Part 1The Savior Swap

My fiancé, Julian, returned from his three-month vanishing act with his “true love” in tow.

That’s fine. I also came back with a man who claims he can’t live without me.

When he saw my fiancé, his eyes welled up. He leaned into me, his voice a bitter, fearful whisper. "Sloane, am I... am I making things awkward? The way he’s looking at me is terrifying."

Later, at the gala, the two of them had words. They both ended up in the ornamental pool. When Silas was pulled out, he collapsed into my arms, shivering.

"Sloane," he wept, "I don't understand why he pushed me. What did I do wrong? He knows I can't swim." He buried his face in my shoulder. "If he hates me that much, I... I'll just go. I'll leave."

* * *

I hadn’t even made it back to my penthouse before I heard the news: Julian Thorne was back, and he’d brought a stray. The story was all over Page Six in less than twelve hours.

The entire East Coast was waiting for the Hayes family to become a laughingstock.

My engagement to Julian was a legacy arrangement, set in stone since we were kids. We were supposed to get married after I returned from my first major overseas assignment. That was five years ago.

But our "war"—the ruthless expansion of our family's holdings—kept pulling me away. I spent those five years in the corporate trenches of Asia and Europe, barely ever returning to NewYork. The wedding, naturally, never happened.

This year, with the markets finally stable, was supposed to be the perfect time. And now he pulls this.

Honestly, it’s better he showed his hand before the contracts were signed. A scandal after the merger would have been infinitely messier.

I was driving the convertible, top-down. From the passenger seat, a voice. "Sloane? Is this really New York?"

A pale hand, adorned with intricate silver rings, reached out into the wind. A moment later, I heard the delicate clinking of metal on metal. Silas leaned out, staring up at the skyline.

He was dressed in what looked like layered silks and handcrafted leather, dripping with so much silver and turquoise jewelry he chimed when he moved. His amber-colored eyes were wide.

Silas was... an acquisition. While hunting down a con artist who’d fled to the desert, I took a shortcut, my SUV went off a ridge, and I woke up in a cot with a concussion. He’d found me.

The head injury gave me temporary amnesia. For a month, I lived in his bizarre, isolated artist commune, thinking we were... well, I wasn't sure. But he took care of me.

When my security team finally found me and my memory returned, I was ready to leave. He wasn't. He clung to me, weeping. He said he’d "nursed me back to health," that he'd "given me his innocence" (I seriously doubt that), and that everyone in the commune now saw us as a pair.

If I left, he claimed, their bizarre customs (which I'd never seen) dictated he’d be "shunned" and exiled to the mountains to fend for himself.

My head of security, trying to shut him up, snapped that I was engaged. This only made Silas cry harder. "I don't care! I'll just be near her. I'll be her assistant. Her... her servant. Sloane, please. I'll be so quiet."

I knew he was lying. Their "customs" were weird, but those people didn't just respect Silas; they revered him. They treated him like some kind of prophet-artist. They weren't shunning him anywhere. And given the sheer weight of gold and silver he wore daily, he could sell one bracelet and live comfortably for a decade. He just... really wanted to come.

But I brought him with me. Why? Because he was a fantastic actor. And because when I said no, he just started following my convoy on foot, crying. It was pathetic, and frankly, hilarious.