Updated Oct 23, 2025 • ~9 min read
LINA’S POV
Natalia Kingsley’s office was all glass and chrome, the kind of place that screamed “I’m expensive and I know it.”
She was younger than I expected—maybe early thirties, with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. Her handshake was firm, her smile professionally warm but not quite friendly.
“Sebastian spoke highly of you,” she said, gesturing for us to sit. “He also mentioned your situation is… complicated.”
“That’s one word for it,” I muttered.
Seb’s hand found mine under the conference table. Squeezed.
Natalia opened a folder—already thick with documents despite us just meeting her. “I’ve reviewed the petition Jasper Bennett filed. He’s hired Damian Thornton.”
“Is that bad?” I asked.
“Thornton’s one of the best family law attorneys in the state. Aggressive. Expensive. Doesn’t take cases he doesn’t think he can win.” She leaned back in her chair. “Which tells me Marcus is serious about this.”
My stomach dropped. “So we don’t have a chance.”
“I didn’t say that.” Natalia’s smile sharpened. “I said Thornton is good. I’m better. But I need complete honesty from both of you. No surprises in court.”
She looked between us, and I felt like she could see right through our carefully constructed facade.
“Your marriage,” she said. “Sebastian explained the circumstances. Immigration-based, quick timeline, separate bedrooms initially. Is that accurate?”
“Yes,” Seb said.
“And now?”
We exchanged glances.
“Now it’s different,” I said quietly. “We’re… figuring things out.”
“Figuring things out won’t hold up in court. I need specifics.” Natalia pulled out a legal pad. “Do you share a bedroom?”
“No,” I admitted. “But—”
“Do you share finances?”
“We have a joint account for household expenses,” Seb said. “I added her to my credit cards. We file taxes jointly.”
“Good. That helps.” She made notes. “Social media presence? Photos together? Evidence of a relationship?”
I thought about my Instagram—mostly design work and the occasional selfie with Stella. Nothing with Seb. We hadn’t exactly been posting couple photos.
“Not really,” I said.
“That needs to change. Immediately.” Natalia looked up. “Thornton will paint a picture of a fraudulent marriage. We need to counter that with evidence of a real relationship. Photos. Social media posts. Joint activities. Witnesses who can testify you’re a legitimate couple.”
“We are a legitimate couple,” Seb said, his voice tight.
“I believe you. But belief doesn’t win cases. Evidence does.” She turned to me. “Lina, I need to ask some difficult questions about the pregnancy. When did you find out?”
“About three weeks ago.”
“And you contacted Jasper immediately?”
“Within a few days, yes.”
“What was his initial response?”
I swallowed hard. “He said he needed time to think. That he wasn’t ready to be a father.”
“Did he ever explicitly say he didn’t want to be involved?”
“Not in those words. But he… he wasn’t enthusiastic.”
“Enthusiasm doesn’t matter. What matters is what he said and what we can prove.” Natalia made more notes. “Did you save any text messages? Voicemails? Anything where he expressed doubt or hesitation?”
“I have the texts,” I said. “He asked what I was planning to do. Said it was ‘a lot.’ That he’d call me back.”
“Perfect. Send those to me.” She looked at Seb. “Sebastian, I need to be blunt. Your involvement in this case is unusual. You’re not the biological father, but you’re claiming parental interest. That could work in our favor or against us, depending on how we frame it.”
“How do we frame it?” Seb asked.
“As a stepfather figure. A man stepping up to raise a child that isn’t biologically his because he loves his wife and wants to provide stability.” She paused. “But that only works if the court believes your marriage is real.”
“It is real,” I said.
“Then we need to prove it.” Natalia closed her folder. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Marcus will try to show you’re unfit—financially unstable, living in a fraudulent marriage, making reckless decisions. We’re going to flip that narrative. You’re a married woman with a stable home, a supportive partner, and a loving relationship. We show the court that you’re exactly the kind of mother this baby needs.”
“And Marcus?” I asked.
“We show the court exactly what he is. A man who showed no interest in this pregnancy until he decided he could use it as leverage.” Her eyes glinted. “Men like Jasper Bennett think they can swoop in and play hero after doing nothing. I don’t let men like that win.”
SEB’S POV
After the meeting, we sat in the car in silence.
“That was intense,” Lina finally said.
“She’s good.”
“She’s terrifying.”
“That’s why I hired her.” I started the engine but didn’t drive. “Lina, about what she said. The social media. The photos. Making this look real.”
“I know. We have to do it.”
“It’s going to feel invasive. Staged.”
“Everything about this feels staged.” She looked at me. “But she’s right. If we want to win, we need to give them what they expect to see.”
