Morning came with no grace.
The sunlight carved its way through the wall of windows in Maverick Ryder's penthouse — all steel, glass, and obscene wealth. It hit my face with that special brand of cruelty only a hangover and unwanted fame could summon.
I sat up slowly, blinking against the sharp brightness. My limbs ached. My neck was stiff. And the satin sheets felt too luxurious for someone currently trending online for being a billionaire's unexpected fiancée.
Welcome to the deal with the devil.
My phone vibrated again. Sixth time this morning.
I finally checked it — texts, DMs, calls, missed FaceTimes, articles. Everywhere.
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"BREAKING: Billionaire Maverick Ryder Engaged to Former Influencer Ava Morales"
"Ryder's Wild card: Who is Ava Morales?"
"Too Sexy to Be True? Is the Fiancée Contractual or Scandalous?"
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I groaned and dropped the phone into a pile of white silk pillows.
This wasn't just a little buzz. This was a full-blown media storm.
"Good morning, future Mrs. Ryder," came a deep, velvety voice from the doorway.
Maverick leaned against the frame with a coffee cup in one hand and a smirk playing on his perfect mouth. His black button-down shirt was unbuttoned halfway, like he had too much chest to care about buttons. His slacks hung dangerously low, and I hated that he made exhaustion look gorgeous.
"You sleep like you don't owe anyone a PR apology," I muttered.
He stepped in, handed me the coffee. "Why would I apologize? We gave them what they wanted."
"What — sex, scandal, or a lie?"
His grin didn't reach his eyes. "All three."
I rolled my eyes and took a sip of the coffee. Perfect, rich, smooth — like him. Of course it was.
"You do realize we've crossed a threshold, right?" I said, setting the cup down. "This isn't just fake fiancée anymore. This is front-page, investor-stirring, I-don't-get-to-have-a-private-life kind of fame."
"I told you what the stakes were," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"And I told you I don't want to become just another face in your empire."
"You're not a face," he said quietly. "You're the brand now."
I stared at him. "So, I'm not a person anymore?"
"No. You're something much more powerful than that." He reached out, brushing a curl behind my ear. "You're mine."
There it was again.
Mine.
Possession. Obsession. Protection, maybe. But always cloaked in control.
A Few Hours Later…
Maverick's private driver escorted me to the West Wing of the penthouse — his media and brand team's HQ — where his assistant Harper handed me a folder.
"This is your new life," she said, tapping it.
Inside:
Public backstory.
Suggested statements.
Outfit plans for public.
Emergency protocols if paparazzi follow you into a restroom.
Maverick's public itinerary.
"This is insane," I said.
Harper smiled. "This is power."
By noon, I was being prepped for my first solo media interview — a "get to know the fiancée" piece by LUXE, a luxury lifestyle mag that lived for scandal, beauty, and billionaires.
Stylist. Makeup artist. PR coach. All hired within hours.
The dress they put me in was navy blue, off-shoulder, with a high slit and diamond earrings that could pay off a mortgage.
"Look powerful, not pitiful," Harper advised. "You're not a sugar baby. You're the woman who made Maverick Ryder stop sleeping around."
God help me.
The Interview
The studio was too white, too bright. Candice, the host, wore a red dress that screamed ambition. She sat opposite me, legs crossed, fake-friendly smile locked on.
"So, Ava," she purred, "tell us about falling for the man who never falls."
My throat tightened. Script. Stick to the script.
But the words that came out surprised even me.
"I didn't fall for Maverick Ryder," I said calmly. "I looked him in the eye, and I chose him."
Candice blinked. "You chose him?"
"Every powerful man wants someone to look like a prize. I wanted to be the one thing he couldn't buy."
She leaned in. "And is he the one thing you couldn't resist?"
I smiled. "No comment."
By the time the interview wrapped, I was a viral headline again.
I returned to the penthouse, riding the private elevator straight into the suite. The second the doors opened, Maverick was there — tie loose, sleeves rolled up, drink in hand.
"You went off script," he said.
"Yeah, well, I'm not your robot."
"I didn't say it was bad. Just… dangerous."
I dropped my bag on the couch. "What does that even mean?"
He stalked toward me, eyes dark. "It means every word you say now is a weapon. And it can either kill us or protect us."
"You don't trust me?"
"I trust you to be honest. That's what makes this risky."
He stepped closer. His energy shifted. The seduction in him always came with heat — but now, it simmered with tension.
His hand cupped my chin. "They want to rip you apart, Ava. And they'll come at you with everything."
"Then let them try," I said. "I'm not a coward."
He smiled — that feral, wicked thing. "That's why I picked you."
"You didn't pick me. You bought me."
That made him freeze.
"You signed the contract," he said. "I gave you a deal. You accepted it."
"No. You gave me a trap. And I walked into it with eyes wide open."
The moment crackled between us.
"I traded my freedom for power," I whispered. "But you… what did you trade?"
His eyes darkened. "My soul."
Later That Night
I sat curled on the massive bed, scrolling through my old photos — the life I'd left behind. Friends. Parties. Simpler things. Then the press photos hit my feed — me on Maverick's arm, headlines calling me The Billionaire's Chosen One.
My ex had gone public. Posted a story calling me a manipulator. Screenshotted our private convos. Accused me of "using sex for status."
I wanted to cry. Instead, I picked up the phone.
"He did it," I told Maverick when he answered. "You were right."
There was a pause.
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know. Tagging me in memes. Posting lies."
"I'll handle it."
"Maverick—"
"No," he growled. "He humiliated you. He made me look like a fool. That's unforgivable."
"You're not angry for me," I snapped. "You're angry for your image."
He went silent.
Then he said something that made my blood chill.
"You're the only image that matters now."