Fifty-three. Fifty-four.
And the way I pulled back at the last second, like the coward I apparently am.
I collapse onto the floor, breathing hard, and stare at the ceiling. The memory of the confusion and hurt that flashed across Freya’s face when I stepped away is burned into my brain, playing on repeat like some kind of torture device.
My phone sits silent on the desk. No texts from Freya. No calls. Nothing.
She’s putting distance between us again, and I can’t even blame her. If I were in her position—if I’d been leaning in for a kiss only to have the other person back away at the last second—I’d probably be mortified too.
But what was I supposed to do? Kiss my fake fiancée and complicate an already impossible situation? Ignore the boundaries we both agreed on? Risk destroying our friendship for the sake of a moment of weakness?
I roll over and start doing sit-ups, counting under my breath. Anything to stop thinking about the way she smelled like vanilla and paint, or how soft her skin felt under my thumb when I touched her face.
Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.
A knock on my office door interrupts my self-flagellation. I jump to my feet, grabbing a towel from my gym bag and trying to look somewhat professional.
“Come in.”
Carson bursts through the door, his laptop tucked under his arm and his face lit up with the kind of excitement that usually makes me nervous. He stops short when he sees me standing there in workout clothes, sweating.
“Oh. I didn’t realize you were… exercising.”
“Needed to clear my head,” I say, wiping sweat from my forehead. “What’s got you so excited?”
He seems to shake off his confusion and sets his laptop on my desk, angling the screen toward me. “The engagement party coverage is everywhere. You need to see this.”
The screen shows a collection of photos from last night—Freya and I talking to guests, laughing at something her sister said, standing close together with the Chicago skyline twinkling behind us. We look happy. We look in love.
We look like everything I wish we actually were.
“Look at these numbers,” Carson continues, scrolling through what appears to be a social media analytics dashboard. “The photos have been shared thousands of times across all platforms. The engagement hashtag is trending on Twitter and Instagram. People are calling you two ‘relationship goals.’”
“Relationship goals,” I repeat, the words tasting bitter.
“And the comments…” Carson clicks to another tab, his excitement palpable. “Listen to this: ‘Finally, a billionaire who seems like an actual human being.’ ‘She’s perfect for him, you can see how much he adores her.’ ‘This is what real love looks like.’ ‘I want what they have.’”
This is what real love looks like. If only they knew that half of the couple they’re admiring spent the night regretting not kissing the other half.
I grab a clean shirt from my desk drawer and pull it on, trying to process what Carson is showing me. “How many people are we talking about?”
“The engagement hashtag has over a million interactions in the past twelve hours,” Carson says, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. “I’ve had fashion bloggers asking about Freya’s dress, lifestyle magazines wanting to feature your penthouse, and three different wedding planners offering to donate services just for the publicity.”
I close the laptop screen, suddenly unable to look at any more photos of Freya and me pretending to be something we’re not. “That’s great, Carson. Really.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
“I’m excited. It’s just… a lot.”
Carson studies my face with the sharp attention that makes him good at his job, and I can see him cataloging details—the fact that I’m working out in my office at 10 AM on a Tuesday, the tension in my shoulders, the way I keep glancing at my phone even though it hasn’t made a sound.
“Ben, is everything okay? You seem off today.”
“Everything’s fine. Just wedding nerves, I guess.”
“Wedding nerves are normal,” Carson says, but his tone suggests he’s not entirely buying my explanation. “The good news is that after Saturday, the hard part will be over. You’ll be married, the public will love you even more than they already do, and you cango back to focusing on business with a significantly improved image.”
After Saturday. Right. After Saturday, Freya and I will be legally married, bound together by a contract that has nothing to do with love and everything to do with mutual benefit. She’ll get her compensation and her art career boost. I’ll get my wind turbine deal and my improved public image. We’ll live in the same house but have completely separate lives.
