Updated Nov 26, 2025 • ~8 min read
Lizzie was in the middle of a design review when her receptionist buzzed through.
“There’s someone here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment.”
Lizzie frowned at her computer screen. She’d been running her own design studio for two months now, operating out of a sleek office in the Flatiron district. Business was booming—turns out being the most famous jilted bride in recent history made you memorable to potential clients.
“Tell them to schedule something for next week,” Lizzie said.
A pause. “He says it’s urgent. He’s very… insistent.”
Something in her receptionist’s tone made Lizzie look up. “Who is it?”
“Oliver Richardson.”
Lizzie’s blood went cold. “Tell him I’m not available.”
“I did. He said he’ll wait.”
“Tell him to leave.”
“I… tried. He’s very polite but very stubborn.”
Of course he was. Oliver Richardson didn’t take no for an answer—one of the qualities she’d once found attractive. Now it just infuriated her.
“Call security,” Lizzie said.
“Actually, before you do that—” Her receptionist’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s kind of famous? There are people in the lobby taking photos. It might be better to just hear him out and get him to leave quietly?”
Lizzie closed her eyes, fury burning through her veins. Even now, Oliver was creating drama, forcing her hand. The man was a walking catastrophe.
“Fine. Sixty seconds. That’s all he gets.”
She heard Oliver before she saw him—his footsteps in the hallway, familiar and unwelcome. Then he appeared in her doorway, and Lizzie’s breath caught despite herself.
He looked terrible.
Worse than at the gallery. His suit was rumpled, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw covered in stubble like he’d forgotten to shave. He looked like he’d lost a fight with insomnia and lost badly.
Good.
“Sixty seconds,” Lizzie said coldly, not standing. “Starting now.”
Oliver stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “I know you don’t want to see me—”
“Fifty-five seconds.”
“—and I don’t blame you. What I did was unforgivable. But I need your help.”
That made her laugh. Bitter, sharp, incredulous. “You need MY help? Are you serious right now?”
“I know how it sounds—”
“It sounds insane. It sounds like you’ve lost your mind.” Lizzie stood, her hands flat on her desk. “You destroyed my life, Oliver. Publicly. Humiliated me in front of everyone. Married my sister. And now you have the audacity to ask me for help?”
“Yes.” He met her eyes, and there was something raw in his gaze. Desperate. “Because you’re the only person who can.”
“Forty seconds.”
“My company is failing. The board wants me out. My reputation is destroyed. Everything I’ve built is falling apart.” He took a step closer. “I need to rehabilitate my image. And you’re the only person who can make that happen.”
“How?” Lizzie demanded. “By forgiving you? By telling the world it’s all okay, that I’ve moved on, that I don’t mind you marrying my sister at our wedding?”
“By dating me.”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Lizzie stared at him, certain she’d misheard. “What?”
“Not really dating. A fake relationship. Six months, public appearances only. Enough to show the world that we’ve reconciled. That I’m not the monster they think I am. That—”
“Get out.”
“Lizzie—”
“Get. Out.” She pointed to the door, her hand shaking with rage. “Right now, or I’m calling security.”
“Hear me out. Please.” Oliver pulled out a folder from his briefcase, laid it on her desk. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m proposing a business arrangement. One that benefits both of us.”
“I don’t need anything from you.”
“Don’t you?” He gestured around her office. “You’re rebuilding. Starting over. I’m guessing business is good but not great. People are interested in the scandalous bride, but they’re not taking you seriously as a designer.”
The words hit uncomfortably close to home. Lizzie had landed several clients, yes. But most wanted her for the notoriety, not the talent. She’d had three pitches rejected this week alone by serious companies who cited “brand alignment concerns.”
She was still the jilted bride. Still defined by what Oliver had done to her.
“What are you suggesting?” she asked against her better judgment.
