Updated Mar 13, 2026 • ~9 min read
Holden’s apartment is unfairly nice.
I knew it would be. I’ve been here exactly twice—once for Noah’s birthday party last year, and once when I had to drop off something Noah forgot. Both times I made it a point to not look around, to not notice how clean and modern and NICE everything was.
But now I’m standing in the middle of his living room with three suitcases and a box of essentials, and I can’t help but notice.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Hardwood floors. A kitchen with marble countertops and stainless steel appliances. Furniture that actually matches instead of being cobbled together from IKEA and Facebook Marketplace.
It’s the kind of apartment I dream about having someday. When I’m successful and established and not drowning in student loans.
I hate that Holden Reid already has it at twenty-eight.
“You can put your stuff in the spare bedroom,” Holden says from behind me. “Down the hall, second door on the right.”
I turn to look at him. He’s changed out of his suit into jeans and a t-shirt. His hair is still damp from a shower. He looks frustratingly normal. Like this is just a regular Wednesday and not the day his fake wife moves in.
“Spare bedroom,” I repeat.
“Yeah. Unless you wanted to share my bed?” He raises an eyebrow. “Because that wasn’t part of the deal.”
“I wouldn’t share a bed with you if you were the last man on Earth.”
“Good. We’re on the same page.”
He disappears into the kitchen. I hear the coffee maker start.
I grab one of my suitcases and drag it down the hall. The spare bedroom is—of course—also unfairly nice. Queen-sized bed. Large window. Its own bathroom.
It’s bigger than my entire studio apartment.
I want to scream.
Instead, I unpack. Hang up my clothes in the empty closet. Put my toiletries in the bathroom. Set up my laptop on the desk by the window. Try to make this space feel like mine, even though every single thing in this apartment screams Holden Reid.
When I finally emerge, Holden is sitting at the kitchen island with two mugs of coffee. He slides one toward me.
“Thanks,” I say grudgingly.
“Don’t mention it. Literally. Don’t mention any of this to anyone.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
We sip our coffee in silence.
It’s weird. Being here. Being alone with him in his space. For the past eleven years, we’ve only ever interacted in groups. At Noah’s events. At mutual friends’ parties. Always with other people around to buffer the tension.
Now it’s just us.
For the next six months.
I need to establish boundaries before I lose my mind.
“So,” I say. “Rules.”
“Right. Rules.” Holden pulls out his phone. “I made a list.”
“Of course you did.”
“Did you make a list?”
“…No.”
“Then stop judging me.” He opens his notes app. “Rule one: We maintain separate lives. You do your thing, I do mine. We’re roommates, not a couple.”
“Obviously.”
“Rule two: No bringing dates back here.”
I pause with my coffee mug halfway to my mouth. “Wait. We can date other people?”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because we’re MARRIED?”
Holden gives me a look. “It’s a fake marriage, Tessa. We’re not actually together.”
He’s right. Obviously he’s right. But something about the idea of Holden bringing other women back to this apartment while I’m here makes my stomach twist uncomfortably.
Not because I’m jealous. Because it would be awkward. That’s all.
“Fine,” I say. “No dates here. What else?”
“Rule three: We split chores fifty-fifty. Cooking, cleaning, groceries. We’re adults. We can handle a schedule.”
“Agreed.”
“Rule four: We have dinner together at least three times a week.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because if the IRS investigates, people will ask questions. Our friends. Our families. We need to be able to answer them convincingly. That means knowing things about each other. And dinners are the easiest way to do that without it feeling forced.”
I hate that he’s thought this through. I hate that he’s being practical and reasonable.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Three dinners a week.”
“Rule five: No telling Noah.”
“That’s not a rule. That’s just common sense.”
“I’m putting it on the list anyway.” He types something on his phone. “Rule six: We attend each other’s important events. Work things. Family dinners. Anything where people would expect a spouse to show up.”
My chest tightens. “You want me to pretend to be your doting wife at work events?”
“I want us to be convincing. That’s the whole point.”
He’s right. Again. This is going to be a very long six months if he keeps being right about things.
“Okay,” I say. “But same goes for you. I have a big wedding coming up in two months. Black tie. Very high-profile. You’re coming.”
“Done.”
“And you have to be nice. No making fun of the decorations or rolling your eyes at the vows.”
“Tessa, I’m a sports agent. I attend events for a living. I know how to behave.”
“You made fun of the centerpieces at Noah’s birthday party.”
“Because they were TINY BASKETBALLS. It was objectively ridiculous.”
