Mistaken for the Sister's Fiancé

After I moved into my fiancs penthouse, I found his rigid, buttoned-up demeanor utterly exasperating.

Every day, it was either a barrage of check-in texts or him insisting we make out like teenagers.

At first, he seemed annoyed by my sheer existence, but considering the corporate merger between our families, he had no choice but to indulge my every whim.

Until one afternoon.

I discovered that the woman Nate Prescott was actually supposed to marry wasn't me. It was my older sister.

The moment the realization hit, I was straddling my future brother-in-laws lap. The edges of my vision went entirely black.

I scrambled to get off him, but Nates hands caught my waist, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion as he pulled me back against his chest.

"I thought kissing was on the daily mandatory agenda," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Are we skipping it today?"

I waved my hands frantically, feeling the blood drain from my face.

"We're skipping it. We are definitely skipping it."

I mean, I had my flaws, but I drew the line at making out with my sister's fianc.

The hands gripping my waist tightened infinitesimally.

Nate tipped my chin up with his index finger, his dark eyes searching my face with a mix of concern and bewilderment.

"What's wrong? Are you feeling sick?"

"No."

"Then why the sudden strike?" he asked, his tone perfectly serious. "Usually, if I show even a fraction of hesitation, you throw a fit."

The fact that he was analyzing my erratic behavior with the gravity of a board meeting made my chest tight.

Just minutes ago, everything had been perfectly fine.

I had been whining for attention. Nate, ever the disciplined CEO, had actually sighed, closed his laptop, and pulled me onto his lap. Faced with a man who looked like hed been carved out of marble specifically to wear Tom Ford suits, I was fully prepared to kiss him senseless.

Then, my iPhone buzzed.

It was a text from my brother, Brooks.

[Heather, Caroline is flying back from London next week.]

[Mom and Dad are getting everything lined up with that guy they set her up with what was his name again?]

[Oh right. Nate Prescott.]

[Since you're pretty tight with him, Mom wants to know if you can invite him over for a family dinner?]

I had been lazily draped over Nates shoulder. Reading those texts, my spine snapped straight.

Wait.

Since when was Nate Prescott my older sisters arranged match?

It took my brain several agonizing seconds to process the information. Suddenly, the glaringly obvious signs I had ignored came rushing back to me.

Muttering some incoherent excuse to Nate, I practically bolted from his home office and sprinted to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.

I dialed Brooks. He picked up on the second ring.

"What's up, Harp?"

"Brooks, I need you to clarify something right now," I hissed, pacing the length of the balcony, keeping my voice to a frantic whisper. "Nate was originally set up with Caroline?"

"What do you mean 'originally'? He still is." Brooks sounded completely bewildered. "Caroline isn't getting any younger, and she insisted on doing that year-long fellowship in Europe. Mom and Dad have been stressed out of their minds."

"They're planning to lock down the engagement between her and the Prescott family the second she lands."

...

Brooks kept talking, his voice a steady drone on the other end of the line, but a high-pitched ringing had taken over my ears.

I was doomed.

I pressed my palm against my forehead, sliding down the glass door until I hit the floor.

How on earth had I managed to create a disaster of this magnitude?

I had first heard about the impending marriage between the Kensington and Prescott families a few months ago.

My parents had casually dropped it over Sunday brunch. At the time, Caroline was already across the Atlantic. In my typical, self-absorbed fashion, I naturally assumed I was the sacrificial lamb being offered up to the corporate gods.

Initially, I was repulsed by the archaic idea of an arranged marriage.

But then, on a whim, I typed Nate Prescotts name into Google.

That changed everything.

The man staring back at me from the screen had the kind of devastating, razor-sharp jawline that ruined women. I was instantly hooked.

I remember laughing to myself. Well played, Mom and Dad. How did you know exactly what my type is?

My logic at the time was simple: if I was going to be shackled to this man for life, I needed to know if we had any chemistry behind closed doors. Because if he was all flash and no fire, I didnt care how many commas were in his bank accountI was out.