I thought about kissing her at the courthouse. The way it had felt both completely wrong and absolutely right.
“We should start tonight,” I said. “Dinner somewhere public. Take photos. Post them.”
“Very romantic. ‘Let’s use our date night for legal evidence.'”
“Would you prefer we lose custody?”
She flinched. “That’s not fair.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m just… I’m worried. Natalia’s good, but Thornton is better funded. Marcus has the biological parent advantage. If this goes wrong—”
“Then we deal with it.” Lina reached over, took my hand. “Together. Right?”
“Right.”
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were playing a game we didn’t know how to win.
LINA’S POV
We went to a trendy Italian place downtown. The kind of restaurant with dim lighting and small plates that cost too much. Seb ordered wine for himself, sparkling water for me, and we sat across from each other like actors learning their roles.
“This feels ridiculous,” I said.
“Smile.” He held up his phone. “We need photos, remember?”
I forced a smile. He took the picture, frowned at it, deleted it.
“What’s wrong?”
“You look miserable.”
“Because I am miserable! We’re on a fake date to prove our fake marriage is real so I don’t lose custody of my baby to a man who—” I stopped. Took a breath. “Sorry. I’m spiraling.”
“You’re allowed to spiral.” Seb set down his phone. “But Lina, this doesn’t have to be torture. We’re having dinner. Two people who happen to be married. We can make it pleasant.”
“How?”
“By forgetting about the photos for a minute.” He reached across the table, took my hand. “Tell me something real. Something I don’t know about you.”
I looked at our joined hands. His thumb was tracing small circles on my wrist.
“I wanted to be an artist,” I said quietly. “Before the graphic design. I wanted to paint. Create things that mattered instead of corporate logos and brand packages.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because art doesn’t pay bills. Because I have student loans and rent and responsibilities.” I shrugged. “So I do design work and I’m good at it and I tell myself it’s enough.”
“Is it?”
“Sometimes.” I met his eyes. “What about you? Did you always want to be in tech?”
“I wanted to be a pianist.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Really. Studied for years. Even got into a conservatory.” He smiled, but it was sad. “My father convinced me it wasn’t practical. That I needed a real career. So I did engineering instead.”
“Do you still play?”
“Sometimes. When no one’s listening.”
“I’d like to hear you play. Sometime.”
Something shifted in his expression. Softened. “I’d like that.”
Our food came. We ate and talked, and somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, I forgot we were supposed to be performing. This was just… dinner. With Seb. Who apparently played piano and had dimples when he really smiled and noticed when I picked the tomatoes out of my salad.
“Take a picture now,” I said.
“Now?”
“Now. While I’m not thinking about it.”
He held up his phone. I leaned in, laughing at something he’d just said about his brother. The camera clicked.
When he showed me the photo, I barely recognized myself. I looked happy. Genuinely happy. And Seb was looking at me like I was the only person in the restaurant.
“That’s the one,” I said softly.
He posted it to Instagram with a simple caption: Date night with my favorite person.
Within minutes, comments started appearing. Friends. Coworkers. Stella, with approximately fifteen exclamation points and demands for details.
“We’re officially a social media couple,” Seb said.
“There’s no going back now.”
“Would you want to?”
I looked at him—really looked at him. This man who’d agreed to marry me for papers, who’d stayed when things got complicated, who was fighting for a baby that wasn’t his.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think I would.”
His hand tightened on mine. “Good.”
We left the restaurant and walked through the city, and when Seb’s arm slipped around my waist, I let it. When he kissed my temple at a crosswalk, I leaned into him. When he suggested we get ice cream even though it was freezing outside, I said yes.
Because maybe Natalia was right. Maybe the best way to convince people we were real was to actually be real.
Or maybe I was just tired of pretending I didn’t want this.
“Lina,” Seb said as we walked back to the car, “can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“If things were different—if we’d met under normal circumstances, no green card, no pregnancy, no legal drama—do you think we would have ended up here anyway?”
I thought about it. About the man I’d met in a coffee shop who’d proposed a business transaction. About the man walking next to me now, who held my hand and fought for my baby and looked at me like I mattered.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I’m glad we’re here now.”
“Me too.”
We drove home in comfortable silence, and when we got back to the apartment, Seb didn’t immediately disappear into his office like usual.
“Want to watch something?” he asked.
“Sure.”
We ended up on the couch with a movie neither of us really watched, and somewhere around the halfway point, my head ended up on his shoulder. His arm around me. My hand resting on his chest where I could feel his heartbeat.
This was dangerous. This was crossing lines we’d promised not to cross.
But I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Not when it felt this right.
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