I hang up before she can respond, then sit in my car feeling sick to my stomach. My mother’s reaction is exactly what I expected, but it still stings. Not because I care about her approval, but because it highlights everything that’s wrong with what Freya and I are doing.
We’re playing a game that my parents have been playing for forty years. A game where love is a commodity and relationships are strategic assets. And we’re doing it so well that even I’m starting to forget it’s not real.
When I was seventeen, what I felt for Freya was the purest thing in my life. It was complicated and terrifying and completely outside my control, but it was real. It made me want to be better, to be worthy of someone like her.
Now I’m almost in my mid-thirties and I’m using those same feelings—whatever’s left of them—to manipulate a business deal. I’m turning the best parts of who I used to be into a performance for public consumption.
My parents would be proud.
The thought makes me want to drive my car straight into the lake.
Instead, I pull out of Freya’s parking lot and head home to my huge, empty penthouse, where I can pretend that none of this matters and that I’m exactly the cold, calculating businessman everyone thinks I am.
Because the alternative, admitting that I still have feelings for my best friend and that this fake engagement is killing me, is too dangerous to consider.
CHAPTER 10
FREYA
“The ceremony would take place in the rose garden,” Michelle explains, gesturing toward the manicured grounds that stretch out before us. “And then guests would move to the terrace for cocktails before dinner in the grand ballroom.”
I nod along as the wedding coordinator continues her tour of Ashfield Estate, a sprawling property forty minutes outside Chicago that looks like something out of a fairy tale. Rolling hills covered in ancient oak trees, gardens that probably require a team of twelve to maintain, and a mansion that’s been hosting weddings for wealthy families since the 1920s.
It’s absolutely gorgeous. It’s also absolutely perfect for the kind of elegant, high-society wedding that would photograph beautifully and convince everyone that Ben Lawlor is marrying for love, not strategy.
“The bridal suite is on the second floor,” Michelle continues, leading us up a grand staircase with a banister that feels too fancy to touch. “It has a private balcony overlooking the gardens, perfect for getting-ready photos.”
Ben walks beside me, asking practical questions about capacity, catering options, and backup plans for bad weather. He’s in full business mode, treating this like any other venue negotiation. Which, I suppose, it is.
But I can’t help getting caught up in the romance of it all. The way the afternoon light filters through the tall windows, casting golden rectangles across the polished floors. The way Michelle talks about ceremonies with such genuine enthusiasm, like every wedding here is a real love story worth celebrating. The way I can picture myself walking down that garden aisle in a white dress, even though I know it would all be pretend.
When I was younger, I used to roll my eyes at friends who spent hours planning their dream weddings. I was too focused on making art and geeking out over indie films, too independent to waste time fantasizing about white dresses and first dances. Marriage seemed like something that happened to other people. People who were more traditional, more willing to compromise their freedom for the sake of a relationship.
But standing here, looking out at gardens where dozens of couples have promised to love each other forever, I feel a pang of something that might be longing.
At this part of life, most of my friends are married or engaged or at least in serious relationships heading in that direction. Bella has her beautiful chaos with Mark and the kids. Even my college roommate, Sarah, who swore she’d never settle down, got engaged last month to a guy she met at a coffee shop.
And here I am, touring wedding venues for a marriage that isn’t real to a man who doesn’t love me.
“What do you think?” Ben asks as we finish the tour, Michelle having stepped away to give us a moment to discuss.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and I mean it. “Really beautiful.”
“But?”
I look at him, surprised that he picked up on my hesitation. “No buts. It’s perfect. Michelle clearly knows what she’s doing, the grounds are gorgeous, and it has that old-money elegance that will photograph well for your image.”
“Freya.” He turns to face me fully, his expression concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re doing that thing where you agree with everything I say but you’re not actually happy about it.”
He knows me too well. I can’t tell him that walking through this venue made me realize how much I want a real wedding someday. I can’t tell him that seeing the bridal suite made me imagine what it would feel like to get ready for my actual wedding, surrounded by my sister and my friends, nervous and excited about marrying someone who chose me.
I can’t tell him that for about ten minutes during Michelle’s tour, I forgot this was all fake and let myself imagine what it would be like if Ben actually loved me.
“I guess I’m just feeling the weight of how big this is getting,” I say instead, which is true enough. “A few weeks ago, this was one dinner. Now we’re booking venues and signing contracts and planning what’s essentially a performance for three hundred people.”