Once the idea took root, I didn't even bother going back to my dorm at NYU. I packed a couple of Rimowa suitcases and showed up directly at Nates corporate headquarters.

At first, he treated me like a rogue variable he couldn't calculate.

"Does your family know you're planning to move in with me?" he had asked.

I shook my head, then nodded vaguely.

Nate stared at me, his cool, slate-gray eyes betraying absolutely nothing.

"While your reasoning for a 'trial run' is logically sound, and theoretically, I shouldn't object..." He paused, adjusting his cuffs. "I am absolutely refusing."

I flared up instantly. How could a man be so infuriatingly rigid?

I was the youngest daughter of the Kensington family; no one had ever flat-out denied me anything. So, I did what any rational twenty-one-year-old would do: I threw an absolute tantrum. I cried, making sure to wipe my mascara-stained tears all over the lapels of his bespoke suit.

The sheer volume of my dramatics made Nate rub his temples in defeat.

He hit the intercom. His executive assistant rushed in.

Seeing me essentially clinging to his boss like a weeping barnacle, the assistant immediately glued his eyes to the floor.

"Mr. Prescott, you needed me?"

"Take her... take her to the Tribeca penthouse," Nate sighed, the fight completely drained out of him. "Have Martha prep the guest suite."

"Right away, sir."

With the orders given, Nate looked down at me, still sniffling against his chest. His brow furrowed.

"Are you going to get up?"

"Right."

I scrambled up, following the assistant toward the door. But before I left, I poked my head back into his office.

"By the way, what time do you get off work?"

Nates pen stalled over a contract. He looked at me, resigning himself to his fate. "Five."

"Perfect. I'll be waiting for you."

I blew the man a kiss and practically skipped out the door, completely oblivious to the quiet sigh he let out as he looked down at his ruined suit jacket.

Once we started living together, I quickly realized that Nate was unbearably stoic. He was a man of routines, silence, and control.

He was zero fun.

So, I made it my personal mission to push his buttons. Yet, no matter how outrageous I was, his icy exterior would inevitably melt, dissolving like sugar in hot tea. It was infuriating, honestly. Like punching a cloud.

The very first night, he didn't get home until almost midnight.

I was livid.

In the middle of the night, I marched into his master bedroom, climbed right onto the mattress, and straddled his waist to demand answers.

"You said five o'clock. You come back this late without a single text, and this is how you treat your fiance?"

The sudden weight of me, combined with the interrogation, completely derailed his breathing. His large hands gripped the silk sheets, his knuckles turning white. He looked less like a ruthless corporate titan and more like a Victorian maiden being scandalized by a pirate.

"It was an oversight on my part, I apologize," he managed to choke out, his voice rough with sleep. "But... could you please get off me?"

I refused, stubbornly planting myself and poking at his chest to emphasize my points. As my hand trailed down the hard ridges of his abs, I brushed against something distinctly... substantial.

Oh. Well then.

It was genuinely impressive.

I patted it approvingly, a smug sense of satisfaction washing over me as a dark, dangerous flush spread across Nates normally composed face.

Knock, knock, knock

The sound of the bedroom door rattling snapped me back to the present.

Nate tried the handle, finding it locked. After a beat of silence, his voice filtered through the wood, laced with an uncharacteristic edge of urgency.

"Heather? Are you locking me out?"

"Did I do something to upset you?"

I buried my face in my hands, a massive headache blooming behind my eyes.

Caroline was coming home. My time was running out. Before this entire situation detonated and took out both our families, I had to fix the colossal mess Id made.

I unlocked the door.

Nate was standing right there in the hallway. Seeing that I wasn't crying, his rigid posture relaxed a fraction.

"Are you in a bad mood?" he asked softly. "I made that cinnamon apple oatmeal you like. Do you want to try and eat a little?"

I shook my head. "I'm not hungry."

