Updated Nov 5, 2025 • ~11 min read
The article came out three days later.
Camille stood in the kitchen at dawn, staring at her phone screen. The photo Madison had chosen for the cover was the kiss—Nicholas’s hand in her hair, her fingers clutching his shirt, both of them looking like they’d forgotten the world existed. The headline read: LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT: Inside the Ashton Romance That Has Everyone Talking.
The article was glowing. Effusive about their chemistry, their obvious devotion, the way they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Madison had even included a quote from a relationship expert: “This is what genuine intimacy looks like. The Ashtons are clearly deeply in love.”
Mission accomplished. They’d convinced everyone.
Except themselves.
Since the kiss, Nicholas had been avoiding her. Conference calls that ran late, business dinners that kept him out past midnight, mornings where he left before she woke up. When they did occupy the same space, he maintained careful distance, never meeting her eyes for longer than necessary.
The performance had become too convincing, and now they were both running from it.
“Beautiful article.”
Camille spun around. Eleanor stood in the kitchen doorway, perfectly composed despite the early hour. She wore a cream silk robe and held her own phone, the same article displayed on her screen.
“You’ve done well,” Eleanor continued, moving to the coffee maker. “Madison Pierce is notoriously skeptical. Convincing her is no small feat.”
“We were honest about our feelings.” The lie tasted bitter.
“Were you?” Eleanor poured coffee with practiced precision. “Because from where I stand, you’ve convinced everyone except yourselves.”
Camille’s hands tightened on her phone. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t play coy, dear. It doesn’t suit you.” Eleanor settled at the kitchen island, gesturing for Camille to join her. “We should talk. Privately. Woman to woman.”
Every instinct screamed at Camille to refuse, to flee back to her room, to avoid whatever trap Eleanor was setting. But she was tired of running, tired of being reactive instead of proactive.
She sat.
Eleanor studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she set down her coffee cup with deliberate care.
“I know everything, Camille. I’ve known from the beginning.”
The words landed like stones. Camille forced herself to maintain eye contact, to not show the panic rising in her throat. “Know what?”
“About the arrangement. The contract Martin Ross drafted. The payment schedule—seventy-five thousand upfront, two hundred twenty-five thousand upon completion of one year.” Eleanor’s voice was conversational, as if discussing the weather. “About your mother’s gambling debts. The one hundred twenty-seven thousand owed to Whitmore Casino. The additional sixty-eight thousand to various other establishments. The house in foreclosure.”
Camille’s vision blurred at the edges. “How—”
“I told you. Martin Ross has been our family attorney for thirty years. Did you really think he’d help my son arrange a fake marriage without telling me?” Eleanor’s smile was sharp. “I knew before Nicholas signed the contract. Before he even approached you as a candidate.”
“A candidate.” Camille’s voice was hollow. “That’s what I was. A candidate for fake wife.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You were one of several possibilities Martin identified. Women who were desperate enough to agree but respectable enough to pass scrutiny. Women who needed money badly enough to spend a year pretending to be in love.” Eleanor sipped her coffee. “You weren’t even the first choice.”
The casual cruelty of it stole Camille’s breath. “Then why choose me?”
“Because you were the strongest. The others were too meek, too eager to please, too obviously out for money. But you?” Eleanor’s eyes glittered with something like respect. “You had fire. Pride. The kind of spine needed to survive this family.”
“So you’ve been testing me this whole time. The poisoned tea, the rules, the interrogations—all of it was planned.”
“Of course.” Eleanor set down her cup. “I needed to know if you’d break under pressure. If you’d run when things got difficult. If you’d be strong enough to—” She stopped, recalibrating. “To handle Nicholas.”
“To handle him or to fix him?” Camille stood, pacing the kitchen. “Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? You’re dying, and you want to make sure your broken son has someone to hold him together when you’re gone.”
Eleanor’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes. Confirmation.
“My son has been broken since Juliette died. Closed off, going through the motions of life without actually living. The inheritance scheme was his idea—a way to secure his financial independence without having to risk his heart again.” Eleanor’s voice softened almost imperceptibly. “But I saw an opportunity. To force him back into life. To give him something real to hold onto.”
“By tricking him into a fake marriage?” Camille’s laugh was bitter. “That’s twisted, Eleanor. Even for you.”
“Is it working?”
The question stopped Camille cold. She thought about the dance floor at the gala. The practiced intimacy that had become something else. The kiss that had felt more real than anything in her carefully constructed lies.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Yes, you do.” Eleanor stood, moving to stand directly in front of Camille. “That kiss in the article? That wasn’t performance. That was two people forgetting to pretend.” She paused. “The question is what you’re going to do about it.”
“There’s nothing to do. The arrangement ends in nine months. I get my money, he gets his inheritance, and we go our separate ways.”
“Do you really believe that’s still possible?” Eleanor’s eyes were knowing, cruel, compassionate all at once. “You’ve already fallen for him. Maybe not love yet, but something close enough to be dangerous. And Nicholas—he’s fighting it, but he’s falling too.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know my son. I know when he’s scared. And right now, he’s terrified—not of you leaving, but of you staying. Of this becoming real and him having something to lose again.”
