Updated Nov 26, 2025 • ~9 min read
Two weeks into the arrangement, Lizzie had to admit it was working.
The fake relationship with Oliver had become the hottest story in New York. Every photo of them together trended on social media. Every carefully orchestrated appearance generated headlines. And crucially, the narrative was shifting.
“Bride Finds Forgiveness: Lizzie and Oliver’s Second Chance” – Vogue
“Love After Betrayal: Inside the Richardson-Miller Reconciliation” – People
“From Viral Disaster to Viral Romance: How Lizzie Miller Took Control of Her Story” – Forbes
That last one was Lizzie’s favorite. “Took control” was exactly right.
Her design business was booming. She’d landed three major contracts in two weeks—a hotel chain rebrand, a boutique fitness company’s visual identity, and a tech startup’s entire marketing package. Each client specifically cited her “inspiring story of resilience.”
The money from Oliver hadn’t hurt either. Lizzie had invested most of it, used some to upgrade her office, donated a chunk to charity. Having financial security felt powerful, intoxicating.
Everything was going according to plan.
So why did she feel so unsettled?
“It’s the car rides,” Ruby diagnosed over brunch. “You’re spending too much time alone with him.”
“The logistics don’t work otherwise,” Lizzie defended. “He picks me up, we go to the event, he drops me off. It’s efficient.”
“It’s dangerous.” Ruby pointed her fork accusingly. “Those private moments are where the walls come down. Where he gets to be human instead of the villain you need him to be.”
Lizzie opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Because Ruby was right.
The car rides had become… something. At first, they’d been silent and awkward. But over two weeks and six public appearances, they’d started talking. Small talk at first—weather, traffic, logistics. Then gradually, carefully, something deeper.
Last night, driving home from a charity auction, Oliver had asked about her design work. Not perfunctory small talk, but genuine curiosity. He’d wanted to know about her creative process, her inspiration, her favorite projects.
And she’d told him.
Not because of the contract. Not because cameras were watching. Just because for a moment, she’d forgotten to hate him.
“I’m being careful,” Lizzie said finally.
“Are you? Because from where I’m sitting, you look confused.”
“I’m not confused.”
“You’re something.” Ruby studied her. “What did he say in his public apology?”
Right. The apology. Oliver had delivered it at a press conference three days ago, reading from the script Lizzie had written and edited mercilessly. She’d made him acknowledge every specific way he’d wronged her, made him take full responsibility, made him grovel beautifully.
It had been satisfying. Until Oliver had gone off-script at the end.
“The words I’m saying today don’t undo what I did,” he’d said, looking directly into the cameras. “Nothing can undo it. But I want Lizzie—and everyone who knows what happened—to understand that what I did at that altar was the worst mistake of my life. Not because of the consequences to me, but because I hurt someone extraordinary. Someone who deserved so much better. I’m grateful for her forgiveness, even though I don’t deserve it. I’ll spend however long she’ll let me trying to be the man she always thought I was.”
The media had eaten it up. Social media had exploded with support. Richardson Industries’ stock had actually ticked up half a point.
And Lizzie had felt something crack in the armor around her heart.
“The apology was fine,” she said to Ruby.
“Fine?”
“Good. Adequate. Whatever.” Lizzie pushed her eggs around her plate. “He did what he was supposed to do.”
Ruby didn’t look convinced. “You need to be careful, Lizzie. This arrangement of yours—it’s playing with fire. And you’ve already been burned once.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because I see the way you look sometimes when you talk about him. Like you’re softening.”
“I’m not softening. I’m just…” Lizzie struggled for words. “Getting used to it. The arrangement. The proximity. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Her phone buzzed. Speak of the devil.
Oliver: Event tonight at 7. I can pick you up at 6:30?
Lizzie: Fine. Be on time.
Oliver: Always am.
She almost smiled. Then caught herself.
“I have to go,” Lizzie said, gathering her things. “Client meeting.”
Ruby grabbed her wrist. “Just promise me something. If this starts hurting you—if being around him starts breaking you down—you’ll end it. Contract or no contract.”
“I promise.”
But as Lizzie left the restaurant, she wondered if she could keep that promise.
That night, the event was a gallery opening in SoHo. Smaller than their previous appearances, more intimate. Oliver arrived at exactly 6:30 in his usual black car.
