Sweet Romance12 min read
Heard the Whole Thing — So I Married the Wrong Man on Purpose
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I never intended to be nice.
"I promised you, Annie," I told the mirror, smoothing the skirt that made my waist look impossibly small. "Tomorrow, Damian won't show. Do you hear me? He won't."
"Are you sure this is safe?" Annie Novikov asked, poking at the eyeliner case on my dressing table. "You know your father won't like a scene."
"I know exactly what I'm doing." I smiled at my reflection. "And if my father tries anything—I'll make it so he eats his words."
Annie laughed. "You sound like a villain in a soap. I love it."
At ten that night the club was louder than a thunderstorm. I was on the floor, a beer in one hand, shouting the lyrics of a song into someone's ear. My hair fell in a dark wave and hid half my face. Men drifted like boats around me until one of them leaned too close.
"One drink with me?" he asked.
"No thanks, little brother." I peeled his arm off me and climbed the stage.
"Hello," I said into the mic, louder than I meant to. "I'm Dana Drake. I'm getting engaged tomorrow. Tonight I'm buying drinks. Celebrate with me!"
People cheered like I'd announced fireworks. I raised my bottle and drank, hard and bright. I wanted them to see me—wanted my father to see me and know I could ruin his plans.
From the glassed second floor I saw Garth Jacobs watching. He sat with that woman—Vittoria Arroyo—and some of his men. Garth's lips tightened when he saw me. He had tried to be my father for years; he had never earned the name. He had slid into my mother's house and my life like a stain.
"Has the job been done?" a man asked at his table.
"It will be," a voice answered. "Damian Wood won't be arriving. Not tonight."
I knew that voice. I had paid for a plan: a promise that my engagement—arranged since childhood—would collapse in front of everyone. I wanted my father to watch his plot unravel. I wanted the family fortune locked in my hand, not his.
"You're certain?" Garth asked.
"Yes, boss." The man lifted his glass. "Everything is in place."
I laughed too loud. "Tonight I'm going to be the star," I told Annie later. "Tomorrow they'll all look small."
*
When I walked in at one in in the morning, the living room was lit like an interrogation scene.
"You call this coming back?" Garth shouted as soon as I crossed the threshold. He slammed down his drink so hard he cracked the glass. "Tomorrow is your engagement. You reek of the club. Have you no shame?"
"My parents are gone," I said, folding my arms. "No one taught me manners."
Vittoria stepped forward, lips thin as knives. "Don't you curse your father, Dana. You're disrespectful."
"I'm speaking facts. Your girl made my mother jump out of a window," I said. My voice didn't shake. "If you want insult, look in the mirror."
Garth swung at me. I caught his wrist, and for a moment his face was something like surprise. "You insolent—"
"You think you can stop me from getting what's mine?" I asked. "Don't forget who put the money into this house."
"You ungrateful—" He tried to pull away. He couldn't. I let him go and stepped back, heart steady. "You know the money is from my father," I said. "Everything you're sitting in, every bit of furniture—you should be grateful you're allowed to sleep on it."
"Don't you dare!" Vittoria hissed. "You don't even go to your classes properly. You're a disgrace."
"Good," I said. "I'm a disgrace who knows how to fight."
Annie's father, she told me later, had warned her once: people like Garth only respected force. So I used his own words against him.
"Tomorrow is the engagement," I said, "and they'll watch how you two dance with shame."
*
I slept until noon, then went to Annie's. She did my hair, she did my makeup—careful this time, light and true. "You're pretty when you mean it," she said.
"I always was," I answered, and we laughed.
At the hotel the hosts were already fussing. Mrs. Wood—Damian's mother—flew at me with the practiced smile of a woman who buys Politeness like perfume.
"Dear," she said. "Damian should be here any minute. You look lovely."
"He'll be here," I said. Calm.
He didn't show.
"Where is he?" Mrs. Wood's hand trembled on my sleeve.
"I don't know," I said. Annie squeezed my arm. "Perhaps traffic? Perhaps nerves?"
I was listening for a ringtone.
My phone buzzed. "Dana, he's gone," the voice said. "He ran when his mother cut his cards. I couldn't stop him."
I cursed into the phone. "Ten thousand on him and he runs? Levi Foster, you idiot."
"Sorry—sorry—"
"Find him. Now. If he shows up, you pay double."
The line clicked dead.
