“Thank you,” I muttered, stepping out.
“Don’t make it weird,” he replied, though there was the faintest flicker of amusement beneath his voice.
Inside the hall, chandeliers spilled gold across marble floors, music humming beneath the chatter of people dressed in elegance and ego. I barely had time to adjust the buckle of my clutch before his hand found mine and he guided me through the sea of people as though he’d done it a hundred times.
His palm was warm against mine, his touch grounding in a room that always made me feel pleasantly misplaced. When we reached the first group of donors, he didn’t interrupt, didn’t talk over me or correct me. He stood just a little behind, a pillar ofsupport, only speaking when spoken to, introducing himself not as a doctor, but as“Doctor Lillian Tariq’s husband, Khalifa.”
The title fell from his lips with such effortless sincerity that I nearly forgot we were pretending.
His hand never left me. Sometimes it was resting against the base of my spine, sometimes threading through my fingers, sometimes brushing my wrist when he leaned in to murmur a joke only I could hear. And God help me, every time he touched me, my body went crazy.
I tried to focus on the stories, the laughter, the deep-pocketed optimists I needed to charm into adding extra zeros to their cheques. But it was difficult to remember words when your hot husband was standing inches away, radiating allure and tranquil authority, making every woman in the room froth at the mouth and look like they wanted to die on the spot and come back as his cufflinks.
He told me to pretend I was happily married, to play the part.
So I did.
When he touched me, I leaned in. When he smiled, I let my lips curve too. When his hand skimmed the inside of my elbow, I didn’t move away—I sank into the contact, let it steady me, let itburn.
And then there wasDr. Way Too Much Cleavage.
She was gorgeous—flawless makeup, glossy hair, a neckline that defied physics and ethics combined. She giggled a little too loudly at Khalifa’s every polite syllable, her hand almost grazing his arm in that practiced way women used when they were claiming it was accidental.
My pulse ticked.
I wasn’t jealous.
Of course I wasn’t.
But if we were putting on a show, then I was going to make sure it was one he didn’t forget.
So while Cleavage McFlirt angled in, I reached up and ran my fingers through Khalifa’s hair—just enough to ruffle the carefully tamed curls—and then trailed them down, tracing the outline of his jaw. His muscles went taut under my touch, surprise flashing across his face, but he didn’t move away. His lashes fluttered, breath catching audibly. For a second, his composure cracked. The man nearlypurred.
I bit back a laugh, covering it with my mocktail.I don’t feel anything for you, my ass.
He opened his eyes again, the look he gave me a warning. Heat shimmered between us like air bending above fire, and I suddenly couldn’t decide if we were performing anymore or if the act had already turned into something real.
But as soon as we sat down for dinner, the nerves came back in full force, shoving every frivolous thought of Khalifa straight out of my head. Candlelight flickered off polished glassware, the hall droning with courteous laughter and expensive perfume, while I sat there pretending I wasn’t out of place in a room where even the napkins looked like they had trust funds.
The roasted thyme smelled wonderful; I couldn’t taste a thing. My fork hovered uselessly above my plate, my brain busy cataloguing all the ways my proposal could implode into failure. Months of research, late nights, and caffeine-induced pep talks between me and my bedroom wall—and now that it was finally out of my hands, my body had apparently decided to self-destruct.
I smiled and nodded at all the right moments, the kind of social autopilot you developed after years of working under fluorescent lighting and pressure. Every clink of silverware sounded like a countdown clock.
Across the table, Kevin was mid-story, hands flailing, eyes bright. “You should’ve seen her,” he said, pointing his fork at me. “Sixty-hour week, nine emergency deliveries, and she still foundtime to organize this whole event. I’m convinced she’s secretly a robot.”
Robert chuckled. “Not a robot. Just terrifyingly efficient.”
The table erupted into laughter, but I barely heard it. My hands were clasped too tightly in my lap. Khalifa’s gaze flicked toward my untouched plate, then to me, before leaning closer. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He didn’t push, but he didn’t look convinced either.
The conversation buzzed—doctors trading jokes, nurses recounting delivery-room miracles—but his gaze kept finding mine between sentences. Each look felt heavier than the last, threaded with an intimacy that didn’t belong to our arrangement. When his knee brushed mine beneath the table, he didn’t move it. Neither did I.
The Chief of Surgery—Dr. Patel, elegant in midnight blue—finally took the stage. “Before we finish dinner and move to dancing, I’d like to take a moment to recognize the incredible proposals submitted for this year’s Community Initiative Grant.”
My heart picked up. I could feel it in my throat.
