Updated Oct 23, 2025 • ~7 min read
LINA’S POV
The coffee shop smelled like burned espresso and desperation—which was fitting, considering I was about to agree to marry a man I barely knew.
“So let me get this straight,” I said, wrapping both hands around my lukewarm latte. “You need a green card, I need twelve thousand dollars, and your solution is… matrimony?”
Sebastian Santoro didn’t flinch. He sat across from me in that perfectly tailored navy suit, dark eyes steady, like proposing fake marriages was just another Tuesday for him. Maybe it was. What did I know about the life of a software engineer who looked like he belonged on a billboard for expensive watches?
“It’s a business transaction,” he said, his accent barely there—just a hint of something European that made even boring words sound interesting. “Clean. Simple. You help me stay in the country, I pay off your student loans. We both walk away better than we started.”
Walk away. Right. Because that’s what people did after getting married. They just… walked away.
I traced the rim of my cup, buying time. The thing was, I needed that money. My graphic design freelancing barely covered rent, and those loan payments were a noose tightening every month. Twelve thousand dollars would give me breathing room. Maybe even let me take on projects I actually cared about instead of designing another soulless corporate logo for companies that thought “synergy” was a personality.
“How did you even find me?” I asked.
“Stella.”
Of course. My best friend and her big mouth. Stella Mitchell had been trying to “fix my life” ever since I’d ugly-cried into a pint of ice cream about my financial situation three weeks ago. I didn’t think her solution would involve international marriage fraud, but here we were.
“She said you were trustworthy,” Sebastian continued. “Discrete. And that you needed money.”
“She makes me sound like a hitman.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “Are you?”
“Depends on the day.” I set down my cup. “Look, Sebastian—”
“Seb.”
I blinked. “What?”
“If we’re going to be married, you should probably call me Seb.” This time he did smile, and God help me, it was devastating. The kind of smile that probably got him out of speeding tickets and into exclusive clubs. “Makes it more believable.”
Believable. The word hung between us like a challenge.
“Okay, Seb.” His name felt strange in my mouth. Intimate. “What exactly does this business transaction entail? Because I’ve seen enough crime documentaries to know this is how people end up on Dateline.”
He reached into his messenger bag—leather, expensive, the kind that cost more than my rent—and pulled out a folder. Of course he had a folder. This man probably had a color-coded spreadsheet for his emotions.
“The marriage has to appear legitimate,” he said, sliding papers across the table. “We’ll need to file jointly, maintain a shared address for immigration purposes, and attend at least one interview to prove the relationship is real.”
I scanned the documents. They were thorough. Terrifyingly thorough.
“Shared address,” I repeated slowly. “As in, we’d have to live together?”
“For a while. Six months, maybe longer depending on processing times. But I travel frequently for work. You’d have the apartment to yourself most of the time.”
“Your apartment.”
“Our apartment,” he corrected. “Legally speaking.”
I sat back, trying to process this. Six months of living with a stranger. Six months of pretending to be in love with a man whose last name I’d learned approximately ten minutes ago. Six months of lying to the federal government.
“This is insane,” I said.
“It’s practical.”
“It’s illegal.”
“Only if we get caught.” He leaned forward, and I caught the scent of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive that probably had a French name I couldn’t pronounce. “Lina, I’m not asking you to fall in love with me. I’m asking you to help me stay in a country where I’ve built my entire career. In exchange, I’ll give you financial freedom. No strings. No complications.”
No complications. Famous last words.
But I thought about my bank account. The overdraft notices. The way I’d started avoiding my mom’s calls because I couldn’t bear to hear the worry in her voice when she asked if I was eating enough, sleeping enough, making it enough.
Twelve thousand dollars wouldn’t solve all my problems. But it would solve enough of them.
“What happens after?” I asked. “After you get your green card?”
“We file for divorce. I’ll cover all the legal fees. You walk away with your money, I walk away with my status. Clean break.”
Clean. He kept using that word, like marriage was something you could just wipe away with a paper towel.
I picked up the contract, skimming the terms. It was all there in black and white—payment schedule, living arrangements, grounds for termination. He’d thought of everything.
Everything except what happens when fake things start feeling real.
I shook off the thought. This wasn’t some romance novel. This was a business deal, and I was practical enough to know the difference.
“I have conditions,” I said.
Sebastian—Seb—nodded. “I’m listening.”
“First, separate bedrooms. I don’t care what immigration thinks, I’m not sharing a bed with you.”
“Agreed.”
“Second, my friends and family can’t know the truth. As far as they’re concerned, we’re a real couple who fell hard and fast.”
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or respect. “Understood.”
“Third, when this is over, we never speak again. No friendly check-ins, no awkward coffee meetings, no ‘remember when.’ We go back to being strangers.”
He extended his hand across the table. “Deal.”
I stared at his hand—strong, capable, with a thin white scar across the knuckles that made me wonder about his story. The one he wasn’t telling me.
This was crazy. This was reckless. This was exactly the kind of impulsive decision my mother would call me crying about.
I shook his hand.
His grip was warm and firm, and when his thumb brushed against my wrist, I felt something spark beneath my skin. Static electricity, probably. Or maybe just nerves.
“When?” I asked, pulling my hand back.
“The courthouse can fit us in Friday afternoon. Two o’clock.”
“This Friday? As in, three days from now?”
“My visa expires in two weeks. We need to move quickly.” He closed the folder, all business again. “Wear something nice. They’ll take photos for the certificate.”
“How romantic,” I deadpanned.
This time his smile reached his eyes. “I promise to look deeply in love with you.”
“Method acting. Nice.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
I gathered my things—my worn canvas bag, my phone with the cracked screen, all the evidence of a life held together with duct tape and optimism. Seb stood when I did, because apparently he had manners along with that bone structure.
“Lina,” he said as I turned to leave. “Thank you. I know this isn’t… conventional. But I appreciate it.”
There was something in his voice—gratitude, yes, but also something else. Something that sounded almost like loneliness.
“See you Friday,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say to the man who was about to become my husband.
I walked out of that coffee shop into the harsh afternoon sunlight, and I didn’t let myself look back. Looking back was for people who had doubts, and I couldn’t afford those.
I had student loans to pay and a fake marriage to plan.
What could possibly go wrong?
Three days later, I’d find out exactly what.
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