“A fake relationship. We appear together at events. I make a public apology—a real one, scripted by you. We let the media speculate about reconciliation. After six months, we part ways amicably. You get exposure for your business, legitimacy beyond the scandal. I get my reputation back, my board off my back.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it?” Oliver flipped open the folder. “Because I’m prepared to pay you one million dollars for six months of your time. Plus full creative control over the narrative. Plus a guarantee of at least three major brand partnerships through my connections.”
Lizzie’s eyes widened despite herself. One million dollars. That was… that was more than she’d make in five years.
“You’re insane,” she said.
“Possibly. But I’m also desperate.” Oliver’s voice dropped, became something raw and real. “I lost everything that mattered, Lizzie. You, my company, my future. This is my last chance to save what’s left. And it’s your chance to take revenge.”
That caught her attention. “Revenge?”
“You could make my life hell for six months. Make me do whatever you want, say whatever you want. Control the entire thing. I’d be at your mercy.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Sounds appealing, doesn’t it?”
It did. God help her, it did.
The idea of having Oliver Richardson at her beck and call, having to smile for cameras while privately hating every second, having to play the devoted almost-boyfriend while she controlled everything—
It was intoxicating.
“I’d have full control?” Lizzie asked slowly.
“Complete. The contract would specify that you make all decisions regarding public appearances, statements, everything. I’d just show up where you tell me and say what you script.”
“And after six months?”
“Clean break. We issue a joint statement about remaining friends, moving on, wishing each other well. You get your payout, your career boost, and the satisfaction of making me grovel for six months. I get a chance to not be completely destroyed.”
Lizzie walked to her window, looking out at the Manhattan streets below. This was crazy. Absolutely insane. She should throw him out, never speak to him again, let him crash and burn the way he deserved.
But…
One million dollars. Revenge. Control. A chance to show the world she wasn’t the pathetic victim they thought she was.
“I need to think about it,” she said.
“How long?”
“A week.”
“I have until tomorrow morning to respond to the board. I need your answer by tonight.”
Lizzie turned, eyebrow raised. “Pressuring me? That’s your strategy?”
“I’m being honest. I’m out of time.” Oliver’s shoulders sagged, exhaustion written in every line of his body. “You have every right to say no. To tell me to go to hell. But if there’s any part of you—any small part—that wants to see me suffer while also benefiting yourself, this is your chance.”
He left the folder on her desk and walked to the door.
“Tonight,” he repeated. “If I don’t hear from you by eight PM, I’ll accept the board’s terms and step down. And you’ll never hear from me again.”
Then he was gone.
Lizzie stood alone in her office, staring at the folder. Slowly, she opened it.
Inside was a contract. Pages and pages of legal language, but certain sections were highlighted:
Payment: $1,000,000 USD, paid in full upon contract signing.
Duration: Six (6) months from date of signing.
Authority: Elizabeth Miller shall have final authority over all public statements, appearances, and narrative decisions.
Termination: Either party may terminate this agreement at any time, with E. Miller retaining all payments already made.
It was real. He was serious.
Lizzie sat down, her mind racing. This was manipulative. Probably morally wrong. Definitely a terrible idea.
It was also the most power she’d had over Oliver Richardson in over a year.
Her phone buzzed. Ruby.
“Please tell me the rumor I just heard isn’t true,” her best friend said. “Please tell me Oliver Richardson didn’t just walk into your office.”
“He did.”
“And you didn’t kill him?”
“Not yet.” Lizzie stared at the contract. “Ruby, what if I told you I was considering something completely insane?”
“How insane?”
“Fake dating Oliver to rehabilitate both our reputations while also making him miserable and getting paid a million dollars for it.”
Silence. Then: “I’m coming over. Don’t sign anything until I get there.”
Lizzie hung up and looked at the contract again. Oliver’s signature was already on the bottom of the last page, neat and final.
All she had to do was sign next to it.
Six months of controlled revenge. Six months of making Oliver Richardson pay for what he’d done while also advancing her own career. Six months of power.
Or she could walk away. Refuse his offer. Never see him again.
The clock on her desk ticked toward evening. Lizzie had until eight PM to decide.
It was almost too easy.
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