"Then what are you craving? Tell me, I'll make it right now." Nate reached out, his long fingers gently smoothing down my messy hair, his tone entirely too patient.

The truth was, Martha, the housekeeper, was an exquisite chef. But I had been a terror in the beginning. I had insisted that Nate cook for me himself, claiming thats what couples in love did.

His early attempts had been culinary tragedies. He had slowly, painstakingly gotten better.

"I don't want anything. Don't worry about it."

Hearing this, Nates hand stilled. He looked down at me, his gray eyes performing a rapid, analytical sweep of my face.

"You are mad."

I blinked, opening my mouth to deny it, but Nate was already running through his mental checklist.

"Is this because you asked me to hand you your sunscreen this morning, and I accidentally gave you your foundation?"

"...No."

I twitched. He kept going.

"Is it because I was three minutes late replying to your text? Heather, I swear to you, I was in the middle of a board meeting."

"Nate, I said I'm not mad"

"I figured it out," he interrupted, his jaw tight, looking as if hed just solved a complex algorithm. "It's because yesterday you asked me why there are twelve months in a year, and I said I didn't know."

...

I stared at him, utterly speechless.

A wave of profound guilt washed over me. Looking back, I realized exactly how unhinged and demanding I had been over the past few months.

God, I was a monster.

By the time I snapped out of my spiral, Nate had already swept me off my feet.

"What are you doing?" I gasped, clutching his shoulders, frantically trying to wiggle out of his grasp.

Nate simply tightened his hold, carrying me down the hall and into the living room. He sat down on the expansive Restoration Hardware sofa, keeping me firmly perched on his lap. Beneath me, the solid, muscular planes of his thighs felt like a trap.

I went pale, avoiding his gaze because the guilt was practically eating me alive.

Then, two fingers caught my chin, forcing me to look at him.

"Heather," he said, his voice deadly serious. "Didn't you tell me last week that whenever you're mad, the only cure is for me to carry you?"

I swallowed hard, my throat sandpaper-dry. "I... I made that up. I was just messing with you."

"You don't ever have to carry me again."

Nates gaze dropped to my lips. I watched his Adams apple bob slowly against his throat.

Finally, his eyes flicked back to mine, his voice dropping ten degrees.

"Noted."

That night, I didn't sneak into Nates bedroom like I usually did.

When I came out of the master bathroom, my face freshly scrubbed, I stopped dead in my tracks. Nate was walking into my bedroom, holding his pillow.

I froze.

Without breaking eye contact, he climbed onto my mattress, pulled back the duvet, and patted the empty space beside him.

My feet were nailed to the floor. Half my spine broke out in a cold sweat.

"What are you doing?"

He raised an eyebrow, looking at me like I was the one being unreasonable. "Sleeping. Together."

"Im actually feeling really exhausted tonight," I stammered, wrapping my silk robe tighter around myself. "I think I want to sleep alone. Is that okay?"

Nates breathing hitched. A microscopic crease formed between his brows.

"If I recall correctly, the last time I suggested sleeping in separate beds, you gave me the silent treatment for three days."

"Well... you know. Hormones. Sometimes a girl just wants her space," I offered weakly.

That excuse only deepened the crease between his eyes. He sat there, studying me in the dim light of the bedside lamp. The silence stretched until the air in the room felt thick and suffocating.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but incredibly sharp.

"Heather, there is something very wrong with you today."

"No there isn't." My heart hammered against my ribs, and I desperately lunged for a change of subject. "Nate, seriously... do you ever think Im just way too annoying?"

My question seemed to throw him off balance. He rubbed his jaw, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

"I wouldn't say that. I'm just... still adjusting..."

"Exactly! You're adjusting, meaning it's not natural!" I interrupted, slapping my thigh for emphasis.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking. I've been totally out of line, moving in here just because of the families. But looking at it objectively? We really aren't a good fit."