That tense, hollow gut feeling crawled under my skin. I had paid Levi to delay Damian. He had promised. He had failed. Suddenly the entire house felt fragile.
Then I heard someone laugh. "You really thought that would work?"
I turned and saw a man leaning in the shadow of the balcony.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He smiled only with the corner of his mouth. He had a dangerous kind of stillness, like a storm waiting. "Who do you think I am?"
"Sir, you overheard something you shouldn't," I said too quickly.
He sat up straighter. "Who is your uncle?" he asked, and the way he said it carried the same cold that had come with the voice downstairs.
"Who is your uncle?" he repeated in English that skipped no edge. He had the face of a man born to command a room—handsome, dangerous, obvious wealth.
"Cullen Cleveland." I had heard the name before, whispered in boardrooms and at parties. "He's Damian's uncle."
"Then you have a problem." His eyes met mine. He seemed to measure me—then something in his look softened, just a fraction. "You want him to miss tomorrow. I can make that happen."
"Can you?" I spat, bitter relief burning in my chest.
"Maybe," Cullen said. "Maybe I want a different thing."
That conversation changed everything. He did not make a solemn promise. He made a bargain.
"You will keep this quiet," he said. "And in return—"
"In return?" I asked.
"In return, for tonight, I will be your engagement," he said. He let the words rest in the air like a dare.
"Are you joking?"
His expression didn't flicker. "No. Tell them I'm your fiancé. Tell them whatever you want. But you must sign an agreement."
"An agreement?"
"You will be my guest tonight, and you will act as my fiancée. No lies. Public recognition. And then..." He leaned forward. "When things are messy, I will help you. But only if you let me protect you. On my terms."
I should have called him insane. I should have laughed him out of the hotel's garden.
Instead I looked up and watched a man who could make the city bend.
"Fine," I said. "But if you talk, I talk."
He gave me a single nod. "Deal."
*
"Who is he?" Annie hissed when Cullen walked into the banquet hall.
"He's the worst man you could pick," I told her, and grinned. "Perfect."
I took the stage alone and let the screen play our so-called love story. Then, when the camera flicked over the last image, the big screen cut to a video I had buried in a hacker's thumb drive: Damian Wood with another woman. The room froze like a film that had stumbled.
"What is that?" Mrs. Wood shrieked.
"He set this up," Garth shouted. "You can't do this—"
"I am Dana Drake," I said into the mic, my voice steady and loud. "I am not a fool. I deserve transparency."
The cameras clicked like a thousand tiny teeth. The crowd hummed. The gatekeepers of society began to close their mouths. Damian didn't show.
Right then Cullen stepped lightly up the stairs and to the edge of the stage. He took the microphone from me and spoke with a quiet, measured force.
"I am Cullen Cleveland," he said. "Dana Drake's fiancé."
The room screamed.
"You're lying," Mrs. Wood cried.
"She said I was lying," Cullen replied. "So I proved her right."
He didn't shout. He didn't make a fuss. He simply stood beside me and let the world fold around us.
Garth was vibrantly furious. "This is a farce! She's ruining everything!"
"Not anymore," Cullen said, ice in his voice. "From this moment, any insult directed at her will be directed at me."
Garth's mouth opened and closed like a fish. He glanced at Vittoria; she looked like she had been chewed and spat out.
"Tonight, Mr. Jacobs," Cullen said, walking straight to where Garth stood, "is your public reckoning."
What happened next I had imagined in my head a hundred times, but the reality felt cleaner and harsher.
"Here are the facts," I announced. "My grandfather left the company to me on condition of my reaching adulthood and getting married. My 'uncle'—Garth Jacobs—moved in after my mother's death and has spent years controlling our household and assets. He colluded with the Wood family to manipulate this engagement for profit. He has allowed my mother's things to disappear, and he intends to siphon the shares into his own name. Vittoria Arroyo here has presented herself as my stepmother but has been a co-conspirator in this theft."
Heads whipped toward Garth and Vittoria. Voices rose like a tide.
"You're a liar!" Vittoria screamed. "Those are slanders!"
"No," I said. "We have proof."
Someone slid a laptop forward. Damian's phone records, photographed messages, receipts for wire transfers—tiny threads. I had spent months collecting them, because revenge needs facts, not fury.
