Page 1 of The Fake Fiancé

1

ELOWEN

The bells are ringing overhead before I even get out of Imogen’s car. It’s a dreary Washington day, but then again, most are. Still, it’s fitting for the event we’re attending. The event that I would do anything to skip—a funeral for a woman I don’t even know.

People are gathered beneath black umbrellas, some faces I vaguely recognize and others who are complete strangers. Most of them fall into the stranger category, and I clutch Imogen’s arm as we share our own umbrella, walking inside.

“Quit scowling,” my friend hisses, bumping me with her shoulder.

I school my face into a neutral expression. “Sorry. I just really, really want to leave.”

She leans her head on my shoulder briefly. “And I so appreciate you being here. It’s a bad look if I don’t attend, but funerals give me the creeps.”

It’s a little insensitive, but so is the scowl threatening to make its way back onto my face. Imogen actually knows the deceased, Celeste Valmonte, having done some business with her over the past few years. Celeste had struggled with a long-term illness but had hidden it from the public until just before her untimely death.

Since I’m apparently incapable of saying no to Imogen, we’re both stuck attending this funeral now, dodging the flashbulbs of the press trying to get shots of the more famous attendants. The wind cuts through my wool coat as we climb the stairs of the cathedral, but soon enough we’re inside. Even with the doors shut, we can hear the low buzz of the press; billionaires always attract attention, even at the most solemn of times, and Adam Valmonte’s name has been at the front of everyone’s mind lately.

The widower billionaire inherited what can only be called an empire from his father–international shipping, luxury hotels, energy investments, and I’m sure a handful of other ridiculously lucrative ventures. His wife Celeste used their fortune to be a philanthropist, and by all accounts was a lovely person. Adam must be devastated, but he’s a very private person, making the tabloids even more desperate to get a look at him.

The volume in the cathedral doesn’t lessen the further we get inside, but the chatter gives way to the more pleasant sounds of a choir singing as we find our seats in one of the further back rows. It’s a beautiful place, with tasteful stained glass and vaulted ceilings, but it still feels oppressive. There are justso many people.

Thankfully, Imogen is content showing her face and isn’t feeling inclined to socialize, so she sits us away from the other groups. We speak in low tones, Imogen filling me in on who is near us,while I pretend to listen. We are so far separated in our social circles that I likely won’t ever need to know the minor celebrities and smattering of millionaires who Imogen interacts with, but I indulge her anyway, knowing she’s likely just trying to keep herself distracted.

After about thirty minutes, a hush falls over the cathedral as the atmosphere shifts. I look up, curious, to see Adam Valmonte and his daughter Camille walking down the center aisle, lit candles in each of their hands.

Photographs have done nothing to prepare me for what Adam looks like in person, and I immediately feel a sickening guilt at howattractiveI find him. He’s here to mourn his deceased wife, and here I am being thrown through a loop by his height, the severe cut of his silver-shot black hair, and the stoic set of his chiseled jaw. Everything about him feels severe, from his perfectly tailored black suit to his expression, sharp and controlled despite the grief he must be feeling. He only softens when his daughter sniffles, and he wraps one arm around her, letting her lean against him for steadiness.

The entire cathedral watches the two of them pass, but neither father nor daughter appears to see anyone around them. Camille is twenty-something and stunning, a mirror image of her mother besides her father’s dark eyes and height. Even as tall as she is, the heartbroken way she carries herself has tears pricking at my own eyes. Poor girl. She’s an absolute stranger, yet I have the oddest urge to hug her.

As I’m looking at the young woman, something pulls my eyes back to Adam, and a jolt goes through me when I realize he’s lookingright back at me.I tear my eyes away immediately, thankful for the dim cathedral lighting that’s hiding the flushon my face. Was I just checking out a widowerat his wife’s funeral!?

No. No way. I was simply curious since I’ve never seen him in person before.

God, how ridiculous. I’m so embarrassed. Luckily, Imogen hasn’t noticed that her guest is making a fool of herself, and has settled into the pew, her anxieties from earlier having slowly let up.

The service begins before I can do anything else to humiliate myself, and it goes on for nearly two hours. There are speeches about Celeste’s generosity, her intelligence, and about all the charity and diplomatic work she’s done. She sounds incredible, and I feel a stab of sadness that I’ll never get to actually meet her.

I do glance at Adam a few times, but he’s stock-still, unmoving. He does rise to speak briefly about his wife, but I get the impression everything he really wanted to say has already been said in private, away from all of these non-familial eyes. Shortly after Camille speaks, leaving everyone in tears, the ceremony is done, and all of the guests stand to mingle and give their condolences once more.

Imogen and I get in line to do the same, but seeing the casket at the front of the church has my stomach rolling. Idon’tbelong here. I don’t even know this woman. All at once, the charade is too much, and I grab Imogen by the arm.

“I need to get some air.”

Luckily, my friend is now chatting with a Cartier rep that she knows well, and nods, “Go ahead. I want to leave soon anyway. I’ll meet you by the car.”

Thank God.

I slip away through the crowd, wanting to find some back door where I can be alone to just breathe for a minute. Out front is a lost cause, the press covering the front lawn even more now, but as I take hallway after hallway, I find myself hopelessly lost.

Finally, though, I find a door marked‘Contemplation Garden’and take it quickly. It’s a small area cut out of the center of the cathedral, and it appears to be rarely used, rose bushes having given way to wildflowers, morning glories climbing the brick walls with abandon. It’s the perfect place to catch my breath…

And it’s already occupied. By Adam Valmonte.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, “I’ll leave you alone, I didn’t mean?—”

“It’s fine,” he looks at me for a beat, but quickly tears his gaze away to stare ahead. There’s a cigarette hanging between his fingers, burning low. “Stay. You look like you need some fresh air.”

Great. I look disheveled enough that the husband of the deceased thinks I need a breather. If Imogen finds out, she’ll never let me live it down.