Chapter 4
Chapter 4: The Merciless Engagement
Dream stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in her new dressing room, a stranger staring back. Pierre had returned at dawn, transforming her into the perfect billionaire's fiancée. The dress was a sheath of dove-gray cashmere, severe yet undeniably luxurious. Her hair was a smooth waterfall, her makeup designed to accentuate a "fragile strength." She looked expensive, poised, and utterly hollow.
Ms. Vance appeared, holding a velvet box. "From Mr. Blackthorn."
Inside, on a bed of black silk, lay a ring. It was not a gaudy diamond, but a breathtaking emerald-cut sapphire, the color of a midnight storm, flanked by two sharp, brilliant baguette diamonds. It was beautiful, cold, and looked like a brand.
"It was his mother's," Ms. Vance said, her tone unreadable. "He requests you wear it."
Of course, Dream thought. Another piece of his painful history, weaponized for their spectacle. She slid it onto her finger. It was a perfect, chilling fit.
Tom was waiting in the foyer. He looked like vengeance personified in a tailored charcoal suit, his gaze sweeping over her with a swift, analytical approval that felt more invasive than a touch. "The car is here. Remember your lines."
The press conference was being held in the soaring atrium of Blackthorn Industries. As their car pulled up, Dream saw the sea of reporters, cameras flashing like a strobe light designed to induce panic. Tom's hand found the small of her back as they exited the vehicle. The contact, practiced just yesterday, still sent a shock through her system. His touch was firm, possessive, a silent command to lean in. She did, forcing a calm she didn't feel onto her face.
They took their seats behind a bank of microphones. Tom began without preamble, his voice filling the room with effortless authority.
"Thank you for coming. I'll be brief. In times of crisis, we see people's true character. The Hale family is facing such a time." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "I have known Dream Hale for some time. The strength and integrity she has shown in the face of baseless accusations and personal tragedy have only reinforced my deepest respect and admiration."
Dream kept her eyes on him, her expression one of soft, attentive devotion, as coached. Inside, she marveled at the flawless lie. Known her for some time. A masterpiece of misdirection.
"It is with great personal happiness," Tom continued, his voice dropping a fraction, almost convincingly tender, "that I announce our engagement. In the midst of this storm, we have found a profound connection. I will be standing by Dream, and by the Hale family, to see justice served and to help them rebuild."
He turned to her then, and for the cameras, he took her hand, lifting it to brush his lips against her knuckles just beside the sapphire ring. The gesture was old-world, shockingly intimate. The camera shutters exploded. His eyes met hers over their joined hands, and for a terrifying second, there was no audience, no performance—just his grey gaze holding hers, intense and unreadable.
Then he released her, facing the press again. "We'll take a few questions."
A reporter shot up. "Mr. Blackthorn, isn't this remarkably convenient? Your merger with Hale Tech was blocked by the scandal, and now you're marrying the disgraced heiress?"
Tom's smile was razor-thin. "My relationship with Dream has nothing to do with business. My intentions are purely personal. Next."
"Dream! Dream!" a tabloid reporter shouted. "Is this a love match, or are you trading your name for a get-out-of-jail-free card for your dad?"
Dream felt Tom's subtle squeeze on her hand under the table. She leaned toward her microphone, her voice clear and steady, echoing the lines she'd memorized. "When your world falls apart, you see who stands with you. Tom has been my shelter. My rock." She turned to look at him, letting her gaze soften, hoping the cameras caught the sheen of grateful tears Pierre had artfully suggested. "What we have… it was unexpected. And it's everything."
It was the performance of her life. She saw the collective "aww" ripple through a portion of the crowd. The narrative was shifting: from disgraced heiress to tragic romantic heroine, saved by the powerful prince.
Then, a sleek blonde woman in the front row stood. Celeste Moreau. Her smile was venomous. "Tom, darling, congratulations. How romantic. And Dream, welcome to the family. I'm sure you'll find the pressures of being Tom's wife quite… illuminating."
