THE LIES BETWEEN US

BRIELLE

One thing I hated more than soggy fries and getting shoved around in a crowded subway… was an impromptu phone call from Thomas Lancaster — otherwise known as my father–demanding I come home.

It never ends well.

I stared at the screen as his name flashed again, jaw clenched. Ten seconds of silence, then it stopped.

This was the third call in under five minutes. Which meant it wasn’t just a “drop by” situation. It was a life-altering one.

And with Thomas, life-altering usually meant I was about to lose something — freedom, choice, or whatever scraps of peace I’d managed to collect lately.

The cab jolted as we hit a pothole, dragging me back to reality. Rain tapped against the windows in a soft, steady rhythm, matching the dull throb behind my eyes.

The driver threw a glance at me through the rearview mirror. “You okay back there?”

I nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah...”

I didn’t say I’d rather be going anywhere but home. That part was implied.

I tucked my phone away and stared out at the city lights bleeding into the wet pavement. The closer we got to the Lancaster estate, the heavier my chest felt — like the air itself thickened the nearer I got to that godforsaken mansion.

I hadn’t lived there in years. Not since college. These days, I stayed at the apartment I shared with my best friend. I only went back when I absolutely had to. Holidays, guilt-tripped visits, the occasional check-in. Nothing more.

Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe this was just another one of Thomas’s classic “family bonding” demands.

Sure. And maybe pigs fly first class.

I sighed and was about to pull out my phone again when the cab’s radio crackled to life.

“In other news, New York’s most elusive billionaire heir is officially back in town. Damian Moretti, the only son of international tech tycoon Alessandro Moretti, arrived last night via private jet after spending the last two years in Italy…”

My head turned slightly toward the speaker.

“…Sources close to the family say Damian’s return could signal major moves in the Moretti empire. The notoriously private heir has kept a low profile since disappearing from the spotlight in early 2023. But with his return, speculation is already swirling—”

I tuned the rest out.

Damian Moretti.

That name used to live on everyone’s lips. In gossip blogs, in boardroom whispers, in every girl’s fantasy who ever dreamed of marrying wealth and danger.

But not mine.

We’d never met. Our circles didn’t cross. And yet, somehow, hearing his name made my skin prickle with something I couldn’t quite place.

I shook it off.

This had nothing to do with me.

Twenty minutes in the Lancaster estate and I already regretted not canceling. I could’ve blamed it on a deadline. Told them I was drowning in edits. Maybe even faked a migraine and turned off my phone.

Instead, I was here. At this ridiculously long table. Eating overpriced, overcooked pasta and trying to pretend I loved it.

“You look lean, Brielle,” my mother said, her tone soft but carefully measured like everything else about her. She sat across from me, picture-perfect in her pearl necklace and tailored navy dress, her posture straight as a ruler. Her hair was pulled back in that classic chignon she always wore when she wanted to look "in control."

“Have you been eating?” she added.

I chewed slowly, resisting the urge to smirk. “Well enough,” I muttered. “I mean, when I remember.”

Her brows pinched slightly. “You really shouldn’t let yourself get that consumed. Writing is important, yes, but not at the expense of your health. A routine is key, darling. Even when you're...pursuing art.”

The way she said art made it sound like a hobby I’d outgrow.

I wiped my mouth with the linen napkin, swallowing the last of the soggy pasta. “Oh well, it’s work, I guess,” I said, voice flat.

My mother reached for her wine, pausing just long enough to cast a knowing glance at my father — who still hadn’t said a word. He sat at the head of the table, stone-faced, his phone face-down beside his wine glass, a folded newspaper stiffly pushed to the side.

“Still,” she continued, “you really shouldn’t push yourself beyond your limit. You used to love cooking. You barely post anything personal anymore. Are you sleeping well? Taking your vitamins?”

“I’m not seventy-five, Mom.”

She smiled tightly. “No, but burnout is real. And I worry about you.”

Liar.

Her version of “worry” was an occasional text and passive-aggressive comments about how pale I looked on Instagram.

I was about to change the subject — ask about her garden or that ridiculous charity fashion show she was probably organizing again when my father finally spoke.

“How’s your boyfriend?”

The question dropped like a hammer.

I blinked. “What?”

He didn’t look up. He was slicing into his steak like we were just discussing the weather. “The man you were seeing. What was his name again? Liam?”

My stomach turned.

“We broke up. Two months ago.”

That got his attention.

Finally, he looked up. His eyes were cool. Sharp. Assessing. Like he was calculating something in his head.

My mother made a small sound. “Oh, sweetheart, you didn’t mention…”

I shrugged. “It wasn’t serious.”

Thomas Lancaster hummed. That low, unimpressed sound he made when he already knew something and was waiting to use it against you.

“I see,” he said, sitting back slightly. “So you're not… emotionally attached. That simplifies things.”

My brows furrowed. “Simplifies what?”

He picked up his wine glass, swirling the red liquid once before meeting my eyes.

“You’re getting married.”

I blinked.

Laughed.

Then blinked again.

“I’m sorry… what?”

“You heard me,” my father said, as if he’d just informed me of a board meeting or a tax adjustment. “The arrangements have already been made. You’ll be introduced formally tomorrow at dinner.”

I stared at him like he’d grown horns. “Are you serious?”

Dead silence.

My mother kept her gaze locked on her wine glass like she could disappear inside it. That was confirmation enough.

“Oh my God. You’re serious.”

I shoved my chair back with a scrape that echoed across the room. “No. Absolutely not. You can’t just—just decide something like this! I’m not some pawn you can move around on your stupid power-hungry chessboard—”

“You’re being dramatic,” he cut in, voice flat. “Sit down.”

“No,” I snapped. “You don’t get to spring this on me and expect me to smile through it like I’m thrilled to be auctioned off—”

“You will sit down, Brielle.”

His voice didn’t rise.

It didn’t have to.

That cold, quiet tone was worse than shouting. It sliced straight through me, and I froze before I could stop myself.

Because no matter how old I got, no matter how far I ran or how many boundaries I tried to draw…

You don’t talk back to Thomas Lancaster.

Not without consequence.

“I’m not doing this,” I said again, this time softer, but still standing. “You can’t force me into marriage. What is this, the 1800s?”

“You’re not a child,” he replied. “You’re a woman. A woman of status, of family. It’s time you started acting like it.”

My chest tightened. “You mean it’s time I started obeying you again.”

“You are not getting any younger,” he said coolly.

“I’m twenty-four,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

His eyes flicked to mine—calm, hard, unblinking.

And just like that, the fight in me cracked.

The weight of that gaze. The unspoken threat beneath it. The reminder that my freedom had always been an illusion in his world.

I sank slowly back into the chair, my hands clenched in my lap.

“Who?” I asked, voice hollow.

Thomas took a sip of his wine before answering. “Damian Moretti.”

My blood went cold.

The name hit me like a slap.

Damian Moretti.