Chapter 7: Playing Pretend
I couldn’t believe it. Cassian Locke had actually told the press I was his girlfriend.
Of all the outrageous things he could’ve done, this took the crown and the throne. My fury was bubbling under my skin, ready to detonate—but cameras were watching, so I smiled, waved, and let him lead me inside like we were some kind of polished power couple.
The moment the glass doors of Pink Moda shut behind us, I spun toward him with a glare primed for murder.
But I didn’t get the chance.
Applause erupted from every corner of the lobby.
People clapped. Clapped. Stylists, interns, security guards—everyone stood there beaming like we’d just announced an engagement.
Cassian still held my hand like he owned it.
A woman stepped forward holding a bouquet that smelled like money. “Congratulations, Miss Quinn,” she said with a reverent bow, like I was royalty.
“Oh—no, that’s not necessary. I’m just—I'm still new here, really. Please, you’re all—” I stumbled over my words, but no one was listening.
“Congrats on the relationship, boss,” someone else chimed in, and Cassian replied smoothly, “Thanks, Sam,” like this was all perfectly normal.
I wanted to scream. But instead, I smiled like my life wasn’t currently imploding under a very expensive shoe.
---
“What the hell was that?” I snapped once we were finally alone in the hallway, on our way to the executive boardroom.
“They were going to twist it anyway,” Cassian said, annoyingly calm. “I just made sure the story worked in your favor.”
“In my favor?” I barked. “You told the press we’re dating!”
He kept walking like we weren’t five seconds from me strangling him.
“An unknown girl walking out of a club with a public figure like me? You’d have been crucified on gossip blogs by noon. This way, you’re protected.”
“Oh, thank you so much for your noble act of claiming me like I’m some lost puppy,” I said, my voice tight.
We stopped outside the boardroom door. He reached for the knob, and so did I—but his hand landed over mine.
A jolt shot through my arm. I know he felt it, too, because his eyes paused on mine for a beat too long.
“Don’t touch me,” I said quickly, pulling away.
But before I could open the door, he grabbed my wrist again. This time he leaned in, his voice a velvet whisper against my ear.
“Let’s just pretend. For a little while. It'll keep them off your back.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I hated that my body even noticed.
Then—without warning—he wrapped an arm around my waist, pushed the door open with his foot, and walked us inside.
The room was full. Board members. Executives. Expensive suits and well-practiced smiles.
Cassian didn’t flinch. He walked in like he did everything: like he owned the air.
We sat side by side. I sat up straighter, tried to hold my composure. I was not going to give him the satisfaction.
“So, Cassian,” a sleek blonde woman said, eyes darting between us. Her voice dripped with disbelief. “We’ve heard... things. Is it true?”
“I don’t enjoy repeating myself,” he said smoothly. “Yes. We’re in a relationship.”
I could see the surprise ripple through the room like someone had tossed a stone into still water.
That same woman, whose lipstick looked precision-painted, blinked at me like I’d just stolen her parking spot—and her last chance with Cassian.
I swallowed hard. “I apologize for the late notice,” I said quickly, trying to steady my voice. “Going forward, I’ll make sure all relevant updates are shared promptly.”
Cassian reached over and laced his fingers with mine again—for the show, of course. I gave him a death glare.
He rubbed my hand softly, like he was enjoying my discomfort. I squeezed his fingers like a warning.
“This is Margaret,” one of the executives finally said, nodding to a stylish woman beside him. “She’ll be managing your schedule and public appearances from now on.”
I nodded, trying to breathe normally. “Thank you.”
“We’ll reconvene in two weeks to assess progress,” the same exec added. “Meeting adjourned.”
Cassian leaned close just as people started gathering their folders. “You’re doing great, sweetheart.”
I resisted the urge to kick him under the table.
---
“Change my name? Why?” I asked Margaret, once we were alone in her office.
She was flipping through a thick folder of scheduling documents and sponsorship proposals.
“As a public figure, you need a name with punch. Something memorable. Chic. Easy to search, hard to forget.”
“I always thought Marla Quinn was simple enough,” I said.
“It’s not just about simplicity—it’s about persona. Branding. Privacy. A new name protects your personal life.”
I sighed. I had fought so hard to be seen, and now that people were finally seeing me... they wanted to change who I was.
Still, security mattered. Especially after what I saw this industry could do to women.
“Okay,” I said, quieter this time. “What’s the name?”
“Nikki Fox.”
I blinked. “Sorry, what?”
“That’s your celebrity identity now. Short. Stylish. Commanding.”
Nikki Fox. It didn’t sound like me. But maybe... that was the point.
---
Margaret walked me through everything: interviews, travel, new housing arrangements. Pink Moda was investing in me like I was a startup tech company. Apparently, the board approved funding to move me to a new residence—something upscale and untraceable.
Security. Privacy. Control.
It felt surreal.
I couldn’t wait to tell Mom.
---
I got home later that evening, exhausted but full of excitement.
We’d had multiple shoots. Every outfit had to be immaculate. No wrinkles. No stray hair. Not one out-of-place eyelash.
The house was quiet. No kettle whistling. No familiar sound of knitting needles clinking by the window.
“Mum?” I called.
No answer.
I opened her door.
Nothing.
The lights didn’t work. We hadn’t paid the bill in weeks. I clic
ked on my phone flashlight and aimed it toward the bed.
My scream cracked the silence.
She was on the floor.
Blood pooling beneath her.
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