Fallon
I had a bad feeling about this.
When Reid said he'd "handle it," I should have pressed for details. Should have demanded to know exactly what he planned to do. But instead, I let my exhaustion win and trusted that he—out of all people—wouldn't make things worse.
That was my first mistake.
The next morning, I woke up to a storm.
Not from the trolls this time, but from Reid himself.
"Billionaire CEO Reid Callahan Defends Fiancée Fallon Prescott Against Gold Digger Accusations!"
"Reid Callahan Claps Back at Critics: 'Fallon Doesn't Need My Money'"
"Inside the Callahan-Prescott Engagement: Love or Business Deal?"
My fingers trembled as I clicked on one of the articles, my heart sinking with every word.
Reid had given a statement to the press.
And not just any statement.
He had claimed that I was an independent woman who had built her career from scratch, that I never once relied on my father's wealth, that our love story was private but real.
Real.
The word made me feel sick.
Throwing my phone onto the bed, I buried my face in my hands. Of course, he'd spun the narrative in his favor—turning me into the resilient, self-made woman while simultaneously locking me into a lie I had never agreed to.
A sharp knock at the door jolted me upright.
Mia. It had to be Mia.
I rushed to open it, ready to unload all my frustrations, but the second I pulled the door open, my breath caught.
Reid stood there, dressed in his usual crisp suit, looking completely unbothered.
"You," I seethed, stepping aside so he could walk in.
"You're welcome," he said smoothly.
I gaped at him. "You think I'm thanking you for this?"
He smirked. "It helped, didn't it? The media's eating it up. The comments have shifted. People are praising you now."
I grabbed my phone, scrolling through the latest posts. He wasn't wrong. Overnight, the narrative had flipped. Fans were defending me, calling me a "hardworking woman unfairly judged," praising me for "handling the hate with grace."
I should've felt relieved.
But I wasn't.
I was furious.
"You lied to the media," I snapped, throwing my phone onto the couch. "You had no right to speak for me."
Reid leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "I had every right. You're my fiancée."
I laughed, the sound hollow. "Oh, now you want to act like a real fiancé?"
"Fallon, this was the only way to control the narrative. If I hadn't said anything, they would've torn you apart."
I hated that he had a point. I hated that his words had actually worked.
But most of all, I hated that this arrangement had stolen my voice before I even realized it.
"Don't ever do that again," I warned, my voice lower this time.
His gaze flickered with something unreadable. "Noted."
An awkward silence settled between us.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Now what?"
Reid shrugged. "Now we play along."
The words sent a shiver down my spine.
Because despite everything, a part of me knew that once we started pretending—once we blurred the lines between what was real and what was fake—there might be no going back.