The air crackled with unspoken malice. Tom's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Thank you, Celeste. Your support is noted."
The conference ended shortly after. In the privacy of the executive elevator shooting back to the penthouse, the mask fell. Tom released her hand as if it were contaminated.
"You delivered adequately," he said, staring at the ascending numbers.
"Adequately? I sold my soul out there."
"You fulfilled a contract clause. Nothing more." The elevator doors opened into the private garage. "I have meetings. Ms. Vance will handle your afternoon."
He was leaving. After that, after the touch, the look, the lie.
"Wait," she heard herself say.
He paused, one hand on his car door.
"The ring. Your mother's." She held up her hand, the sapphire glittering under the fluorescent lights. "Why use it as a prop? Isn't that… disrespectful?"
For a long moment, he was silent. When he turned, his expression was carved from granite. "It reminds me," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "of why this is necessary. Every time I see it on your hand, it reminds me of the betrayal that runs in your blood."
He got in the car and drove away, leaving her standing alone in the cavernous garage, the beautiful ring feeling like a shackle made of ice.
Back in her suite, she finally crumbled, tearing the dress off. She was pulling on jeans when her phone rang. Luna.
"Girl, you deserve an Oscar. I almost believed it! And the look he gave you when he kissed your hand? The internet is already shipping you as 'Troam' or 'DreTom' or something hideous."
"It was all a lie, Luna."
"Sure, sure. Listen, I couldn't wait. I dug deeper on 'Project Vengeance.' It's not just a file. It's an active operational name. And the financials I'm tracing… Dream, money is being funneled, big amounts, to an offshore account. But not from Blackthorn Industries. It's going to it. From a shell corporation linked to… Moreau Enterprises."
Dream froze. Celeste's family.
"Tom's taking money from his rivals?"
"No. That's the weird part. The transactions are structured like payments for services rendered. But what services? I need more access. Can you get me something from his home system? A device he uses personally?"
Dream's mind raced. His laptop was a fortress. But he had a sleek, encrypted tablet he sometimes left in the study. "I can try."
"Be careful. If he catches you…"
"I know." She looked at the storm-cloud sapphire on her finger. It reminds me of the betrayal. A new, chilling thought occurred to her. What if the betrayal he was avenging wasn't just in the past? What if he thought her family's sin was ongoing?
"Luna," she whispered. "What if my father isn't just a scapegoat for an old scandal? What if Tom thinks he's currently working with the Moreaus against him?"
The silence on the line was heavy. "That… would explain the nuclear-level revenge marriage. You'd be a hostage and a signal."
The pieces were shifting, forming a more terrifying picture. Tom wasn't just punishing the past; he might believe he was actively neutralizing a present threat. Her.
That night, Tom did not return for dinner. Dream ate alone in the vast dining room. Ms. Vance informed her that the wedding date had been set.
"Mr. Blackthorn has secured a license. The ceremony will be in seven days, at the Blackthorn family estate. It will be a small, expedited affair, given the… circumstances."
Seven days. Dream's food turned to ash in her mouth.
Later, unable to sleep, she wandered into the dark study. Moonlight streamed in, illuminating his monolithic desk. There, plugged into a charger, was his personal tablet. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. Her first real move in their war.
She crept forward, her fingers hovering over the cool glass. The screen lit up at her touch, demanding a passcode or biometrics. She hesitated, then, on a wild instinct, picked up the tablet and angled it towards her own face.
Nothing.
Of course not. She was about to put it down when she noticed a faint, sticky residue on the back corner. A tiny, almost invisible smudge. Lip gloss. A shade of pink she'd seen today. Celeste.
A cold fury, sharp and clear, washed over her. He'd left his rival's lip gloss on his personal device. Was it a business meeting? Or something else?
Before she could process it, the study door clicked open.
Tom stood silhouetted in the doorway, his tie loose, his expression weary until he saw her, frozen with his tablet in her hands. His weariness vanished, replaced by instantaneous, glacial fury.
"What," he said, the word dropping into the silence like a stone, "do you think you're doing?"