He Made Crime Look Like a Love Story

Wren's POV

I got off work two hours early, hoping to surprise my boyfriend whom I had just bailed out for $30,000.

I pushed the bedroom door open. The surprise was on me—my stepsister Chloe was straddling Dorian. The same man who, just three days ago, sat crying on the police station floor swearing "I only have you," now slowly lit a cigarette and asked if I wanted to join them.

I thought that was the worst moment of my life.

I was wrong.

When the hand that had just been caressing Chloe gripped my throat and hoisted me into the air, I finally saw the truth. Dorian Vane, the guy who humiliated me at our high school prom ten years ago, hadn't changed at all.

"You? Living with Dorian Vane? Ten years ago he humiliated you like a wet rat in front of the whole school! Are you insane, Wren?"

My stepsister Chloe leaned against the kitchen island, her eyes full of undisguised mockery and shock.

"Get out. This is my house," I glared at her coldly.

"Christ, you really think you're a princess, don't you?" Chloe rolled her eyes.

The door opened, and Dorian walked in. Standing at 6'5", with dark curls and his signature killer dimples, he effortlessly defused the tension in the room. Carrying grocery bags, he leaned down and kissed my forehead.

"Everything alright, babe?" His deep, magnetic voice filled the room. He turned to Chloe with a flawless smile. "Chloe, want to stay for dinner?"

Her hostility dissolved instantly under his charm. She awkwardly grabbed her car keys. "No, I've got places to be."

As the door clicked shut, I collapsed into Dorian's arms. He scooped me up, stroking my hair gently. "Ignore her, Wren. I'm going to give you the perfect life, I promise."

I closed my eyes, sinking into this long-overdue, ten-year-late romance. That peace lasted until Wednesday afternoon, when everything was violently torn apart.

"Dorian! Where's the camera my mom left me?" Sweating and frantic, I tore the master bedroom closet apart looking for a prop I needed for a shoot.

Dorian was lounging on the couch, watching sports with a Budweiser in hand.

"Oh, that camera," he said, not even looking up. "I pawned it."

I froze. The blood drained from my face. "You did what?!"

"Babe, you barely use it." He shrugged, sounding as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "I was a little tight on cash, so I got rid of it."

"That belonged to my dead mother! How dare you sell my things without asking?!" I stormed over, my voice shaking with rage.

Dorian stood up abruptly.

His smile vanished. His eyes turned so cold he looked like a complete stranger. I instinctively took a step back.

But a second later, his shoulders slumped dramatically.

"You think I wanted to do that?!" He grabbed his hair in agony, his eyes welling with tears, his voice cracking. "Wren, I hate feeling like a useless freeloader! I want to help with rent. I want to buy you the jewelry you like! I'm a man, but I can't even land a decent job... I'm such a piece of shit!"

Seeing his huge frame shrink onto the edge of the couch, tears rolling down his cheeks, the accusations died in my throat.

This was Dorian. The guy every girl in town went crazy for, now looking utterly pathetic, all for me.

"God... I'm sorry, Dorian. I didn't mean to yell at you." Guilt slowly drowned me as I stepped forward and hugged him tight. "It's just a camera... I'll figure something out for the shoot. Please don't cry."

"I'll get it back, I swear," he mumbled into my neck.

I didn't bring up the camera again. But soon, I noticed weird things happening in our garage.

By Thursday night, it was piled high with brand-new golf clubs, designer bags, high-end laptops, and even riding lawnmowers.

"Dorian, what is all this?" My heart raced as I pointed at the stash.

"Just flipping some stuff for the guys to make a margin," he said smoothly, pinning me against the garage wall and sniffing my hair. "Don't worry, babe. I just used your ID to register on the second-hand sites. My credit score is trash, you know that. I'm just trying to save up... to buy you a real engagement ring."

That deadly word—"ring"—sliced through my final boundaries like a sugar-coated knife. In that moment, I swallowed every single doubt.