"You were perfect," I tell her, and watch as fresh tears spring to her eyes. “The perfect bride.”
They leave in a flurry of final hugs and promises to stay in touch that we both know won't be kept. Rich people have a way of compartmentalizing their service providers. I'm part of their wedding story, not their marriage story.
As their Maybach disappears, I finally allow myself to check my phone. Seventeen missed calls, forty-three text messages, and eighty-seven emails. The price of perfection is constant vigilance, and even during events, crises need managing.
But the message that catches my attention isn't work-related. It's from Emma, my sister, and it's marked urgent with multiple exclamation points. Sent to my work phone; the number she only knows to use for real emergencies.
Liv, I REALLY need to know if you're bringing Sailor as a plus one to the wedding. The caterer needs final numbers by Monday and I'm literally losing sleep over this. Just tell me yes or no so I can stop obsessing. Love you but seriously PLEASE RESPOND.
I almost laugh out loud. After orchestrating a multi-million dollar event, after managing a guest list that includes two senators, a former cabinet member, and enough Fortune 500 CEOs to start their own small government, my sister is stressed about adding one more chair to a farm wedding in Maryland.
But I understand. Emma's wedding isn't about making society pages or networking. It's about love and family and promises made in front of people who actually matter to them. The stakes are different but somehow higher.
It’s ironic, really. I can execute a flawless event for 350 guests without breaking a sweat, but I've been avoiding committing to bringing my fake girlfriend to my sister's seventy-five-person celebration.
I type back quickly:Yes, of course she's coming. I'm so sorry; I was running an event. Stop stressing. Love you.
The lie perpetuates itself with each passing day. At some point in the coming two weeks, I'm going to have to figure out how to materialize a fake girlfriend or admit to my sister that I invented her. I check the time as I head back inside to sign off and grab my purse. My staff can handle the breakdown and I really need to be home with a double scotch. Perhaps two.
4
BLAIR
The clock glows 6:00 AM in the darkness of my bedroom, and I'm already awake. Nothing new there. I've been lying here for the past twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city slowly come to life outside my window. Delivery trucks rumble past on the street below, their hydraulic brakes hissing as they make stops. A garbage truck beeps incessantly as it backs up. The sounds of a world that has places to be and things to do.
I should roll over and go back to sleep because I have absolutely nowhere I need to be. No meetings, no calls, no crises demanding my attention. The freedom I thought I wanted feels more like a prison now, and the bars are made of endless, empty hours.
My body is hardwired to wake up at this ungodly hour. Fifteen years of hard work will do that to you. Back when I was co-running a cybersecurity firm, 6 AM was actually sleeping in. Most days started at 5 AM with calls to our European offices, then straight into reviewing overnight threat assessments before the rest of the team arrived. Even weekends followed the same pattern—the business never truly slept, and neither did I.
Now I lie here willing my brain to shut off, to let me sleep until eight or nine like a normal person with no obligations. But my internal clock is merciless. Every morning, same time, wide awake whether I want to be or not. It's become a daily reminder of everything I've left behind, this biological alarm system that no longer serves any purpose.
Six months ago, my friend Dougie and I sold our company for an amount that still feels surreal when I think about it. We built it from nothing—just two friends from college writing code in a cramped apartment, surviving on pizza and the belief that we could make money if only we tried hard enough. Dougie handled the business development while I focused on infrastructure. I was the one who lived and breathed the actual security protocols, the one who could see attack patterns that others missed.
Our company grew and thrived but Dougie fell in love and eventually wanted out to slow down and spend more time with his girlfriend. I suppose I wanted to slow down too.
By the time we sold, we had six hundred employees across four countries. The buyer was a massive tech conglomerate that wanted our AI-driven threat detection algorithms. They'd been trying to develop something similar internally for three years and failed. We'd cracked it in eighteen months, and they paid enough to ensure we'd never have to work again.
The problem is, I'm starting to realize Idowant to work.
Dougie bought a vineyard in Napa and sends me photos of his first grape harvests like he's discovered the meaning of life. His girlfriend is pregnant and they're getting married next year. He seems to know exactly what came next. Me? I've spent the past six months discovering that unlimited freedom is just another word for having no idea what to do with yourself.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad to the kitchen. The espresso machine—a ridiculously expensive Italiancontraption—hums to life with the press of a button. While it warms up, I check my phone, scrolling through the usual collection of overnight emails that don't require responses, news alerts about investments I sometimes monitor, and social media notifications I tend to ignore.
But there's something unexpected waiting for me. A text from a number I don't recognize, sent at 3:47 AM, from an American number. The timestamp alone makes me curious—not many people I know send messages at that hour.
The message makes me smile.
Hi this is Olivia from coffe shop. Were you seriou about the offer? Do you really need the mony? And are you free on the weekend of the 12th?
I read it twice, my grin widening with each pass. The typos are so unlike the polished, controlled woman I met the other day. This message, with its drunk-texting spelling errors, feels like seeing behind the curtain.
The espresso machine beeps, but I ignore it for a moment, staring at the message. She's reaching out. After our coffee shop encounter, after my ridiculous offer to be her fake girlfriend, she's actually considering it. Drunk-considering it, but still... The right thing would be to tell her the truth—that I don't need the money, that I was just entertained by her predicament and offered on a whim.
Instead, I find myself typing:Yes, I'm struggling to pay my rent this month, and I'd still love to be your 'Sailor'. Free that weekend.
The easy lie should probably concern me more than it does. But there's something appealing about the deception, about playing a role. With nothing to fill my days, the idea of being someone else, even temporarily, is irresistible.
I send the message and wait. No immediate response, which isn't surprising given the hour she sent her text. She's probablysleeping off whatever she drank to work up the courage to contact me. I pour my espresso and carry it to my living room that overlooks Central Park. Joggers are already out, tiny figures moving along the paths like ants following predetermined routes.
