He's My Fiance
LILIANA’S POV
The moment I ended the call, I let the phone drop onto my bed and stretched out like a cat in the sun, a wicked grin tugging at my lips.
Just as expected.
He called.
Of course he did. I’d told Erica I’d ignore him. I’d told myself I’d stay cool, untouchable. And guess what? Less than twenty-four hours later, Ronny couldn’t resist. He cracked first. The sound of his voice still rang in my ears, low, restless, threaded with something he thought he was hiding. But I knew. Oh, I knew.
He wanted me.
And he was looking for any excuse to drag me back into his orbit. ‘We need to talk,’ he’d said. ‘At my house,’ he’d insisted. As if I was just supposed to drop everything and go running. Please. He had no idea who he was dealing with.
I rolled onto my stomach, plucking my phone back up. Erica’s name sat right at the top of my messages, and my fingers flew before I could second-guess myself.
Make today hell for me. Every meeting I’ve been avoiding, every stack of paperwork, every supplier, every fitting—load it all up. I want no free time, got it?
Her reply came in seconds: You’re insane, but fine. Don’t come crying to me later.
I smirked. Perfect. If Ronny thought I was going to make this easy, he had another thing coming. Let him wonder why I wasn’t immediately available to dance to his tune. If he wanted me in his house, he was going to work for it. He was going to crawl.
Satisfied, I tossed the phone aside and padded to the bathroom. A hot shower later, my nerves had steadied into steel. I slicked my ginger hair into a sleek ponytail, swiped on lipstick sharp enough to kill, and dressed in tailored high-waist trousers and a silk blouse the color of fresh cream. Powerful. Polished. Untouchable.
No softness. No cracks.
By the time I slid into my car, I’d shoved away every thought of my father, my stepmother, or that simpering stepsister of mine. Not today. Today was about me, my boutique, my empire—and the little game I was playing with Ronny. The rest of the world could rot for all I cared.
***
Erica was waiting for me when I pulled into the boutique, standing out front with her clipboard like a soldier awaiting orders. The second I stepped out, she thrust it into my hands.
“You asked for hell,” she said sweetly. “Here it is.”
I flipped through the pages, my eyes widening at the sheer length of the schedule. “This is… illegal.”
“You wanted everything. I delivered.” She grinned smugly. “Good luck surviving.”
I snorted but didn’t argue. At least I wouldn’t have time to think about Ronny. Or so I thought.
Inside, the boutique gleamed as always, sunlight bouncing off sequins and glass. The scent of fresh flowers lingered in the air, and my staff bustled quietly, steaming gowns, arranging displays, whispering in corners. Everything was flawless. Everything was mine.
Almost.
I was halfway through scanning the morning’s fitting list when a sharp, unpleasant voice cut through the air like broken glass.
“I said no. No, no, no. This is all wrong.”
I turned, my heels clicking softly against the marble as I walked toward the commotion. Near the front racks, one of my newer assistants was holding up a gown—a lovely midnight blue number with a daring slit. But the woman in front of her wrinkled her nose like she’d been handed trash.
“These dresses are not up to my standard,” the woman sneered. “Do you people not understand quality?”
My staffer flushed, stammering an apology. I felt irritation coil in my chest. Rudeness toward me was one thing; toward my staff, it was unacceptable.
“Is there a problem here?” My voice was smooth, calm, but laced with authority. I approached, hands clasped loosely in front of me, the picture of control.
The woman turned. Her eyes raked over me, head to toe, and a sneer tugged at her mouth. She was elegant, I’ll give her that—designer heels, a fitted dress, glossy hair styled within an inch of its life. But her expression ruined all of it. Bitter. Petty.
“Who are you?” she asked, voice dripping disdain.
“I’m the owner,” I replied evenly. “If none of these dresses meet your standard, perhaps I can show you something from our VIP collection. It is significantly more expensive, though. Are you sure you can afford it?”
Her eyes narrowed. For a split second, I saw the offense flash across her face before she schooled it into something nastier.
“Oh,” she said suddenly, her voice curling like smoke. “It’s you.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “I’m sorry… do I know you?”
She took a slow, deliberate step forward, but Erica was there instantly, moving between us like a shield.
“Ma’am,” Erica said firmly, “if you continue harassing the staff—”
“It’s fine, Erica.” I laid a hand on her arm, gently pushing her aside. My gaze stayed locked on the stranger. “You seem to know me. Care to explain?”
The woman folded her arms, her expression twisting into something cruel. “You’re the bitch who’s been running after my man.”
My brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She leaned closer, her perfume cloying, her lips curling. “Stay away from Ronny.”
For a moment, the words didn’t register. And then they did, slamming into me like a punch to the ribs. My laugh came sharp and incredulous.
“Your man?” I echoed. “Ronny?”
“Yes.” Her chin lifted proudly. “Ronny is my fiancé. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop throwing yourself at him.”
The boutique seemed to go silent around us. My staff pretended to keep working, but I could feel their ears straining, their eyes flicking nervously toward the confrontation. Erica stiffened beside me, her gaze snapping to mine, waiting for my cue.
I inhaled slowly, forcing myself to stay calm, collected. “Fiancé,” I repeated softly. “Funny. Because if I recall correctly, one of Ronny’s closest friends said he’s never introduced any woman to them. Not once. Which would be strange, wouldn’t it, for a man supposedly engaged to you?”
A flicker of something flashed across her face—doubt, maybe, or rage. She covered it quickly, jabbing a finger at me.
“I’ve been with Ronny for five years,” she spat. “Five years. And I’m not about to let some spoiled little redhead ruin that.”
My pulse hammered in my ears, but outwardly, I was ice. I tilted my head, meeting her glare with one of my own. “If you’re so confident in your claim, then perhaps you should be having this conversation with Ronny. Not in my boutique, not with my staff. Now—if you don’t see anything here that ‘meets your standard,’ I suggest you leave.”
Her nostrils flared, her fists clenching at her sides. For a heartbeat, I thought she might slap me. But instead, she huffed, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and spun on her heel.
“This isn’t over,” she hissed, stalking toward the door. “Stay away from him.”
And then she was gone, the bell above the door chiming lightly as if mocking the storm she’d left in her wake.
The silence that followed was deafening. My staff stared at me with wide eyes, Erica’s jaw tight as she finally exhaled.
“Who the hell was that?” she demanded.
I sank back against the nearest display, suddenly exhausted, though I’d never admit it out loud. My mind replayed the scene in brutal clarity—the sneer, the accusations, the venom in her voice when she’d said the word fiancé.
But Ronny never mentioned her. Not once. And his friend’s words echoed in my head: He hasn’t brought a woman around. Ever.
I straightened, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my blouse, forcing my voice into something calm. “Someone desperate for attention,” I said finally. “Forget her.”
But even as I said it, even as I picked up my clipboard and forced myself back into motion, her words stuck like barbed wire in my chest.
Ronny is my fiancé.
***
The rest of the day blurred. Fittings, fabric selections, endless consultations—it all kept me moving, kept my hands busy. But my mind refused to quiet. Every time I glanced at my phone, half-expecting a message from him, I heard her voice instead, mocking, possessive, certain.
Ronny is mine.
By the time I closed work for the day, I was drained, my heels pinching, my head aching. I leaned against my office door, staring at the shadows stretching long across the floor.
He wanted me at his house. He wanted answers. But now, I had questions of my own.
And I wasn’t sure I was ready for the answers.
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