Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~9 min read
Week three of living with Leander and I couldn’t remember who I’d been before.
The woman who crashed weddings wearing combat boots felt like fiction. Now I wore Louboutins to coffee shops and answered texts from Leander’s publicist about “messaging strategy.”
I’d become exactly what I swore I’d never be: complicit in my own commodification.
“You’re overthinking again,” Atkins said over video chat.
“I’m overthinking the exact right amount. I sold myself for reality TV. That requires significant overthinking.”
“Or you could enjoy the ride. You’re living in a penthouse, dating a billionaire—”
“Fake dating.”
“The chemistry looks pretty real in last night’s episode.”
I’d watched it too. The date. The kiss. The way Leander looked at me like I mattered.
Perfect editing. Perfect lies.
Except when we’d gone to bed after the cameras stopped, he’d held me like I was precious. Kissed my forehead. Whispered things I pretended not to hear.
Real or performance?
I didn’t know anymore.
“I have to go,” I told Atkins. “Filming in twenty.”
“Be careful. You’re starting to look like someone in love.”
“It’s called acting.”
“Is it?”
I hung up before I had to answer.
The day’s filming was a charity event. Leander’s company was donating to some tech initiative for underserved youth. We’d smile for cameras, write big checks, prove billionaires had hearts.
I wore the armor Galina provided—navy dress, modest neckline, pearls that cost more than my student loans.
Leander emerged from his room looking devastating in a charcoal suit.
“Ready to make me look charitable?” he asked.
“That’s the job.”
“Is it still just a job?”
The question caught me off-guard. “What else would it be?”
“I don’t know. But we should probably figure it out before—” He stopped.
“Before what?”
“Nothing. Car’s waiting.”
The charity event was at Navy Pier. Chicago’s elite in formal wear pretending to care about struggling kids while sipping champagne and networking.
I hated every second.
Leander worked the room with practiced ease. Introducing me. His hand never leaving my lower back. Possessive without being oppressive.
“Morgana, this is Bradford Alford. Alford Industries. Bradford, my fiancée.”
Fiancée. The word felt heavier each time he used it.
Bradford was sixty, silver-haired, calculating eyes. “The wedding crasher. I saw the video. Very dramatic.”
“I have my moments.”
“Leander’s lucky to have found someone with such… passion.” The word dripped innuendo.
“I’m the lucky one,” Leander said smoothly. “She keeps me honest.”
“Does she? How novel.” Bradford sipped his drink. “I heard you’re facing a takeover attempt. Unfortunate timing with the new relationship.”
“The relationship has nothing to do with business.”
“Doesn’t it? Public displays of commitment during corporate instability. Very strategic. Almost like you planned it.”
Leander’s hand tightened on my waist. “I don’t plan who I fall in love with.”
“No? Could’ve fooled me. You’ve always been methodical about everything else.”
They stared at each other. Corporate warfare disguised as small talk.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I said, saving Leander from whatever response was brewing. “We promised to meet the scholarship recipients.”
I pulled him away.
“Thank you,” he muttered once we were alone.
“For what?”
“Rescuing me. Bradford’s one of the shareholders trying to push me out. He was baiting me.”
“Did he just imply our relationship is fake?”
“He implied it’s strategic. Different accusation, same result—makes me look calculating.”
“You are calculating.”
“I know. But I’d prefer people didn’t notice.” He grabbed champagne from a passing tray. “This is exhausting.”
“Being performatively in love?”
“Being scrutinized. Every interaction analyzed. Every moment potential ammunition for my enemies.”
“Welcome to reality TV. It’s literally designed to weaponize your life.”
He looked at me. Really looked. “Do you regret it? Signing the contract?”
Before I could answer, someone cleared their throat.
Mia Barton. Looking victorious.
“Enjoying the event?” she asked.
“Immensely,” Leander lied.
“Good. Because I have news. The network wants to accelerate your season finale.”
“We’re three weeks in,” I said. “There’s no finale.”
“There will be. They want a proposal. Public. Dramatic. Something viewers remember.”
“We’re already engaged. That’s the premise.”
“Fake engaged. Real proposal. On camera. Chicago’s elite as witnesses. Make it spectacular.”
Leander’s expression went carefully blank. “No.”
“It’s not optional. The contract has a ratings clause. If we hit certain metrics—which we have—you’re required to participate in producer-mandated storylines. This is one of them.”
“That’s manipulative—”
“That’s television.” She smiled. “You’ll do it at the gala next week. I’ll have your proposal speech written. Morgana will say yes. We’ll get massive ratings. Everyone wins.”
