and I was determined to win this one too.
"Where's your office? I've been waiting," I said, brushing off his question.
He gave me a strange look, but didn't argue. Instead, he turned and began walking, and I followed, linking my arm with his as we moved past the receptionist and the guard from earlier.
I shot them a knowing look as we passed. Grant, meanwhile, seemed completely unbothered, letting me cling to him like a prop without paying me much attention at all.
When the elevator doors slid open, I stepped inside with him. As the doors began to close, a third person slipped in at the last moment.
The new person was around Grant's age, with a poker face that was almost unsettling in its neutrality. As the elevator began its ascent, the stranger finally spoke and i quickly figured it must be the Mark..
"I called Felix and told him to warn you to stop stalking my boss," he said, his voice reflecting his irritation.
I pulled my hands free from Grant's arm, fixing the man with a sharp glare. "Stalking? Your boss needed help, and I offered it. I simply took an opportunity."
He chuckled dryly, his tone mocking me. "Who do you think you are? Just to avoid causing a scene today, I'll warn you this once: stop any form of contact. And stop dreaming whatever fantasy is in your head. If you don't, you'll find yourself slapped with a lawsuit."
I smirked, leaning in slightly as I replied, "You've got far bigger problems to worry about, believe me. And whether you like it or not, his family has already approved. I'm not saying I like him, or anything—it's just a smart opportunity to become a Millionaire atleast. Don't worry; I'll divorce him later so you two can continue your little affair. Just lend him to me for now."
Mark's face paled, panic flashing in his eyes for a moment before he stammered, "What? Don't start spreading—"
"It's already on the internet," I interrupted, tilting my head as the elevator dinged. "And before you ask, the source isn't me."
The doors slid open, and I stepped aside, glancing up at Grant. He smiled faintly, clearly amused by Mark's horrified expression.
In that moment, I couldn't help but notice how much more handsome he looked in person than in the countless photos I'd seen of him online. Polished, composed, and completely unfazed, he stepped out of the elevator with effortless ease.
I followed as he walked through the glass doors, past a maze of cubicles filled with nervous employees who rose from their seats to offer stammering "Good morning" greetings.
Deep down, I still felt very unsure about Grant. He seemed like someone who could remain perpetually calm and unbothered—or he might be a quiet psychopath, the kind who masks their volatility with a thin layer of patience.
Judging by the nervous glances from the employees and his complete disregard for any of their greetings, it wasn't hard to imagine he might very well be the rabid dog of their family.