“I…” She looks uncomfortable, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “It all happened very quickly. And with everything else going on…” She gestures vaguely at the party around us, at the whole elaborate production our lives have become.
I want to push the issue, to ask why she felt like she couldn’t share this with me, but this isn’t the time or place. And maybe it’s also not my right to know everything about her and I should stop acting like an entitled brat.
“I’m proud of you,” I say instead, and I mean it completely. “This is huge, Freya. Ron Gabriel doesn’t take chances on artists unless he genuinely believes in their work.”
Her face softens slightly. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Will I be invited to the opening?”
“Of course. If you want to come.”
“I want to come.” The words come out with more intensity than I intended. “I want to be there when people see how talented you are.”
For a moment, something passes between us—a flicker of the old easiness, the friendship that existed before performance schedules complicated everything. But then Carson appearsat my elbow, probably wanting to introduce me to someone important for networking purposes, and the moment dissolves.
The rest of the evening passes too slowly, social events being something I’ve never enjoyed. I shake hands with Freya’s college friends, most of whom seem genuinely delighted by our engagement news. I chat with colleagues about market conditions and upcoming projects. I smile for the photographer Carson hired to document the event.
But through it all, I’m acutely aware of Freya.
She moves through the party with natural grace, making everyone she talks to feel like the most important person in the room. When she laughs—really laughs, not the polite laugh she uses for strangers—the sound cuts through all the other noise and finds me wherever I am.
I’ve spent years training myself not to notice these things about her. Not to think about the way she unconsciously tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, or how her whole face changes when she’s talking about something she’s passionate about. I’ve built careful walls around those observations, filed them away as inappropriate thoughts about a friend.
But tonight, watching her charm Ron Gabriel and his art world connections, seeing her confidence as she talks about her work, those walls are crumbling.
This is the woman I fell for when we were seventeen, before I learned that wanting something too much was dangerous. This is the girl who climbed through my bedroom window and forced me to live a little, who saw through every defense I built and chose to stick around anyway.
And she’s beautiful. Not just in the obvious way that everyone can see, but in the way she cares about people, the way she fights for her dreams, the way she’s willing to help a friend even when it complicates her own life.
I want her. Not just as a business partner or a fake wife, but as the person I come home to every night. I want to hear about her gallery meetings and her artistic breakthroughs. I want to support her dreams, not because it’s written into a contract, but because her happiness matters to me more than my own.
I want what we’re pretending to have.
This isn’t new. These feelings aren’t a product of our fake engagement or the intimacy of our current situation. They’ve been there all along, buried under years of careful self-control and focus.
I’ve been in love with Freya Hull for most of my life, and I’ve been too afraid to admit it even to myself.
“You’re staring.” Carson appears beside me with a knowing smirk. “Good. The photographer is getting some great candid shots of you looking completely besotted.”
Besotted. If only he knew how accurate that assessment is.
“Just making sure she’s having a good time,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“She seems to be. This was a good idea, having the party here. Very romantic, very aspirational. The photos are going to be perfect for the wedding coverage.”
Wedding coverage. Right. Because that’s what this is all about—content for our public romance, evidence for the narrative we’re selling.
“Ben?” Freya appears at my side again, and I realize the party is winding down. “I think I’m going to head out soon. I have an early morning tomorrow.”
“Of course. I’ll walk you down.”
We ride the elevator down in comfortable silence, both of us probably exhausted from an evening of performance. In the lobby, she turns to face me, and for a moment we just look at each other.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says. “The party was beautiful. Ron was really impressed.”
“I’m glad. He seems like a good connection for you.”
“He is.” She hesitates, then adds, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the exhibition earlier. Things have been so busy, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up with everything else going on.”