I talked fast, the words spilling out before I could lose my nerve. "I think I'm going to pack up and move back to my apartment near campus in a few days. What do you think?"

I slurred the "not a good fit" part, praying he would just let it slide and we could quietly go our separate ways.

The room went dead silent. The kind of silence that precedes a hurricane.

Nate stared at me, his eyes dark and entirely unreadable. When he spoke, he enunciated every single syllable.

"Did you just say we aren't a good fit?"

"I just mean, with graduation coming up, things are chaotic, and if I move back..."

"Heather. Do you think we aren't a good fit?" His voice was heavier now, a low, dangerous frequency that vibrated in my chest.

My heart skipped a beat. I decided to just rip the band-aid off.

"Yes."

We weren't a fit. We were never supposed to be a fit. What else was there to say?

But surprisingly, Nate didn't explode.

He looked at me for three agonizing seconds.

Then, he reached out, caught my wrist, pulled me down, and pressed his mouth firmly against mine.

What?!

I froze completely, my brain short-circuiting as his lips moved over mine.

When he pulled back, he looked utterly unfazed, though the tips of his ears were burning a dark, telltale red.

"There. Today's kiss is officially logged. Are you going to behave now?"

I clenched my hands into fists, my fingernails biting into my palms. I wanted to slap myself. This was the karma I deserved for conditioning this man like a Pavlovian dog. The boomerang had come back and hit me right between the eyes.

"Nate, I wasn't throwing a tantrum because I wanted a kiss," I said, taking a shaky breath, trying to inject some rationality into the room.

"Actually, to be clear, I'm not throwing a tantrum at all. I'm saying... can we stop the kissing? Permanently?"

Nates brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful.

"But you told me that people in a relationship have to kiss every single day to maintain intimacy." A beat passed. A dark realization dawned in his eyes. "Oh. I get it. Are you mad because I didn't use tongue?"

Before I could even process the absurdity of the sentence, he leaned in again.

I thought I was going to die of sheer mortification. I threw my hand over his mouth, effectively blocking him.

Seeing the sheer panic in my eyes and the light sheen of sweat on my forehead, Nate let out a low, breathless laugh against my palm.

"Look how tense you are. Its not like it's our first time." He pulled my hand away, his expression softening into something devastatingly tender. "Come on. Get in bed."

There was absolutely no way I was getting in that bed with him.

It took me ten minutes of pleading and physical maneuvering to finally push him out of my room. By the time he stood in the hallway, his face was like thunder.

"So, that's it then? You're just completely inconsolable today?"

I didn't dare answer, but I held the door firmly, my stance resolute.

Before he turned away, Nate let out a short, bitter laugh.

"Fine. We don't ever have to sleep in the same bed again."

"Not that I care anyway."

With graduation looming, I genuinely did have a lot on my plate. It provided the perfect cover.

I avoided the penthouse for several days. Then, the phone call came.

Nates voice was crisp, cold, and utterly terrifying.

"Did you actually move back to your apartment?"

"Why wasn't I informed?"

"When are you coming back?"

The rapid-fire interrogation left me slightly breathless.

"I probably won't be coming back for a while," I said, glancing down at my watch, desperate for a lifeline. "I'm drowning in my thesis. I barely have time to grab a coffee, let alone commute."

At that, the icy tension over the line seemed to thaw just a fraction.

Nates voice dropped, slipping into a lazy, persuasive cadence.

"That works out perfectly. I made a reservation at that omakase place you love. I also bought you those fuzzy bear slippers you pointed out. Didn't you say your heels were killing you?"

He paused, letting the bait dangle. "Well get dinner, and then maybe catch a movie?"

The sheer temptation in his voice made me hesitate. God, I was weak.

Sensing my internal struggle, Nate ruthlessly upped the ante.

"If you don't want to go out, we can stay in. I learned how to make those molten lava cakes youre obsessed with. For dessert."

Lava cake?!

I practically swallowed my own tongue. Stars danced in my eyes.

