Page 1 of Pretend To Be Mine

1

ADRIAN

Istood at the head of the boardroom table, fingers pressed against the polished mahogany surface hard enough that my knuckles went white. Twelve executives stared back at me, their expressions ranging from concerned to downright terrified.

Good. They should be scared.

“Let me make sure I understand the situation correctly,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Fashion of Love Week launches in less than two weeks, and instead of generating excitement, we’re trending on social media for all the wrong reasons.”

I grabbed the remote and clicked through the slideshow Carol from PR had prepared. Each headline was worse than the last. The glaring accusations were beyond insulting.

And certainly embarrassing.

Blackwell Boys Over Their Heads?

End of the Line or All Hail the New Kings?

The Blackwell Princes of Fashion: Stepping Up or Stepping Out?

My jaw clenched as I read each one aloud. “This is what the world thinks of us. This is how they see the legacy my father spent thirty years building.”

The mention of Buck Blackwell cast an immediate pall over the room. I watched grown men and women drop their gazes to the table, suddenly fascinated by their notepads and laptops. The grief was still raw for all of us, a wound that refused to heal. It had been exactly one year since I’d found him slumped over his desk in his office, Fashion of Love Week notes scattered around him like fallen leaves. His heart had finally given out after decades of relentless work.

“My father loved this company,” I continued, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the tightness in my chest. I couldn’t afford to look weak right now. All these people were just looking for a reason to find me incompetent.

Those stupid headlines weren’t helping.

“He poured his soul into every design, every show, every decision,” I continued. “Fashion of Love Week was his final vision. It was his love letter to the industry that made him who he was. And we will honor that vision on the anniversary of his death. We will show the world that Blackwell Couture is not just surviving—we’re evolving. And we’re stronger than ever.”

I paused, letting my gaze sweep across the room. My three brothers sat to my right, their postures more relaxed than everyone else’s. Sebastian leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Briggs sat perfectly still, his lawyer’s mind probably already working through solutions. Dash scrolled through his phone, but I knew he was listening to every word.

As the eldest, I’d naturally fallen into the leadership role after Dad died, but we all had equal stakes in this company. Equal responsibility. Equal pressure.

“Fashion of Love Week is our moment,” I said, beginning to pace along the length of the boardroom. “Five shows across four cities—New York, London, Paris, Milan, and back to New York for the finale. Each of us will host one, showcasing not just our father’s legacy but our own vision for the future. This is our chance to prove we’re not just trust-fund babies playing dress-up. We’re the next generation of Blackwell Couture. We know fashion. We know what people want. And we will deliver.”

I stopped pacing and turned to face them head on. “Someone explain to me why the press seems more interested in betting on our failure than celebrating our success.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Did they think I was going to lose my shit and attack? Yeah, I could be a little hotheaded, but that was to be expected, right?

Carol shifted in her seat. I locked eyes with her. She was good at her job, too good to be this visibly nervous. That alone told me whatever she was about to say was going to piss me off. Carol was the kind of lady that called balls and strikes without hesitating. So why the restraint?

“Well?” I prompted. “You called this meeting, Carol. You must have something to tell me.”

She stood slowly, smoothing down her blazer with trembling hands. “We’ve analyzed the negative press extensively, and we’ve identified the core issue.”

“Which is?”

“The public’s perception of the four of you.” She clicked to the next slide, which showed a collage of paparazzi photos that weren’t exactly flattering. There were a series of pictures of my brothers and me at various clubs, parties, and events over the years. Sebastian with a model on each arm. Dash stumbling out of a nightclub at three in the morning. Briggs in a heated argument with a photographer. And me, a while ago, back when I was younger and more carefree. I was grinning at some charity gala with a woman whose name I couldn’t even remember now. My dark hair had been longer back then. My eyes had been brighter. Now the brown looked dull against the bloodshot whites of my eyes.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Those photos are old. Some of them are from five years ago.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Carol said without wavering. “The public still sees you as the same playboys you were back then. They see four wealthy bachelors who’ve never committed to anything serious⁠—”

“Except running a billion-dollar company,” Sebastian interjected, that smirk still in place.

Carol pressed on, undeterred. “And they’re questioning how you can put on an event celebrating love and romance when none of you have ever been in a serious relationship yourselves. The narrative is that you’re hypocrites—or worse, that you’re too shallow to understand the very theme you’re trying to sell.”

I scowled before looking at the projection screen again. That Adrian had been carefree, always chasing the next thrill. Always on the hunt for the next conquest. He’d lived in the moment without a care for consequences.