My Billionaire Fiancé Was the Boy I Feared

Adrian left for the office at seven-thirty.

By seven thirty-five, I was on my knees in the library, pulling every photo album off the bottom shelf.

There were six of them. Leather covers. Dated spines. Somebody had labeled each one by hand.

I opened the first.

Me, at a black grand piano on the Westbrook auditorium stage, eyes closed, fingers blurred mid-chord.

Me and Adrian on a boardwalk, sharing one cone of strawberry ice cream. I had pink on my nose. He was laughing at it.

Me in the bleachers at a football game, swimming in a navy varsity jacket. VALE stitched across the back.

Me on my tiptoes, fixing his tie.

My hands started to shake. Not from fear. From rage.

"Clever," I whispered. "Really clever."

Photos could be staged. Faces could be edited. A man with his money could build any past he wanted.

I carried the albums downstairs, all six, and dumped them onto the living room rug. One cracked open on impact. A picture slid out face-up. Me, smiling.

"Mrs. Delgado!"

The housekeeper hurried in from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. She stopped when she saw the pile.

"Miss Mara?"

"Burn them."

"I'm sorry?"

"The fireplace. The incinerator. I don't care. I want them gone before he gets home."

She didn't move. Her eyes went to the photo on the rug, and her chin trembled.

"I've worked here five years," she said. "Mr. Vale never let anyone throw those away. Not one picture. Not even the blurry ones."

"Then he's sentimental about his props."

"They're not props, miss." Her eyes had gone red at the rims. "He takes them out on your birthday. Every year. He sits right there and looks at them until it gets dark."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

So I grabbed my car keys instead.

---

Westbrook Prep looked wrong.

The old brick building was gone. In its place stood glass and steel and a lobby that smelled like new carpet. The hallway walls held framed portraits of distinguished graduates.

And beside the main stairwell, a bronze plaque of donors.

*The Vale Family Foundation.*

Right at the top.

"Of course," I muttered.

I followed my feet more than any map. They took me down a back corridor to where the junior lockers used to be.

The lockers were gone. Just a long wall, painted a soft, cheerful yellow.

I touched it.

*Look at her. She's gonna cry.*

Laughter. Loud. Close. Behind me.

I spun. The hallway was empty.

*Pick them up, freak. Go on.*

Books hit the floor in my memory. Pages tore under sneakers. A circle of bodies closed in, shoulders and elbows and grinning mouths, and I couldn't find the gap to get out.

I ran.

The girls' restroom was three doors down. I shoved through it, cranked the faucet, and shoved my left wrist under the water. I scrubbed the scar with my thumb. Then with my nails. Then with soap, again and again, until the skin went raw and pink.

*Knock, knock.*

"Hon? You okay in there?"

I froze, water still running.

The door creaked. An older woman in a gray uniform peeked in, a mop cart behind her.

"You need some help?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Her gaze dropped to the counter, where I'd set my bag. The old Westbrook yearbook stuck out of it. I'd brought it as proof. She tilted her head. Then she looked at my face again. Really looked.

"Well, I'll be." She smiled slowly. "Mara. The piano girl."

My stomach turned over.

"You don't know me."

"Sure I do. I've cleaned this wing for twenty years. You and the Vale boy, you were glued together. He carried your music folders. Waited outside the practice rooms until all hours." She chuckled. "Half the girls here would've traded their own mothers for a boy like that."

"That's a lie."

Her smile wobbled. "Honey—"

"How much did they pay you?" I yanked a paper towel from the dispenser and pressed it hard against my wrist. "Did his family send you a check? Did he tell you I'd come?"

She stepped back, hurt flashing across her face.

"Nobody paid me anything," she said quietly. "I just remember you smiling. That's all."

I pushed past her and didn't stop until I reached the car.

---

Dinner was salmon and white wine. I didn't touch either.

"I went to Westbrook today," I said.

Adrian set down his fork. Carefully. Like the table might break.

"How was it?"

"A janitor told me we were the school's golden couple. Inseparable. Everyone jealous." I sliced my salmon into smaller and smaller pieces. "Nice touch. Did you pay her before or after you funded the new building?"

He didn't argue.

He didn't even defend himself.

"I have the prom video," he said. "Would you watch it with me?"

"No."

"Mara—"

"No. I don't want another movie you produced." I dropped the knife. It clattered against the plate. "I want you to explain one thing. Just one. Why do I look so happy in those pictures?"

He was quiet for a long time. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked through it.

"Because you were," he said at last.

I stared at him.

"You were happy." His voice went low and rough. "And the biggest regret of my life is that I couldn't make it last."

Something in my chest snapped.

"Don't." I shoved my chair back. "Don't you dare use some pretty version of the past to cover what you did. You don't get to hand me old photos and pretend the bruises never happened."

I twisted the ring off my finger. It caught on my knuckle. I pulled harder.

Then I threw it.

It bounced off the fireplace screen and dropped into the potted fern beside the hearth. A tiny thud in the dirt.

Adrian looked at the plant. He didn't get up.

He looked back at me instead.

"You can leave this house," he said. "Tonight, if you want. You can cancel the wedding. You can never see me again."

His jaw set. Then it eased.

"But don't you ever believe you have no choice just because I have money. You always have a choice, Mara. Always."

I'd come ready for a fight. For threats. For him to remind me who owned the roof over my head.

Not this.

For one second, the anger slipped, and something underneath it shifted. Something small and scared and uncertain.

I turned around before he could see it.

"Goodnight, Adrian."

---

I didn't sleep.

Around two, I opened the nightstand drawer for my sleeping pills. Instead my fingers brushed a stiff slip of paper.

A concert ticket. Faded ink. *Lincoln Center — Young Artists Showcase.* And a date. A date I knew in my bones, though I couldn't say why.

The day I was supposed to become a pianist.

I flipped it over.

Adrian's handwriting again. Neat and blue.

*No matter what stage she ends up on, I'll be sitting in the front row.*

"Liar," I hissed.

I tore it in half.

The paper split unevenly. One half peeled apart at the edge, two thin layers glued together. I pinched it, ready to crumple it and toss it in the trash.

Then I saw the red.

Hidden between the layers. Tiny, slanted letters. Not Adrian's.

Not anyone's I knew.

*That night, the person who really hurt her still hasn't been found.*