“Okay, sure, whatever. Step two: social media. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my Instagram is mostly dogs wearing sunglasses, and cupcakes I didn’t bake. Suddenly, I’ve gone from ‘quirky girl next door’ to ‘billionaire arm candy.’ People will notice.”
“Then delete it.” He offered an infuriating shrug.
“Delete it?!” She stared at him as if he’d suggested she relocate to Mars. “Do you even hear yourself? That’s digital sacrilege.”
“These are minor obstacles.” His voice dropped into that calm, collected CEO register that usually made interns quake in their loafers. “Eased by discretion and strategy.”
“Strategy won’t explain why you, Mr. Hermit Billionaire, are suddenly attending social functions with a girlfriend who appeared out of thin air,” she shot back. “You hate people, remember? If this engagement is supposed to be believable, we’re going to need to rewrite your entire personality.”
“That seems excessive.” His gaze narrowed for a moment.
“Excessive?” She laughed, a little too loudly. “The last time you willingly went to a party, it was probably catered by dinosaurs. No one will buy this unless you commit. And by ‘commit,’ I mean learn how to fake pleased expressions at strangers without looking like you’re plotting their downfall.”
“Anything else?” His expression was deadpan, as if she were rattling off a grocery list.
“Yeah.” She stood, resting her hands on her hips. “We’re going to need a backstory. A solid one. A romantic one.” She fluttered her fingers in the air, as if sprinkling magic over the idea. “And no boring business metaphors. If I have to hear about synergy one more time, I’m throwing myself out the nearest window.”
He remained silent.
She sighed. “Look, I’ve been in this office long enough for people to know I’m your assistant, not your…anything else. We need a story that convinces people we’re more than work partners. Otherwise, this whole charade is going to unravel faster than a team-building exercise at happy hour.”
“Noted. Are we finished here?” he asked, posture suggesting he hoped so.
“Not even close,” she said, turning toward the door. But before she left, she tossed him one last glance over her shoulder. “Hope you’re ready for some acting lessons, Romeo. This has the potential to be a spectacular disaster.”
“Good thing I specialize in damage control.” He picked up a pen, his voice composed as though this conversation hadn’t flipped his meticulously ordered world upside down. “Let’s?—”
“Mr. Wilder?” Barbara from Legal appeared in the doorway, a stack of papers tucked under her arm
“Barbara.” His tone shifted to the measured politeness usually reserved for legal counsel and tax auditors. “What can I do for you?”
“Contracts.” Barbara stepped into the office as though she owned it, plunking the thick stack of documents onto his pristine glass desk. The sound reverberated like a tiny legal earthquake. “The merger paperwork needs your signature.”
“Of course it does,” he muttered. He glanced at Devney.
“Do you need me, or should I go back to my desk?”.
“Yes,” he began.
“Your presence isn’t necessary,” Barbara interjected.
“Great,” Devney cut in quickly, slipping out before anyone could argue further. She closed the door behind her with the most professional amount of force possible—not quite a slam, but just enough to make a point.
She walked back to her desk, settling into her chair before glancing toward his office through the glass. He was already deep in discussion with Barbara, gesturing toward one of the contracts while the lawyer pointed out details with her pen. His tie remained loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows like some kind of overworked GQ model.
The man looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, but somehow he still radiated that infuriating aura of competence.
“Fake fiancée.” She shook her head. “Because that’s totally normal workplace conversation.”
But even as she thought it, her eyes drifted back to him. He was pacing now, likely explaining details in that clipped, businesslike tone that had a way of making even the most absurd ideas sound reasonable. She couldn’t hear a word, but she could picture it perfectly.
And then the realization struck her—this might actually work.
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms as she considered the sheer lunacy of the situation. She already managed his calendar, his emails, his dry cleaning, and his coffee preferences depending on how grumpy he was that morning. How much harder could managing a fake engagement be? Sure, the potential for disaster was enormous, but wasn’t that her specialty—wrangling chaos and making it appear well-orchestrated?
Through the glass, he looked up suddenly, catching her staring. For a split second, their eyes met. She ducked her head, pretending to be engrossed in whatever nonsense was on her screen—probably an email from HR about the potluck sign-up sheet. Very important stuff.
“Train wreck,” she murmured, shaking her head. Still, a certainty shifted inside her—small but real. She looked back at the glass and whispered to herself, “if anyone can teach this man to fake romance, it’s me.”
