I ignored the anguish and confusion warring in Julian’s eyes.

"Dad," I said, my voice crisp and clear. "Please handle this. We can't have the family name dragged through the mud."

Back in my penthouse, I surveyed the gallery of faces on my wall—the dozens of marriage candidates my father had so carefully curated for me.

Trust fund heirs, Wall Street's nouveau riche, ascendant political stars. My eyes scanned past them all, and I strode toward the most inconspicuous portrait in the corner.

Caspian Thorne. The city's most infamous private equity magnate—a billionaire known for his devastating charm and ruthless cynicism.

My father had hung his portrait in the farthest corner, a silent testament that he didn't consider Caspian even a worthy backup.

"Arthur," I called. Our family butler, Arthur Beaumont, entered, his composure still rattled from the scene downstairs.

"Contact Thorne Capital," I said. "Tell them I accept."

A flicker of shock crossed Arthur’s face, but he masked it quickly, giving a single, deferential nod before exiting the room.

As dusk settled over the city, I was strolling through Central Park when I heard his footsteps behind me. I knew it was Julian before I turned.

He stood before me, his eyes bloodshot and puffy.

"Why?" he asked, his voice raw.

I stopped, facing him. "Why what?"

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded, his voice cracking. "Scarlett, I know you're angry, but—"

"But what?" I cut in. "You paraded a pregnant woman into my home, knelt before my father, and begged to marry her. What was I supposed to do, Julian? Throw you a party?"

His face paled. "It's not like that. Just let me explain—"

He pulled something from his jacket pocket. The key to our SoHo apartment. Its edges were worn smooth, a clear sign of how often he must have held it, turned it over in his hands.

"I carried this for three years," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I never forgot you, Scarlett."

I held out my hand. He placed the key in my palm, and I felt its familiar weight. Then, with a flick of my wrist, I sent it spinning through the air. It landed with a faint clink, disappearing into a sewer grate.

"I don't want things that are tainted," I said calmly. "Or people." The color drained from his face. He staggered back, as if I’d struck him again.

Just then, Bianca materialized at his side, steadying his arm. She looked at me, her eyes wide and innocent, pure doe-eyed manipulation.

When she spoke, her voice was a cloying syrup of feigned concern and barely-there triumph. "Scarlett, Julian missed you so much. Every night, he'd just stare at your picture for hours, whispering your name."

She pulled out an old, battered phone. The screen lit up with my chat history—endless messages sent into a void over three long years.

"His phone was broken the whole time he was away," she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "He never got a single one of your messages. Such a tragedy."

A triumphant glint flashed in her eyes. I laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Stay out of Sterling family business."

I nodded to the bodyguard standing discreetly behind me. "Show them out."

For a moment, Julian looked like he might resist. But his defiance faltered as his gaze met my cold, unyielding stare. He said nothing, allowing the bodyguard to escort both him and Bianca from the park.

The next day, I was at a company-owned construction site in the south end when Caspian Thorne appeared, unannounced and utterly out of place.

He was lounging against a stack of drywall in a ridiculously bright, custom-pink suit, a cigarillo dangling from his lips. He looked as if he owned the place.

"Miss Sterling," he drawled, not bothering to look up. "What can I get you for an engagement gift? My heart, perhaps?"

I stopped in front of him, taking his measure. He was even more handsome than his portrait suggested, and ten times more arrogant.

"I want Thorne Capital's southern city plot."

The words hung in the air. Caspian slowly straightened up. The lazy smirk vanished, and his eyes, a startling shade of blue, sharpened with sudden focus.

He studied me for a long moment, then a slow, genuine grin spread across his face.

"Done," he said.

He stood, brushing dust from his suit. "Fair warning, though. That adoptive brother of yours isn't exactly stable. Don't be surprised if he tries to crash our engagement party."

As if on cue, a hysterical cry erupted from a short distance away.

"Julian, why won't you just tell her the truth!" It was Bianca. "You made me pretend to be with you, all to protect her!"

My heart gave a painful lurch. I’d told myself I didn’t want his excuses, but her words still sent a traitorous pang through me.

Julian's voice was low and strained. "I told you, it's over! There's no future for us!"

I was the one who ended it, so why did hearing him say it feel like a slap? I took a steadying breath, schooling my features into a mask of indifference.

Caspian watched me, a smirk playing on his lips. "Did you catch that? Pure soap opera. Shame you're not falling for it."

I ignored him, walking toward the argument. My eyes landed on Bianca's belly. She had to be at least seven months along. If what she said was an act...

When I spoke, my voice was calm, almost glacial. "Quite the performance. You even got a prop baby for the part. You've really committed to the role, Julian."

Julian’s face went white. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Bianca, on the other hand, burst into tears, her delicate sobs turning my stomach. She fumbled with her phone, pulling up a gallery of photos.

"Julian has always loved you, Scarlett, truly," she wept.

Then, with a feigned slip of her hand, the phone clattered to the ground. The screen glowed with her social media feed.

The photo was from last Valentine's Day. Julian, passionately kissing Bianca on a moonlit beach in Mexico. Another showed a lavish diamond ring on her finger.

And all that time, I was turning down every suitor, waiting for him in our SoHo apartment. I was even alone when I was rushed to the hospital with appendicitis, staring at the ceiling of a cold, empty room.

My expression hardened. The last three years of my life had been a joke.

I turned to Caspian, who had followed me. "Is there something you know that I don't?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

Caspian paused, his gaze sharpening. "What I do know is that the man who sent Julian undercover was my father."

My heart skipped a beat.

"And the woman he brought back," Caspian's voice dropped, "her file's a blank slate. She's not the informant listed in his official report."

A jolt went through me, but I kept my face a perfect, unreadable mask.