But with Herculean effort, I forced myself to refuse.

Nate clicked his tongue, drawing out his words. "I almost forgot. I had a few new dresses and some jewelry sent over. You're really not going to come try them on?"

"N-no. I'm not," I croaked, the words tasting like ash. "Maybe another time."

I had read once that a truly powerful woman could conquer her own desires. If I couldn't resist designer clothes and chocolate, how was I ever going to untangle this mess? Besides, if I caved now, all this agonizing distance would be for nothing. I just needed to find the right moment to sit him down and tell him the truth.

I was desperate to hang up before I cracked.

But just as I pulled the phone away, Nate called my name.

My heart stalled.

"The penthouse is completely empty without you here," he said, his voice stripped of all its armor, raw and quiet.

"Come home."

A warm spring breeze whipped across the campus quad, catching my hair. I pressed my free hand tightly against my chest, desperately trying to keep my heart from beating right out of my ribcage.

In the end, I stayed away.

So, when Nate Prescotts sleek black Range Rover materialized on campus a few days later, I wasn't entirely surprised.

The timing, however, was violently unfortunate.

I was currently standing under an oak tree, being cornered by Cameron, a junior from my department, who was stammering through a very earnest, very public confession of love.

He was telling me how hed had a crush on me since his freshman year, and with me graduating, he didn't want to live with the regret of never saying anything.

I was literally opening my mouth to let him down gently when my phone started vibrating.

Nate.

His voice came through the speaker, cold, sharp, and laced with absolute venom. He didn't even bother with a greeting.

"Who is the guy standing next to you?"

I froze.

My head snapped around, scanning the perimeter. Sure enough, parked illegally by the gates, was the Range Rover.

Nate was in the driver's seat. The glare of the windshield obscured his expression, but I didn't need to see his face to know he was furious.

Panic and a desperate need to sever our ties collided in my brain, producing a spectacular lie.

"He's my boyfriend. Why?"

The breathing on the other end of the line fractured.

A heavy, suffocating silence stretched out for what felt like hours. Then, Nate let out a hollow, mocking laugh.

He said a single word "Oh" and the line went dead.

I stared at the black screen of my phone. Knowing Nate's pride, I thought, he'll put the car in drive and never look back.

Unlike my sudden internal devastation, Cameron was buzzing with renewed energy. He rubbed the back of his neck, a massive grin spreading across his face.

"Heather, did you just tell that guy I was your"

"Forget what I just said. There was a reason I did that," I said, cutting him off, a sudden wave of exhaustion washing over me. "Don't read into it. I just needed him to hear that."

Cameron blinked, his smile faltering.

But he was young and resilient. A second later, his shoulders squared.

"That's okay. I know a lot of guys are into you. I can wait. I'll just keep liking you until you finally notice me."

I stared at him, wanting to tell him not to waste his time. But before I could get the words out, he plowed ahead.

"It's almost noon. Let me buy you lunch?" He enthusiastically pointed out a new caf that had opened down the street.

Looking at his eager, hopeful eyes, I couldn't find the heart to shoot him down completely. I was just about to ask if he had friends we could drag along as buffers, when my phone went off again.

It wasn't a call. It was a rapid-fire barrage of texts.

[Making out with me every day while you have a boyfriend. You are truly something else.]

[So what you told me the other night was true.]

[You got bored. You suddenly decided we 'aren't a good fit.']

[Fine. Great. Keep being a spoiled brat.]

[I'm sitting here dealing with the fallout of this alone, but it's fine. I'm not hurt. I'm not tired at all.]

[What do you want me to do, send you guys an Edible Arrangement to celebrate?]

[I clearly can't control you. Do whatever you want.]

[By the way, his Jordans are fake.]

[Your taste in men is absolute garbage.]

I stared at the screen, my jaw physically dropping.

Was this the same Nate Prescott? The ruthless, untouchable CEO?

Before, I was the only one who sent unhinged walls of text.