Page 2 of Pretend To Be Mine

But he died the same day our father did.

“The media loves a good narrative.” Dash spoke up from his seat, finally putting his phone down. “And right now, the story they’re telling is that we’re a bunch of vapid man-whores who fuck anything with a miniskirt and boobs.”

Several people gasped. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Dash—”

“What? I’m paraphrasing what Carol was going to say anyway.” He gestured at her. “Am I wrong?”

Carol’s face had gone scarlet. “I wouldn’t have put it quite so… crudely. But the sentiment is accurate. The press has painted you as spoiled, promiscuous, and unintelligent. Never mind that you all have business degrees and have been successfully running this company for a year. Never mind that the rumors were always exaggerated⁠—”

“Mine weren’t,” Sebastian said with a grin.

Briggs shot him a warning look. “Not helping.”

“I’m just saying, we definitely leaned into that image,” Sebastian continued. “The bad boy thing sold magazines and it sold dresses. Women loved it. We loved it. Win-win for everyone.”

“Until now,” I said sharply. “Now it’s biting us in the ass.”

“And not in a fun way,” Sebastian added.

Carol nodded eagerly. “Exactly. Which is why we need to change the narrative immediately. We need to show the world that you’re not the shallow playboys they think you are. That you’re capable of commitment, of depth, of⁠—”

“Of what?” I interrupted, my patience wearing dangerously thin. “What exactly are you suggesting, Carol?”

She took a deep breath and looked me dead in the eyes. “You need a fiancée.”

The words landed like a bomb in the center of the room. For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Then something inside me snapped. “You’re fired, Carol.”

The declaration came out flat and absolute. Carol’s face went from red to white in an instant.

“Adrian—” Briggs started.

“No,” I cut him off, my voice rising. “I don’t want to hear it. A fiancée? Are you out of your mind?”

“Mr. Blackwell, please—” Carol tried.

“Get out,” I said coldly. “Clean out your desk. You’re done.”

Briggs was on his feet now, his six-foot-three frame commanding immediate attention. “Carol is absolutely not fired.” His voice carried the same authority it did in courtrooms. He turned to me with a look that could freeze lava. “And you’re going to apologize right now.”

I stared at my brother, my jaw working furiously. We’d butted heads plenty of times over the past year, but Briggs rarely squared up to me. When he did, he was right to call me out. Him and all that justice he was always chasing. Right was right and wrong was wrong. He would throw down with anyone to set something right. I had learned to trust his counsel.

Damn it.

I forced myself to take a slow breath, then another. The red haze of anger began to recede, replaced by the familiar weight of responsibility and exhaustion.

“I apologize for firing you, Carol,” I said, meaning it. “But you can’t just spring something like that on me. It’s like tossing a live grenade at me. I don’t think. I just react.”

“Noted,” Carol said weakly, like she wasn’t sure if the emotional roller coaster ride was over.

Briggs addressed the room. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute break. Everyone except the Blackwells.”

There was an immediate scramble as executives gathered their laptops and papers, filing out of the boardroom with barely concealed relief. Carol was the first to leave. Briggs closed the door behind them all with a soft click that echoed in the sudden silence.

I collapsed into my chair at the head of the table, pressing my palms against my eyes until I saw stars. Behind me, I heard Sebastian pour something into a glass, probably from the whiskey decanter Dad had always kept in the credenza. Some boardroom deals needed a helping hand.