The way Ben laughed when I made that impossible shot around the lighthouse. The way he remembered details about our high school hangout sessions, things I didn’t even realize he’d been paying attention to at the time. The way he looked genuinely relaxed for the first time since this whole charade began.
For two hours, I let myself forget that this is all temporary. I let myself imagine that we were just Ben and Freya, two people who care about each other, enjoying a simple evening togetherwithout contracts or expiration dates or business deals hanging over our heads.
That was my mistake.
Ben doesn’t do love. He does deals and strategies and calculated risks. His company has always come first. It’s what drove him through high school, through college, through building SkyNova from nothing into a billion-dollar enterprise. The only reason he’s spending so much time with me right now is because I’m useful to him professionally.
I need to remember that. I need to stop reading meaning into shared ice cream and comfortable silences and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. Because in ten months, when our contract expires, I’ll go back to being just Freya, and he’ll go back to being Benjamin Lawlor, CEO, and this brief period of pretending will become just a strange chapter in both our lives.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, making me jump. A text from Ben: “Can you meet me for breakfast? At Grounds Up in 30 minutes? Something important to discuss.”
I groan and pull a pillow over my face. It’s not even eight AM on a Sunday, and he wants to meet to discuss something important. Probably wedding logistics or PR strategies or some new development in our carefully orchestrated romance.
“Give me forty-five minutes,” I text back, already dragging myself out of bed.
I throw on jeans and a T-shirt, brush my teeth, and run a comb through my hair without looking too closely at my reflection. The last thing I need is to see the evidence of my sleepless night written across my face.
The walk to Grounds Up takes fifteen minutes, giving me time to steel myself for whatever Ben needs to discuss. More public appearances, probably. Or maybe Carson has come up with some new angle for the wedding coverage that requires my input.
I spot Ben immediately when I walk into the coffee shop. He’s sitting at a corner table, already nursing what looks like his second cup of coffee based on the empty cup beside his elbow. He’s wearing casual clothes—also jeans and a T-shirt—but there’s tension in his shoulders that suggests this isn’t a social visit.
“Morning,” I say, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Thanks for coming. I know it’s early.”
“What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait until a reasonable hour?”
Ben signals the barista for another coffee, then turns back to me with an expression I can’t quite read. “My parents are coming to town.”
I blink. “Okay. When?”
“Next weekend.” He grimaces, as if what he’s going to say next physically hurts. “They want to meet you.”
“Ah.” I accept my coffee from the barista with a grateful smile. “And this is a problem because…”
“Because they don’t know about our arrangement. They think this is real.”
Of course they do. To the rest of the world, Ben and I are blissfully engaged childhood sweethearts. It would be strange if his parents didn’t want to meet their future daughter-in-law.
“So we fake it for them too,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “How hard can it be? We’ve gotten pretty good at the performance. And it’s not like my family thinks it’s fake. As far as they know, it’s real.”
“Freya, these are my parents. They’ve known me my entire life. If anyone’s going to see through this…”
He trails off, but I can fill in the blanks. His parents will be looking for cracks in our story, inconsistencies in our behavior. They’ll be watching us with the kind of scrutiny that only family can provide.
“What’s the alternative?” I ask. “Tell them the truth?”
He considers this for a moment, staring into his coffee like it might contain answers. “Part of me wants to. They’re not exactly sentimental about marriage anyway. They might understand the business angle.”
“But?”
“But if they know, that’s two more people who could accidentally let something slip. And if this gets out…” He shakes his head. “The risk is too high.”
I study his face, noting the tightness around his eyes, the way he keeps glancing at his phone. There’s something else bothering him, something he hasn’t told me yet.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“What do you mean?”
