Chapter 3 — The Fake Fiancée
Clara had been in the safe house for nearly two weeks now, and in that time, she had learned more about fear, patience, and silence than she ever thought possible. Every sound outside the walls, every shadow that flickered across the room, reminded her that she wasn't safe—yet somehow, she survived. By his rules. On his terms.
And then came the announcement.
It wasn't subtle. It wasn't whispered. It wasn't the kind of thing that could be undone with a simple denial. It was a statement that would change everything:
"She's my fiancée."
The words echoed in Clara's mind like a gunshot. She had been sitting quietly in the study, reading an old textbook she had picked up from the dusty shelf, when the man—him, the heir of the city's most feared mafia family—leaned casually against the doorway. His voice was calm, collected, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to declare that she belonged to him.
Clara blinked, sure that she had misheard.
"I beg your pardon?" she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of shock and disbelief.
His expression didn't change. "I said she's my fiancée," he repeated, slow and deliberate. "Tell them."
Her stomach dropped. "Tell… who? Why?"
He stepped closer, eyes sharp, commanding. "Everyone who matters. The family. The syndicate. Our rivals. Whoever would try to touch you."
Clara felt a cold panic settle over her chest. This wasn't protection. This was… control. Possession. A public claim that would make her life even more complicated, even more dangerous. And yet, beneath her fear, an undeniable truth: it worked. No one would dare approach her now, not while she was "his fiancée."
"You can't just…" she started, but the words caught in her throat.
"Watch me," he said smoothly. "It's the only way to keep you alive. If anyone questions it, I'll make sure they regret it."
Her eyes narrowed. "You can't force me into this. I'm not—"
"You don't get to choose," he interrupted, his tone sharp, final. "You survive by following the rules. That's the only choice you have."
Clara wanted to argue, to fight, to scream, but she knew the truth. She couldn't fight him. She couldn't outrun him. And she couldn't survive on her own.
So she swallowed her pride and nodded. "Fine. I'll… play along. For now."
He smiled faintly, just enough to unsettle her, and turned to leave the room. "Good. That's all I ask."
---
The next day, Clara found herself thrust into the unfamiliar world of public appearances, one of the "rules" of the fake engagement. She had no idea what to expect—formal dinners, meetings with associates, photographs—but the first encounter was worse than anything she had imagined.
They arrived at a small, upscale restaurant, quiet except for the soft hum of conversation. She followed him in, aware of every pair of eyes that lingered on them. And when he introduced her as his fiancée to the men seated at the back—a small group of his closest allies and enforcers—Clara felt as though she had stepped onto a stage, forced to perform in a role she had never auditioned for.
"Clara," he said quietly as they approached the table. "Smile. Don't speak unless spoken to."
She wanted to protest, but the sharp glance he shot her was enough to silence her. She forced herself to smile, though it felt unnatural, strained. The men nodded politely, eyes assessing, approving, and she felt the weight of their judgment pressing down.
Over dinner, she realized just how carefully orchestrated this world was. Every glance, every word, every subtle gesture was a test. And she had to follow the rules perfectly, or risk drawing suspicion.
But it wasn't just the eyes of strangers she had to worry about. Sitting across from her, he watched her every move. Not with malice, not with impatience, but with precision. Measuring her reactions. Noticing every subtle twitch of fear, every forced smile, every faltering hand.
And Clara hated it.
Hated the way he could read her without words. Hated the way her body reacted to him, every nerve ending suddenly alert, every heartbeat echoing in her ears. Hated the slow, infuriating realization that she was beginning to depend on him, even if she refused to admit it.
"You're quiet," he remarked at one point, leaning back in his chair. His tone was casual, but there was an edge beneath it—expectation, warning, command.
"I… I'm fine," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Do you enjoy this?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "The attention? The fear?"
Clara's cheeks flushed. "I… I don't know what you mean."
He smirked, just slightly, before returning to his meal. "You'll get used to it. Or you won't. Either way, it doesn't matter. Survival comes first."
The night passed in a blur of conversations she barely understood, handshakes, polite nods, subtle tests of loyalty, and the constant pressure of being "his fiancée." By the time they returned to the safe house, Clara was exhausted, mentally and physically drained.
---
Once inside, she finally let herself breathe, sinking into the chair by the window. She stared out at the city lights, her mind a whirlwind of confusion, frustration, and fear.
He appeared silently behind her. "You did well tonight," he said quietly, almost a whisper.
Clara shook her head. "I didn't do anything. I just… followed your rules."
"Exactly," he replied, tone even, almost approving. "That's all I ask. You stay alive by following rules. Simple."
Clara's chest tightened. Simple. That word was a lie. Survival was never simple. Not in his world. Not in this city. Not for her.
And yet, despite herself, she felt a flicker of something dangerous—something she couldn't name, couldn't understand, but couldn't ignore. He had protected her. He had claimed her. And against all her instincts, against all her pride, a part of her… trusted him.
But she wouldn't let that trust grow. She couldn't. It was dangerous.
---
Days passed, and the "fiancée" act became their new reality. He taught her how to walk with confidence in public, how to answer questions without revealing too much, how to keep her fear in check. Every lesson was sharp, precise, and unyielding—just like him.
Yet, for all his control, there were moments that gave her pause. Small moments, almost imperceptible, when he wasn't the untouchable mafia heir, but a man burdened by expectations, haunted by past betrayals, and fiercely protective in ways he tried to hide.
One evening, while practicing introductions in front of a mirror, Clara asked quietly, "Why me? Why not someone else? Why not… anyone else?"
He paused, hand on the back of the chair, his gaze dark and unreadable. "Because you saw me," he said simply. "And now… you can't be ignored. No one who saw me can ever be ignored."
The words sent a chill down her spine. Not for the threat they implied, but for the weight behind them. She was no longer just herself. She was part of his world now—whether she wanted it or not.
And slowly, painfully, undeniably, Clara realized she was starting to see him differently. Not just as a threat. Not just as a captor. But as someone she couldn't entirely hate. Someone who fascinated her. Someone she feared and… perhaps, in the strangest, most terrifying way, could care about.
But she wouldn't let herself think that. Not now. Not ever.
The fake engagement was supposed to be a survival tactic. A lie to protect her. A shield against danger.
Yet every day she spent with him, every shared glance, every carefully orchestrated gesture, chipped away at that lie, until the lines between truth and pretense began to blur.
And Clara feared that one day, she might not be able to tell the difference at all.
---