"Listen," Cullen told the room, "this is not gossip. These are legal documents." He flicked them up on the giant screen, one by one. The records showed Garth contacting Damian's family, arranging payments. They showed Vittoria using my late mother's jewelry in the pawnshop. They showed witnesses.
Garth's face lost blood. "This is impossible!" he gaped.
"Is it?" I asked, calm as a surgeon. "Is it impossible that you, who crawled into my home like a rat, would steal to keep your place? Is it impossible that you would arrange for my fiancé to vanish so you could control the legacy?"
Around us the guests walked a small, shocked orbit. Mr. Wood's face was an altar of rage and shame. Damian's mother trembled. Whispers became a roar.
"Pull down the slides!" Mrs. Wood yelled. "This is a private matter!"
"Public now," Cullen said. Then he turned to the crowd. "Will the person who arranged Damian's disappearance please stand?"
No one moved. But two men in suits at the side of the hall shifted uneasily. Levi Foster, the man I'd paid, had been sloppy. He was sweating like a man who had not thought he'd be caught. He tried to slide away, but Cullen's hand on the back of a server's chair meant men were watching Levi's face.
"Levi," I said, and he froze like a rabbit in a hunter's lights. "You were paid to delay Damian. Did Garth authorize you?"
Levi's voice cracked. "I—yes."
A woman in the back began to take out her phone. Around the hall, thirty guests had taken theirs out.
"Public," Cullen said softly into the microphone. "Levi, you will stand and tell everyone who hired you."
Levi's face went white as paper. "Garth Jacobs," he breathed.
Gasps. Someone recorded. Phones tilted like mirrors.
Garth laughed, but it was a man-made sound, brittle and small. "This is ridiculous! You set him, Dana! You paid him yourself—"
"You stole from the family," I said. "You lied to the attorneys. You changed signatures where you had access. You pawned our heirlooms to pay for your mistress's lifestyle."
Vittoria hitched forward like a snake. "You have no proof!"
I did. I had photos, witnesses, chat logs. Daniel Blevins, a lawyer who had once owed a favor to my grandfather, stood. Daniel walked to the center and read the chain of messages. "By my count," he said, "this is a clear breach of fiduciary duty. There is evidence of misappropriation. I will file for an immediate injunction preventing transfer of any company shares. The estate will undergo audit."
Garth's knees went weak. People around him whispered into their phones. Violet-faced socialites shrank. Vittoria stared at me like she had swallowed a lemon.
Then the real punishment began.
"Everyone," Cullen said, "we will not drag this through private rooms. We will show the city what corruption looks like."
He made a call. Within an hour, reporters swarmed the hotel like hungry birds. Photos of Garth and Vittoria at a rival's dinner were printed and sent live. Social feeds exploded. The wealthy people who had whispered about our family now had onlookers themselves. The magnate's son's fiancée—or lack of one—was headline news.
Garth started to stammer. "You can't—this will ruin me!"
"It already has," Cullen replied. He turned to the crowd. "If you are partners with people who steal from their wards, you'd better check your ledgers. Tonight is a lesson."
What followed was a cascade. Bank accounts were frozen by a judge the next day because we presented a restraining order. The pawned jewelry was traced back and retrieved in public. Vittoria found herself photographed by every journalist as she screamed denials into the camera, each clip more damning than the last.
The humiliation was not my doing alone. It was the law. It was witnesses. It was people spotting truth and settling on guilty faces like a net.
Garth tried to salvage his pride. He strode to the front and made a speech full of rage. "You will never get a penny from me," he vowed. "I am your father!"
"You are not my father," I said slowly, into the mic. "You are the man who stole my life."
People around me murmured. Some reached for champagne and turned it into applause.
Vittoria fell to her knees in the hotel driveway when the police escorted her away. She screamed and called me names. "You bitch! I'll ruin you!"
"You ruined yourself," I answered. "Everyone saw."
When they put Garth in a corner of the room, the guests leaned away. He had no allies who were brave enough to be seen with him now. Those who had once conspired with him sent their lawyers. Those who had nodded with him at parties slid away like shadows at noon.
He realized then that the only power he had—our house, the position—was stripped until the courts decided. The thing he'd relied on was gone, publicly. He crumpled like paper.
The crowd watched. Phones hummed. Reporters shouted for quotes. Some guests took out their cameras and filmed him shaking like a crook on a sidewalk. I watched the slow collapse and felt no joy. I felt something steadier. Justice.
"You look small," Cullen said quietly to my ear.