She walked away.
I stared at Leander. “Did she just script our proposal?”
“Apparently.”
“Can she do that?”
“We signed the contract. She can do whatever she wants as long as it drives viewership.”
“I thought the engagement was already the story. Why do we need a public proposal?”
“Because real engagement is boring. They want the moment. The spectacle. The—” He stopped. Looked at me. “You said yes to fake dating. Can you say yes to fake proposing?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. This is getting complicated.”
“It’s been complicated since the moment I met you.”
We stood in the middle of a charity event, surrounded by cameras and lies and people who thought they knew our story.
“What if I say no?” I asked quietly.
“Then we’re both in breach of contract. Owe millions. Lose everything.”
“So we have no choice.”
“We always have a choice. The question is whether we’re willing to pay for it.”
I thought about my documentaries. About the money I’d already spent planning projects. About the platform this show had given me.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “The fake proposal. But Leander? I need you to be honest. Is any of this real for you? Or am I just another business transaction?”
The question I’d been avoiding for three weeks.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Around us, the party continued. Cameras rolled. Everyone performed their assigned roles.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I genuinely don’t know anymore. And that terrifies me.”
“Same.”
“So what do we do?”
“We keep lying. Keep performing. And hope we figure out the truth before it destroys us both.”
“That’s bleak.”
“That’s reality TV.”
We returned to the party. Played our parts. Perfect couple with perfect secrets and perfectly complicated truths they couldn’t admit.
That night, back at the penthouse, Leander found me on the balcony. I stood looking out at Chicago, wrapped in one of his sweaters I’d stolen.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“About how I got here. How I went from principled documentary filmmaker to reality star in three weeks. How I let myself get so deep I can’t tell real from fake anymore.”
He joined me at the railing. “Want to know a secret?”
“Always.”
“I don’t think there’s a difference. Real, fake—it’s all just narratives we tell ourselves. The only question is whether the narrative serves us or destroys us.”
“Philosopher billionaire. Who knew?”
“I read Camus. Don’t tell anyone. Would ruin my corporate shark image.”
I laughed despite everything.
“There it is,” he said softly. “Your real smile. The one that’s not for cameras.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
“Your eyes. They light up differently when it’s genuine.” His hand found mine. “Like now.”
“This is dangerous. Us, alone, saying true things.”
“I know.”
“We should stop.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
“Leander?”
“Yeah?”
“If the contract didn’t exist. If we’d met under normal circumstances. Would you have asked me out?”
He considered. “Honestly? No. You’d have slapped me at a wedding, I’d have written you off as chaos incarnate, we’d never have spoken again.”
“Romantic.”
“But,” he continued, “if some alternate universe forced us into proximity? If I’d been required to actually see you? Then yes. I’d have fallen exactly as hard as I’m falling now.”
My breath caught. “You’re falling?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I asked first.”
“Coward.”
“Takes one to know one.”
We smiled at each other. Real smiles. No cameras. Just us and the truth we couldn’t quite admit.
“The proposal next week,” I said. “How do you want to play it?”
“However you need me to. This is your show too.”
“What if I wanted it to be real?”
The question surprised us both.
“Real?” he repeated.
“Just a thought. Forget I said—”
“No. Don’t backtrack.” He turned to face me fully. “Are you saying you want a real engagement? Real relationship? Despite the contract and lies and nine months of performance?”
“Maybe I’m saying the performance is becoming real. Or was real all along and we just needed permission to admit it.”
“That’s insane.”
“Is it? We’re already living together. Already sleeping together. Already playing at being in love. Why not just… be in love? For real?”
“Because real means risk. Real means someone gets hurt when this ends. And it will end, Morgana. Contracts always expire.”
“Then we renegotiate.”
“Life doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not? We’re already rewriting every rule we started with.”
He stared at me like I’d suggested something impossible. Maybe I had.
“I need to think,” he said finally.
“Think about what?”
“Whether I’m brave enough to let this be real. Whether you are. Whether either of us can survive if it falls apart.”
He went inside. Left me on the balcony with unanswered questions and the growing certainty that I’d fallen for my fake fiancé.
Really fallen. Not performance. Not contract. Just genuine, complicated, messy feelings.
And I had no idea if he felt the same.
Or if I was about to spectacularly humiliate myself on national television.
One week until the proposal.
One week to figure out if we were still playing pretend.
Or if we’d accidentally stumbled into something real while performing lies.
I was betting on heartbreak.
But hoping for something else entirely.
And that hope?
That was the most dangerous lie of all.
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