Camille sank back onto the stool, all her fight draining away. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to understand the full picture. The real leverage I hold over both of you.” Eleanor’s voice turned cold. “Your mother’s debts? I’ve been paying them. Not just with the money Nicholas gave you—that went to other creditors. The Whitmore Casino debt, the house foreclosure, all of it—I’ve been handling it through shell companies and anonymous payments.”
Horror dawned in Camille’s chest. “Why?”
“Because now you owe me. Not Nicholas—me.” Eleanor’s smile was triumphant. “If you leave before the year is up, I stop the payments. Your mother loses everything. If you expose the arrangement, I stop the payments. If you hurt Nicholas—really hurt him by making him believe this is real and then walking away—I stop the payments and I make sure every debt collector in Connecticut knows exactly where to find Patricia Stratton.”
Camille couldn’t breathe. “You’ve been controlling everything.”
“Not everything. I can’t control feelings, much as I’d like to.” Eleanor moved toward the door, then paused. “But I can control circumstances. And the circumstances are these: you will stay for the full year. You will continue to play the loving wife. And when the year is over, you will leave cleanly, quietly, without destroying what’s left of my son’s ability to trust anyone.”
“And if I’ve developed real feelings by then? If he has?”
“Then you’ll break your own heart to protect his. Because that’s what strong women do—we sacrifice ourselves to protect the people we love.” Eleanor’s expression was unreadable. “My grandmother did it. My mother did it. I’ve done it my entire life. And now it’s your turn.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life rarely is.” Eleanor opened the door, morning light streaming in behind her. “The Madison Pierce article was perfect, by the way. Keep up that level of performance for nine more months, and you’ll walk away with your money and your mother’s debts cleared. That’s the deal.”
“That’s not the deal we made.”
“No, it’s better. Because now you understand exactly what’s at stake.” Eleanor’s voice was steel wrapped in silk. “You’re not just playing house for a year, Camille. You’re protecting your mother, healing my son, and proving you’re strong enough to be an Ashton—even if you only keep the name temporarily.”
She left, closing the door with a soft click.
Camille sat alone in the kitchen as dawn broke fully over the estate. Her phone buzzed—a text from her mother. Thank you for whatever you did, sweetheart. The bank called. My mortgage is current. I don’t know how, but thank you.
Eleanor’s doing. Not Nicholas’s. Eleanor had been three steps ahead this entire time, pulling strings Camille hadn’t even known existed.
She looked down at the sapphire ring on her finger, understanding for the first time what it really represented. Not just family legacy or Eleanor’s claim. It was a leash, a contract, a promise extracted under circumstances Camille had never fully understood.
Eleanor owned her now. Completely.
The sound of footsteps made her look up. Nicholas stood in the doorway, dressed for work, his expression carefully controlled.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Camille held up her phone, showing him the article. “We made the cover.”
Nicholas glanced at it, something pained crossing his face. “Great. Mission accomplished.”
“Nicholas—”
“I have to go. Early meeting.” He was already turning away, running again.
“Your mother knows,” Camille said, stopping him. “About the arrangement. About everything. She’s known from the beginning.”
Nicholas went still. “What?”
“She told me this morning. She’s been paying my mother’s debts. She’s been controlling everything.” Camille’s voice cracked. “We never had a choice, Nicholas. This was her plan all along.”
Nicholas turned back slowly, and Camille saw her own realization mirrored in his eyes. “The lawyer. Martin Ross.”
“Reported everything to her. She approved me before you even asked.” Camille laughed, the sound brittle. “We thought we were so clever, arranging this fake marriage. But she was arranging us.”
Nicholas sank into the chair across from her, all his careful control crumbling. “I should have known. She never loses control. Never lets anything happen that she hasn’t planned for.”
“She wants me to stay the full year. Keep performing. And then leave cleanly without hurting you.” Camille met his eyes. “She’s threatening my mother if I don’t comply.”
“Jesus Christ.” Nicholas ran both hands through his hair. “We’re completely trapped.”
“We’ve always been trapped. We just didn’t realize she was the one holding the keys.”
They sat in silence as the sun rose fully, painting the kitchen in golden light. Two people caught in a web they’d thought they were spinning, only to discover they were the flies, not the spiders.
“What do we do?” Nicholas asked finally.
Camille looked at the article on her phone—at the kiss that had felt so real, at the love everyone believed in, at the lie that was somehow becoming truth.
“We survive,” she said. “We play her game for nine more months. We protect the people we love.” She paused. “And we try not to destroy each other in the process.”
Nicholas reached across the table, taking her hand. His thumb traced circles on her palm—the gesture unconscious now, natural.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For dragging you into this. For not seeing what she was doing.”
“We dragged each other. And we’re both too deep to get out now.”
His hand tightened on hers. “That kiss. In the photos.”
“Was for the camera,” Camille finished, even though they both knew it was a lie.
“Right. For the camera.” Nicholas’s eyes met hers, and in them Camille saw the same confusion, the same fear, the same dangerous hope that she felt. “Just a performance.”
“Just a performance,” she echoed.
But their hands stayed linked across the table, neither of them willing to be the first to let go.
Outside, Eleanor’s footsteps echoed down the hallway. Always watching, always listening, always three steps ahead.
And Camille finally understood: the real game had only just begun.
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