The Billionaire's Reluctant Partner.

Naomi's POV

 I shouldn't have agreed. This was probably the fifth time I was muttering that to myself. The cool night air slapped me in the face like it was trying to wake me up, but all it did was sting. My heels clicked sharply against the pavement as I walked toward my car, my chest tight, breath uneven. I wrapped my coat tighter around myself, not from the cold, but from the weight of it all pressing down on me. That conversation with Killian was still playing on repeat in my mind like a sick loop. His voice-smooth, smug, too confident. His offer-so polished, so perfectly tailored to target everything I was terrified of losing. A wedding. Of all things. The irony wasn't lost on me. The man who broke me in every way that mattered was now offering to help me... through another wedding. I should have told him to go to hell. Should've thrown my drink in his face and walked out with the last scrap of dignity I had. But I didn't. Because he was right. God, I hated that he was right. Lancaster luxe events was falling apart. I was barely keeping the lights on, and the blacklist from the wedding had spread like wildfire. One scandal. One disastrous night. That's all it took to unravel everything I'd built. No one cared about the five years of perfection I delivered before that. They only cared about the failure. And Killian? He knew it. He could smell desperation. He always could. I reached my car and gripped the door handle, fingers trembling. Was it anger? Fear? I didn't know anymore. All I knew was that I was drowning, and the only hand reaching out to pull me up was the one that pushed me under in the first place. I slid into the driver's seat and just sat there for a second. Staring at the dashboard. Breathing. I didn't cry. I was done crying over him. But I hated that he still had that power. That his name still made my stomach knot. That even now, even after everything, part of me still flinched when he smiled that way. I started the car, the hum of the engine grounding me slightly. Home. I just needed to get home. Process. Think. Think about whether I was willing to sell my soul to the devil in a custom Italian suit. By the time I got back to my apartment, the buzz of the city had dulled to a faint, constant hum in the background. I kicked off my heels, peeled off my coat, and made a beeline for the kitchen. I needed a drink. Something stiff. But before I could even grab a glass, my phone vibrated on the counter. I froze, staring at the screen. Vivian Lancaster. My stomach dropped. Of course. I should've known, she'd waited far too long. I exhaled sharply and picked up. "Good day, mother," I said, voice clipped. Her sigh echoed through the speaker like it was my fault she had to call me in the first place. "Naomi." No hello, no how are you. Just my name, drawn out like it left a bad taste in her mouth. "I just got off the phone with Clarice Whitmore," she said, as if I knew-or cared-who that was. "She asked if the rumors were true." I leaned one hip against the counter, pressing my fingers to my temple. "What rumors?" "That you botched the Kensington wedding," she hissed. "That you-you-were the reason it turned into a public disaster. And now they're saying you've been blacklisted from three of the major venues in the city." I didn't answer. Because none of it was a rumor. "It's bad enough that you embarrassed yourself," Vivian continued, voice rising, "but to drag our name through the dirt again? Naomi, have you no sense of duty?" There it was. Not concern. Not support. Not even curiosity about whether I was okay. Just that ever-present obsession with appearances. With reputation. I exhaled slowly. "It wasn't my fault. The groom's mistress showed up with a pregnancy test. That wasn't in the schedule." "That's not the point," My mother snapped. "The point is you're supposed to be a professional, and yet your name is now synonymous with scandal. Again." I closed my eyes. Again. I knew what she meant. Five years ago, I walked away from Killian Royce-the golden boy of New York's elite, heir to a media empire, and my mother's prized connection to wealth and influence. She never forgave me for that. She hadn't even asked why I'd left. Just looked at me like I'd spit in her champagne. "You had one job," she said now, cold and cutting. "Secure your future. Secure our legacy. And you walked away. From him. From all of it." "Have you ever tried to know why I left, mother?" I heaved a sigh, feeling extremely drainedmn Because in reality, no one had cared... Not even my own mother. "Please spare me the feminist martyr act, Naomi. I've heard it all before. You left a man women would kill to marry. You had access-power. And now look at you. Scrambling to keep a business afloat like some... desperate intern." The words hit, but not in the way she thought. They didn't cut deep. They scraped. Because I'd heard them my whole life. "Thank you for the unsolicited pep talk," I said dryly, reaching for the glass of water I'd meant to get earlier. "Anything else?" "Yes," she said sharply. "Fix this." A bitter laugh escaped me before I could help it. "And how exactly do you suggest I do that? Wave a wand? Pray to the PR gods?" "Don't get snide with me. You know damn well what you need to do. Reinvent your brand. Find a new angle. Pull yourself together before you ruin my standing completely." And there it was. My standing. I wasn't even her daughter in that sentence. I was an accessory. An extension of her image. "I see," I murmured. "So this isn't about me." "It never is, Naomi," she said, and her honesty was a punch wrapped in ice. "It's about survival. You may not care about status, but I do. My life is built on it. And I won't have my daughter being whispered about like she's some fallen socialite trying to stay relevant." A pause. Then, as if it were the most generous thing in the world, she added, "I suggest you find a way to fix this before you lose what little reputation you have left." I let the silence stretch between us. Because there was nothing left to say. Finally, I said, "Good night, Mother." "Don't be dramatic, Naomi. Just do something for once in your life that doesn't disappoint me." She hung up. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty kitchen. The silence after her voice was louder than anything she'd said. I wasn't surprised. Not really. Vivian had never been nurturing. Never been warm. She saw love as currency and motherhood as performance art. But part of me-some small, stupid part-still hoped, even now, that she'd call to ask if I was okay. I wasn't. But not for the reasons she thought. My hands trembled as I set the phone down, chest tight, heart pounding like I'd just run a marathon. And then I did something I hadn't done in years. I cried. Silently, shoulders shaking, I slid down the kitchen cabinets and pressed my forehead to my knees. I let the tears come, hot and ugly. For the business I was about to fake my way through saving. For the man I hated but still had to face. And for the mother who would never love me the way I needed her to. When the tears finally slowed, I dragged myself off the floor, grabbed a glass of water with shaking hands, and tried to breathe. But the universe wasn't done yet. My phone buzzed again. A new email. From: Killian Royce Subject: Proposal Terms I stared at it, debating. I shouldn't look. I wasn't ready. But I clicked it open anyway. And there it was. Plain as day. The contract was... extensive. Pages of terms and stipulations, all tailored to make this look like a legitimate business arrangement. Except for the last clause. My eyes skimmed it once. Twice. "For the sake of publicity, client and contractor will appear as a united front in business and social engagements. This includes-but is not limited to-joint public appearances, media interviews, and maintaining the illusion of reconciliation for the duration of the contract." I dropped the phone on the counter like it burned. This wasn't just a wedding. He wanted me to play house. To smile beside him like none of it ever happened. Like he hadn't ripped me apart. He wanted to rewrite our story. No-he wanted to sell it. A perfect, curated redemption arc. Two exes reuniting for a once-in-a-lifetime event. PR gold. And I? I'd be the accessory. The planner-turned-lover. The woman who forgave and forgot, all for the cameras. The bastard had set a trap. Fuck!