3

Mrs. Bellami was burning red.

Her heels clicked furiously against the floor as she stormed forward, eyes locked on her son—their son—who was now drunkenly draped over a total stranger, slurring nonsense in front of a hundred high-society guests and cameras.

He was dragging the Bellami name through the mud.

But before she could reach him, a hand gripped her wrist—tight but calm. Mr. Bellami.

“Don’t,” he whispered low, pulling her back a step. “You’ll only increase the drama.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You want me to just stand here and watch him ruin everything?”

“He’s drunk, Catherine. Completely wasted. He’ll come to his senses,” he murmured, eyes steady on Nico. “Let him be.”

But her jaw clenched. She shook her head. “The Valentinos have already left. Do you understand that? They called off the engagement. They’re cutting every single alliance we’ve worked years to build.”

She sounded more like a wounded general than a mother.

Her voice dropped even lower. “I told them—lied to them—that Nico was out getting Briel a diamond necklace. Something custom.

I said he wanted to surprise her before the announcement. I looked Briel in the eyes and told her he was proud to have her as his fiancée. And now look.”

Her gaze flicked to Nico again. His shirt was half unbuttoned, his hair a mess, his hand firmly wrapped around a strange girl’s waist like she belonged there.

Mrs. Bellami’s voice cracked. “That girl is not Briel. She’s not even someone I’ve seen before. And now the press will have a field day. ‘Bellami heir dumps fiancée for mystery girl on engagement night.’ Just what we need.”

Mr. Bellami’s face stayed Controlled. Like always.

His grip on her wrist softened. “Catherine, stop. If you charge in now, you’ll only feed the scandal.”

She looked like she wanted to scream.

But she didn’t.

Because deep down, she knew he was right.

So instead, she stood still, shaking with quiet fury, while the life they’d carefully built began to crumble—piece by expensive piece.

Red’s heels clicked awkwardly against the marble as Nico’s heavy arm remained lazily slung over her shoulder, his weight pressing into her as he leaned closer than she’d ever let a man get.

She was trying her best to let go. Really, she was.

But his grip tightened every time she shifted.

“I should’ve just walked away,” she muttered under her breath, glancing around at the elite crowd now staring at her like she’d just walked in wearing nothing but crime and audacity.

Heads turned. Champagne glasses paused midair.

She heard them whispering.

“Who is she?”

“Where’s Briel?”

“Did he just call her his wife?!”

“God, I knew Nico was a mess but not this much of a mess.”

“I give it two hours before she’s kicked out.”

Red’s heart pounded as Nico dragged her—yes, dragged—towards the grand staircase like she was his damn prize. Her palm was sweaty in his, but he didn't seem to care. He was smiling. Drunkenly proud.

Oh my god.

I shouldn't have helped this scary grumpy man. What the hell is going on?

She whispered harshly, “Let go. You're causing a scene.”

But he only turned to her with heavy eyes, a lopsided grin. “Wifey... why are you so shy now? Let’s go to our room.”

Room? Room?!

He tugged her up the stairs while the crowd exploded with more murmurs.

“I can’t believe he just dumped the Valentino girl like that.”

“Is this girl pregnant or something? She has to be.”

“She looks like someone he met at a strip club…”

Red froze at that last one.

She had been in a strip club earlier. Shit.

She leaned closer to Nico, teeth clenched in a smile she didn’t mean. “You need to stop this. You’re making it worse—”

He turned to her, eyes soft. “You're the only one not fake here. You're warm.”

She blinked.

Then swallowed.

Hard.

What the hell does that mean?

All she knew was, she was halfway up a billionaire's stairs, surrounded by judging eyes and deadly secrets, and she couldn’t even begin to explain how a decent girl with a backpack full of tips and a thong ended up in this royal mess.

They finally made it into the room. And oh God—Red had never seen anything like it.

A king-sized bed that looked like it cost more than her entire life. Gold-rimmed mirrors.

A walk-in closet big enough to rent out. The walls were decorated with black-and-white framed shots of Nico—shirtless, sculpted, dangerous—like he was the lead in some Calvin Klein fantasy shoot.

Red blinked.

“Of course he’d hang hot pictures of himself,” she muttered.

Nico barely made it past the door before he stumbled onto the bed. Face down. Sprawled. Out cold.

Finally. He passed out.

Red threw her hands up. “Ugh. Thank God.”

She tiptoed toward the door. “I can finally leave this annoying place…”

But when she peeked out through the curtain, her heart dropped.

Outside—press. Media vans. Flashing cameras. Paparazzi shouting questions to no one in particular.

She winced. “What the hell…”

She could already imagine them yelling:

Who is the mystery girl?

Where’s Briel?

Is this the secret wife?!

Red shut the curtain with a sigh and leaned her back against the wall.

“This night is cursed.”

She looked back at Nico, now snoring on silk sheets like a baby. “I swear, I should’ve just given Marcelo my first time and slept in peace.”

At least Marcelo wouldn’t have dragged her into a billionaire scandal.

She rubbed her forehead. “God, I just wanted to dance tonight… now I’m in a stranger’s bedroom with press outside ready to ruin my entire bloodline.”

A knock on the door made Red’s blood run cold.

She froze in place, barely breathing, her eyes snapping toward the door like it had just come alive.

Her thoughts raced. Shit. Is it the mom? The dad? A guard? The damn press? Am I about to be dragged out in handcuffs for helping some drunk rich psycho?