I fight back a smile. He’s not wrong about that. Noah’s girlfriend Margot had insisted on the sports theme. It was… a lot.
“Still,” I say. “You have to be supportive.”
“I’ll be the most supportive fake husband you’ve ever had.”
“You better be. Because this is my career on the line. If people find out—” I stop. Take a breath. “If people find out I got drunk-married in Vegas, I’ll never get another client. Event planning is all about trust and professionalism.”
Something shifts in Holden’s expression. “No one’s going to find out.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Yes, I can.” He looks at me directly. “I’m good at keeping secrets, Tessa. And this one? This one matters. So no one’s going to find out. I swear.”
The intensity in his voice catches me off guard. For a second—just a second—I believe him.
Then I remember who I’m talking to and push the feeling away.
“Okay,” I say. “Any other rules?”
Holden hesitates. “Just one more. Rule seven: No falling in love.”
I laugh. Actually laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“Holden, we can barely stand to be in the same room. I don’t think falling in love is a risk.”
“I’m just saying. Things get complicated when feelings get involved. We’re doing this for six months, then we’re done. Clean break. No emotions.”
“Trust me, emotions are not going to be a problem.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
We stare at each other across the kitchen island.
The coffee is getting cold.
“So,” Holden says finally. “Roommates?”
He extends his hand.
I look at it. At the ring on his finger that matches mine. At the man I’m legally bound to for the next six months.
This is insane. This is the most insane thing I’ve ever agreed to.
But it’s also my only option.
I shake his hand. “Roommates.”
His grip is firm. Warm. His hand completely engulfs mine.
I pull away quickly.
“I should finish unpacking,” I say.
“Yeah. I have a work call in twenty minutes anyway.”
I grab my coffee and head back to my room. Close the door. Lean against it.
What have I gotten myself into?
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Noah: “Sunday dinner at my place this week. You coming?”
Oh God. Sunday dinner. With Noah. Where he’ll ask about my weekend and expect me to act normal and definitely NOT mention that I’m secretly married to his best friend.
I type back: “Maybe. Busy week.”
Noah: “Too busy for your favorite brother?”
Me: “Bold of you to assume you’re my favorite.”
Noah: “Exactly. So you have to come. Margot’s making lasagna.”
I stare at my phone.
Sunday dinner. At Noah’s place. Where Holden will probably also be.
Where we’ll have to act like nothing has changed.
Where I’ll have to sit across from my brother and lie directly to his face.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Me: “I’ll be there.”
Noah: “Great! Bring wine.”
I toss my phone on the bed and close my eyes.
Six months. I can do this for six months.
It’s just pretending. Just playing a role. Like every event I plan where I smile and nod and make everything look perfect even when it’s falling apart behind the scenes.
I’m good at pretending.
I can pretend to be Holden Reid’s wife.
Even if every instinct I have is screaming that this is a terrible, terrible idea.
There’s a knock on my door.
“Yeah?” I call out.
Holden opens it slightly. “Hey. I forgot to mention—I have a work thing Friday night. Gallery opening for one of my clients. I need you to come.”
“Friday? That’s two days away.”
“Is that a problem?”
Yes. Yes it’s a massive problem because I’m not ready to debut as Mrs. Holden Reid in public.
But I can’t say that. Because I agreed to this. I agreed to all of it.
“No problem,” I lie. “What’s the dress code?”
“Cocktail attire. It’s at that new gallery in the Arts District. Starts at seven.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Great.” He starts to close the door, then pauses. “And Tessa?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For doing this. I know it’s not ideal.”
I meet his eyes. For once, there’s no smirk. No sarcasm. Just genuine appreciation.
It makes my chest do something weird.
“You’re welcome,” I say quietly.
He nods and closes the door.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the ring on my finger.
Friday. I have two days to prepare for my debut as Holden Reid’s wife.
Two days to figure out how to be convincing.
Two days to make sure no one—especially Noah—suspects the truth.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Wren: “How’s day one of fake marriage?”
Me: “Surprisingly not the worst thing ever.”
Wren: “Give it time.”
Me: “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Wren: “Just being realistic. Also, I googled ‘how to survive living with your enemy’ and the results were not encouraging.”
Me: “Maybe don’t tell me that.”
Wren: “Too late. Good luck, Mrs. Reid.”
I stare at her message.
Mrs. Reid.
That’s my name now. Legally. For the next six months.
Tessa Reid.
It sounds so wrong.
But when I look down at the ring on my finger, it looks… right.
And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.
END OF CHAPTER 3
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