“Act Like You Love Me, Please ”—The Poor Girl Begged the CEO Millionaire in Front of Her Ex…
The Fake Engagement at the Wilshire Grand
“Act like you love me, please.”
The poor girl begged the CEO millionaire in front of her ex.
The rain had stopped just minutes ago, leaving the streets of downtown glistening under the soft golden lights of early evening.
Inside the tiny cafe tucked between two towering office buildings, Ella Monroe wiped the last table of her shift.
Her apron was stained with coffee, and her once pristine ballet posture had faded into the quiet slouch of someone accustomed to long days and short dreams.
At 26, Ella looked nothing like the girl who once danced across glowing stages.
Her golden hair, loosely tied, framed a delicate face still beautiful but weary.
Her sapphire blue eyes, once lit with ambition, now carried something softer—something cracked.
“Ella,” a coworker called, handing her a small cream-colored envelope.
“Someone left this for you.”
She wiped her hands before opening it, her pulse quickening.
Inside was a wedding invitation.
Charles Dorne and Vivian Lancaster cordially invite you to celebrate their wedding at the Wilshire Grand Hotel this Saturday at 6:00 p.m.
Her fingers trembled.
She read it again.
Charles was the man she had once believed would be her forever.
He was the man who kissed her blistered feet after rehearsals and told her she danced like she was made of light.
He was the man who walked out of her hospital room and out of her life when the doctor said her ankle might never heal enough to dance again.
He left when her spotlight faded, leaving her with no career, no applause, just a ballet slipper and a broken future.
Now he was marrying Vivian, a wealthy hotel heiress.
It almost made sense; of course he would.
Ella dropped the invitation onto the counter like it had scorched her skin.
That night, she lay on the couch staring blankly at the ceiling while rain tapped against the window.
Marcy, her best friend and roommate, looked over from the kitchen.
“You should go.”
Ella blinked.
“Go to his wedding?”
“To show him you’re not the same girl he left behind.”
Ella laughed bitterly.
“I am the same girl, just with cheaper shoes.”
Marcy came closer.
“No, you’ve rebuilt yourself. You’re stronger now.”
“You’ve survived what he couldn’t even face, and you’re not going alone.”
Ella raised a brow.
“Right, I’ll just grab Ryan Gosling from the hallway.”
Marcy smirked.
“You never know; the universe owes you something.”
The Wilshire Grand Hotel gleamed with opulence.
Crystal chandeliers lit the lobby, and polished marble stretched beneath Ella’s unsteady heels.
Her soft blue dress clung modestly to her figure, and her golden hair flowed over her shoulders with a small wave framing her face.
A touch of pink gloss gave her lips a fragile glow.
She had come alone, but she had come.
“Maybe I’ll pretend to be lost, have one drink, then vanish,” she whispered to herself.
Turning to leave, she collided with someone tall, steady, and impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit.
“I’m so sorry,” she started, stepping back.
Her words caught in her throat.
Standing before her was Damian Hawthorne.
He was the Damian Hawthorne: CEO of Hawthorne Ventures, billionaire, brilliant, and known for being cold, calculating, and completely untouchable.
She had seen him before once or twice when delivering coffee in the skyscraper where his company rented the top floors.
They had never spoken beyond a courteous nod, yet she had remembered him.
How could she not?
Today he looked exactly the same: tall, striking, and his gaze as sharp as cut glass.
“You work at De Mo Cafe,” he said, recognizing her.
His voice was smooth and calm.
Ella flushed.
“I do. I mean, yes, I still do.”
“I’m just—”
She gestured vaguely at the ballroom behind them.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have bumped into you.”
He gave a polite nod, already moving to pass.
But something cracked inside her: the sting of Charles’s betrayal, the weight of being discarded, and the shame of standing there alone.
She turned abruptly.
“Wait!”
Damian stopped.
She didn’t have a plan, only a plea that was raw and real.
Her voice broke.
“Act like you love me, please.”
There was silence, long and loud.
Damian studied her: her trembling hands, her tear-rimmed eyes, and the desperation that made her words fall like a whisper.
And then, quietly, he nodded.
His voice was firm and steady.
“Come with me.”
He extended his arm.
Ella stared at it, stunned, then looked up at him.
This stranger, this giant of a man, was offering something he didn’t owe her.
There was no pity in his expression and no arrogance, only something steady that she didn’t yet understand.
She placed her hand on his arm and walked with him into the lion’s den.
The ballroom shimmered with crystal chandeliers and soft music, while the scent of roses and champagne swirled through the air.
Damian walked beside Ella with a posture that was calm and composed, as if he belonged here—which, of course, he did.
Ella, however, felt every step like a stone in her stomach.
She hadn’t imagined the wedding would be this grand: gold-trimmed everything, a string quartet in the corner, and waiters in white gloves offering hors d’oeuvres she couldn’t pronounce.
It was the kind of world she had once brushed against before the accident and before Charles left her in a hospital bed with silence and a crumpled goodbye.
Now she stood here again with Damian Hawthorne at her side.
As they entered, conversations dimmed and eyes turned as mouths whispered.
“Ella Monroe with Damian Hawthorne? Isn’t she the one who—”
The buzz of speculation built like static.
Ella’s heart pounded, but she kept her chin up, her fingers tightening on Damian’s arm.
He leaned down.
“Ignore them.”
She swallowed.
“Easier said than done.”
A familiar voice cut through the music.
“Well, if it isn’t the tragic ballerina.”
Ella turned.
Charles Dorne stood there.
He looked just as she remembered: a charming smile, styled brown hair, an expensive tuxedo, and eyes that always knew how to cut.
Beside him stood his new bride, Vivian Lancaster, in a couture gown that screamed money and privilege.
Vivian looked Ella up and down, her expression curling into something between amusement and pity.
“You’re brave,” Vivian said sweetly.
“Coming here alone.”
“She’s not alone,” Damian said coolly.
Charles’s gaze shifted to him.
For a second there was confusion, then realization, then annoyance.
“Damian Hawthorne,” Charles said, extending a hand.
Damian didn’t take it.
“Charles.”
Ella could feel the tension building like heat on her skin.
Vivian leaned in.
“We were just saying how nostalgic this all feels, like a ghost from the past walking in.”
Charles chuckled.
“The ghost of pas de deux.”
The room grew quieter; people were watching.
Ella tried to speak, but the lump in her throat rose faster than her courage.
She turned slightly, but Damian didn’t let her.
Instead, he stepped forward without warning and without hesitation.
He slid his arm around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her.
Gasps rippled through the room.
His lips were warm and steady, not rushed and not for show.
His hand held the small of her back like she might disappear.
Ella’s eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away.
When he finally broke the kiss, the silence was deafening.
All eyes were on them.
Damian looked at Charles and then Vivian, his voice calm but razor-sharp.
“Do not speak to my fiancée that way.”
A murmur ran through the crowd.
“Fiancée?”
Charles’s expression froze.
Vivian blinked.
“Fiancée?” Charles echoed.
Damian didn’t flinch.
“That’s right. Ella and I are engaged.”