“You look beautiful,” he said as she slid into the backseat.
“Thank you,” Lizzie replied automatically. Then caught herself—she’d promised herself no warmth, no softness. “The dress cost four thousand dollars. It should look good.”
“It’s not the dress.”
She ignored that, pulling out her phone. But she could feel Oliver watching her, could sense the weight of words he wasn’t saying.
“Stop staring,” she said without looking up.
“Sorry.”
Traffic was terrible. They sat in gridlock for twenty minutes, the silence stretching awkward and heavy.
“Can I ask you something?” Oliver finally said.
“That depends on the question.”
“Do you ever think about how things were? Before?”
Lizzie’s fingers tightened on her phone. “No.”
“Liar.”
She looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”
“You’re lying. I can tell.” He met her eyes. “You get this look when you’re lying. Your left eye twitches, just slightly. It always did.”
The fact that he remembered such a small detail made her chest ache. She hated that he remembered. Hated that she remembered him remembering.
“What I think about is none of your business,” she said coldly.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Oliver looked away, out the window at the gridlocked traffic. “I just wonder sometimes if you remember any of the good parts. Or if I’ve poisoned all of it.”
“Does it matter?”
“To me? Yes.”
“Well, it shouldn’t.” Lizzie set down her phone, determined to end this conversation. “The past is dead, Oliver. What we had is dead. This—” She gestured between them. “—is business. Stop trying to make it something else.”
“I’m not trying—”
“You are. With the compliments and the meaningful looks and the questions about what I’m thinking. Stop.”
The car lurched forward as traffic finally moved. Oliver was quiet for a long moment.
“You’re right,” he said eventually. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Good. That’s what she wanted. Clear boundaries. Professional distance.
So why did she feel disappointed?
The gallery opening was packed with New York’s art elite. Lizzie and Oliver made their entrance to the expected flutter of interest and whispers. She introduced him to potential clients, let him charm them with his business acumen, used his presence to elevate her own status.
It was working perfectly.
Until she overheard a conversation in the bathroom.
“—can’t believe she took him back—”
“She didn’t take him back. It’s obviously fake.”
“You think?”
“Please. You see the way she looks at him? Pure calculation. She’s using him to rehabilitate her image.”
“Smart.”
“Or sad. Imagine having to pretend to date the man who humiliated you just to be taken seriously professionally.”
Lizzie stood frozen in the bathroom stall. Was that what people thought? That she was desperate? Pathetic?
The women left, still gossiping. Lizzie waited until the bathroom was empty, then stared at herself in the mirror.
Was this worth it? The money, the connections, the professional success—was it worth the whispers? The speculation? The constant performance?
Her phone buzzed. Oliver.
Where are you? Some people want to meet you.
Right. Back to the show.
She rejoined Oliver in the gallery, pasting on her professional smile. He looked at her closely.
“You okay?”
“Fine. Who wants to meet me?”
But as he introduced her to a collector interested in commissioning her for a project, Lizzie felt the cracks in her careful control widening.
This was supposed to be simple. Use Oliver, take his money, advance her career, never look back.
Instead, she was starting to remember why she’d loved him. The way he listened when she talked about her work. The way he made space for her in conversations with powerful people instead of dominating them. The small kindnesses—remembering how she took her coffee, standing when she left the table, making sure she had a coat when it was cold.
All the things he’d done before. When it was real.
Or had it ever been real? Had she just imagined the connection because she’d wanted it so badly?
“Lizzie?”
She blinked. Oliver was watching her with concern, the collector having wandered away.
“Sorry. Just tired.”
“We can leave if you want.”
“No. We should stay.”
But she let him lead her to a quieter corner, away from the crowd. They stood side by side, looking at a large abstract painting neither of them particularly liked.
“Lizzie, if this is too much—”
“It’s not.”
“—I can release you from the contract. Keep the money, no penalties. I won’t hold you to this if it’s making you miserable.”
She turned to look at him, searching for the catch. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I already destroyed you once. I won’t do it again.” His expression was sincere, painfully vulnerable. “Even if it means losing this second chance.”
There it was. The crack widening into a fissure.
“I’m fine,” Lizzie said firmly. “Four and a half months left. I can handle it.”
But as Oliver nodded and led her back into the crowd, Lizzie wondered if that was another lie her left eye had given away.
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