"Smaller than I thought," I admitted.
He wrapped an arm around me, not possessive but protective.
"I don't allow anyone to humiliate you," he said.
"I know," I answered, and let him.
*
After the storm, the house was quieter. I had my jewelry returned. The black wooden box my grandfather left—inside, my mother's jade ring—was placed back into my chest where I could see it. I slept that night on a plain sofa because Cullen had been kind enough to install me at his place per the "agreement." The agreement was a strange thing: rules and boundaries listed as though marriage were a job.
"Read this," he had said that first night. "If you don't like it, I'll give it back."
"I signed it," I said now, rubbing my thumb over the ring. "I promised I wouldn't go to bars. I promised to be in by ten. I promised not to make a mess of anything that might attract scandal."
"You read number three properly?" Cullen asked, sitting by the window. He had the posture of someone who had been trained to command silence with the tilt of a shoulder.
"They're rules," I said. "They sound like house rules from childhood. But okay. I can do that."
"Good." He smiled, a jagged thing. "You learn to keep house for me."
"Keep house?" I laughed. "Are you saying I'll have to garden?"
"You'll help with the cabbage if you break any rule." He looked serious, but his mouth twitched.
"I will not be humiliated by a cabbag—" I stopped, because he laughed, unexpectedly. His laugh was low and sincere. "Fine. I'll help with the cabbages."
That night I discovered Cullen's garden. He had rows of neat vegetables, a small patch of cabbages that gleamed like green moons in the dusk. He knelt by a plant, hands in soil. The image was oddly domestic. He wasn't just a man of boardrooms. He was an un-lonely creature who found an odd peace in small things.
"You plant gardens?" I asked.
"I plant patience," he said. "And watch it grow."
"Is that part of the agreement?" I teased.
"No. But it's mine." He pushed a sprig of dirt out of his thumb. "And you will not talk about this to anyone."
"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine," I said. "Deal."
He looked at me, something like a promise in his gaze, and nodded. "Deal."
*
When Garth and Vittoria were publicly shamed, the shock waves never stopped. The city gardens of gossip swallowed them. People at clubs, at board rooms—everyone had something to say.
"How did you do it?" Annie wanted to know. We sat in Cullen's kitchen eating cold pizza like criminals.
"I had to be patient," I said. "I saved old texts. I traced bank slips. I kept a little black book. People don't expect the one they underestimate to have files."
Annie grinned. "You turned into a spreadsheet of truth."
"Something like that."
"You're brave," she said.
"I was smart," I corrected. "And I had help."
"From him?" she asked. "The big bad Cullen?"
"You mean the man who made sure I had two guards and an assistant named Eben Dumas? The same."
She laughed. "You're living dangerously, Dana Drake."
"I am," I said. "And it's worth it."
*
Days passed into the rhythm of the contract: breakfast at eight, be home by ten, no late drinks. I learned the sound of Cullen's boots on the stairs, the way he frowned when someone mispronounced a word, the way his fingers were gentle in the garden. I learned the rules in blood and ink—signed and bound—but I bent them, like a sprout leaning toward sun.
"What about Damian?" Annie asked one afternoon when we were packing the last of my things into a box.
"He keeps hiding in grottos and making me look foolish," I said. "Let him. The story's done."
"And Garth?" she asked.
"He's getting his due. He'll pay with what he stole and with public disgrace. People will remember. He will have to live with the knowledge of what he did." I stared at the black wooden box and then at the jade ring. "That won't be taken from me again."
"Are you happy?" she pressed.
I thought of the hotel hall that evening: cameras, Cullen's calm voice, the way the world had shifted on its axis when truth came out. I thought of the slow, patient hours in Cullen's garden, of the way he had stood for me like a wall.
"I am," I said.
She smiled. "Good. Because I like seeing you in gardens. You look less like a wild thing and more like a woman who can set fires and tend roses."
I laughed and packed the last of my things. The house smelled like soil and the faint scent of Cullen's aftershave. Outside the window, a cabbage leaf trembled in the late light.
"Promise me one thing," Cullen said as I zipped the box closed.
"What?"
"Keep your black book ready." He smiled, tiny and dangerous. "You might need it twice."
"I will," I said, tucking the jade ring into my palm. The paper was soft under my thumb. The black wooden box closed with a small click. Outside, the cabbage in Cullen's garden swayed like a small green applause.
The End
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