Chapter 16 Engaged… For Real?
SIXTEEN
Engaged… For Real?
April
The song ended, applause crashed over her. A room full of people proving they knew how to recognize art and how to be seen recognizing it, phones still up, voices rising into that gossip-converting-to-social-currency.
Killian reached her though the crowd.
“There you are.” He wrapped an arm around her waist.
April tried to keep her shoulders level and her spine straight. Like someone who hadn’t been turned into a lyric and lit on fire.
Then Killian shifted and cleared his throat. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. Killian Blackwood clearing his throat carried the weight of a gavel hitting marble.
Champagne glasses lifted. Crystal tapped against crystal in that particular rhythm that meant someone important is about to speak and you will listen. April watched it all and went very still.
His other hand found hers. The one with the ring. The heirloom that had appeared like a plot twist somewhere between this is a prank and wait, is this real.
He lifted it. The ring caught the light, fracturing into a thousand sharp sparks. I have an announcement," Killian said, his boardroom voice; the one that made competitors reconsider their strategies.
"April Feuller," he continued, turning slightly so the room could see her face, see the ring, see the very deliberate way he was holding her, "is my fiancée."
The room gasped. Then it erupted.
Applause. Louder this time. Mixed with shocked laughter and the immediate rustle of people leaning toward each other to confirm they'd heard correctly.
Her internal monologue screamed options:
Fainting
Combustion.
Exile.
Her mouth managed to smile, but her eyes stayed wide, teetering on the edge of hysterical laughter or a full systems breach. Possibly both.
Inside her head, a very calm voice said: You can’t just announce something and make it real. You don’t get to declare someone your fiancée like you’re announcing the weather.
That’s what Chad did.
That’s how cults start. Or timeshares. Or—apparently—engagements.
She was standing there in emerald silk, trying not to become a TikTok sound, while her ex filmed his own roasting from the middle of the crowd.
And somehow, she was engaged now.
For real. Apparently. Allegedly.
The whole day was a prank. She knew that. She had agreed to that. But somewhere between the emerald silk and the heirloom necklace the prank was on her and public.
Someone in the crowd, a woman in diamonds that could fund a small country, leaned toward her companion and said, loud enough to carry, "Wait, isn't she Jiro's muse?"
Another voice, closer, delighted: "I saw her. Going into the library. With Caleb Hart."
April’s smile held—barely.
Her internal monologue was now offering to set something on fire as a distraction, but her body, traitor that it was, stood there, performing "surprised fiancée" for a room full of people who were already mentally drafting the group chat messages.
Killian’s hand tightened on hers. She looked up at him. He was already looking at her.
And he saw it. The freeze. The smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The way her body had gone still. The betrayal flash. The absence of the squeeze back, the lean in, the soft reflex that would have said yes, I’m with you.
And the part of her that hated being right thought: Too late.
His smile stayed up for the room, but his attention didn’t. His gaze flicked to her mouth. Then he leaned in, slowly, like a man offering a kiss that would seal a performance or smooth a crack before it could widen.
April turned her cheek. Not dramatically. Not enough for the room to notice. Just enough for his lips to land an inch off-target. A brush against skin instead of promise.
A miss that passed for choreography.
Killian paused. Then straightened. Smiled for the crowd. Masked the stumble like a pro.
He pulled her onto the dance floor before she could finish processing the fact that her life had been publicly reclassified without her filling out the appropriate forms.
The quartet shifted into a waltz. His hand found her waist. His other hand gripped hers. Escape wasn't currently on the menu. They started moving.
April's body remembered his office. This morning. The way she'd melted into him like physics instead of a choice, like her bones had decided Killian Blackwood was magnetic north and her spine was just along for the ride.
But that was before. Before the announcement.
Before the room. Before she’d become a headline she hadn’t agreed to and somehow Jiro’s muse and the girl in the library with Caleb Hart, which—honestly—the timeline on this day was getting aggressive, and April's nervous system was pretty sure it hadn't signed up for a marathon.
Now she was tense, realized that she’d waltzed into a trap that looked like a ballroom and felt like a contract you hadn't read.
Killian noticed.
Of course he noticed. He'd spent the morning learning exactly what April felt like when she wasn't holding her spine like a protest sign.
He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the shape of the words against her ear.
"I meant every word."
Her eyes weren't smiling. April could control her mouth, her posture, the way she moved through the steps like she'd been taught by someone who understood waltzes were just arguments with rhythm.
But her eyes weren't cooperating.
They were doing math.
He played you this morning. This whole day has been absurd. What if you’re the laughingstock when this engagement isn’t real? What if it is, and you’re the only one who can’t tell the difference between a prank and a proposal?
The waltz continued.
Killian was waiting for something: a word, a sign, a flicker of forgiveness she didn't know how to manufacture on command.
April didn't have words.
Just the feeling of being seen by too many people in too many wrong ways.
April turned, saw movement.
Someone cutting through the floor with the confidence of a man who'd spent fifteen years being contractually obligated to get the girl in the third act.