Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~9 min read
Leander avoided me for three days.
Not obviously—we still filmed together, attended events, maintained the illusion. But the moments between cameras? Gone. He worked late. Left early. Became a ghost in his own penthouse.
Our penthouse.
When did I start thinking of it that way?
“He’s punishing you,” Atkins said over FaceTime.
“For what? Suggesting we stop lying to ourselves?”
“For making him feel something. Men like Leander don’t do vulnerability. You forced his hand.”
“I didn’t force anything. I just asked if this could be real.”
“Same thing to someone who’s built their entire life on control.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Friday night, Mia called an emergency meeting. Both of us required.
We sat on opposite ends of Leander’s couch—our couch—while Mia paced with manic energy.
“The proposal is trending before it even happens. We need to capitalize. So Sunday night, public proposal at the Merchandise Mart gala. You’ll—”
“Sunday?” I interrupted. “That’s two days.”
“Perfect timing. Strikes while interest is high.” She showed us her tablet. Social media exploded with speculation. #LeorganaProposal trending. Fan theories. Betting pools on how he’d ask.
They’d even shipped us a couple name.
“This is insane,” I said.
“This is gold,” Mia countered. “Leander, I’ll have your speech by tomorrow. Memorize it. Morgana, act surprised. Cry if you can. Make it memorable.”
“What if I don’t want scripted?” Leander’s first words in days.
“Then improvise. I don’t care as long as it’s spectacular.” She gathered her things. “Oh, and one more thing. The network wants you to move into the same bedroom. Separate rooms isn’t believable for an engaged couple.”
“No,” Leander said immediately.
“Contract clause twelve, subsection—”
“I know what the contract says. The answer is still no.”
“Then you’re in breach. Should I call the lawyers?”
Silence. Mia had us cornered.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll share a room.”
Leander’s eyes cut to me. Betrayal. Anger.
“Excellent!” Mia practically skipped out. “Move Morgana’s things by tomorrow. Cameras will document the transition. Very romantic.”
After she left, Leander stood. “You had no right—”
“To agree to what we’re already doing? We’ve slept in the same bed half the nights this week.”
“That was choice. This is coercion.”
“Everything about this is coercion! We signed the contract!”
“Stop hiding behind the contract! You wanted this. Admit it.”
“Fine! Yes! I want to share a room with you. I want to stop pretending we’re strangers playing house. I want—” I stopped.
“Want what?”
“This to be real. I want you to stop running every time things get complicated. I want us to actually try instead of performing trying.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then explain it to me!”
He crossed the room. Got in my space. Fury and something else crackling between us.
“You’re asking me to trust you. To let you in. To risk being destroyed again when you inevitably realize I’m not worth the effort.”
“That’s not—”
“It is. Because everyone leaves, Morgana. Everyone realizes I’m too damaged, too cold, too focused on business to actually connect. Felicity figured it out. Every woman since figured it out. You’ll figure it out too.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then one of us gets their heart broken when the contract ends and we remember this was never real to begin with.”
“But it is real. That’s what you don’t get. Somewhere between wedding crashes and fake proposals, this became real.”
“For you maybe. I don’t know how to do real anymore.”
“Then learn. With me.”
We stared at each other. Inches apart. Years of damage between us.
“I’ll move my things to your room,” I said quietly. “Because the contract requires it. But Leander? I’m tired of fighting for someone who won’t fight back. So you need to decide. Is this a performance? Or are you brave enough to let it be something more?”
I went to my room—soon to be our room—and started packing.
He didn’t follow.
Saturday, cameras documented my move. Producers framed it as romantic progression. Look how in love they are. Sharing space. Building a life.
If only they knew.
Leander worked in his office all day. Locked door. Do not disturb.
By evening, my things were integrated into his minimalist bedroom. My chaos invading his order. It felt like a metaphor for us.
I was unpacking the last box when he appeared in the doorway.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“Too late. You already are.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He stepped inside. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About being brave enough to try.”
“And?”
“I don’t know if I am. But I want to be. For you.”
My heart stuttered. “What does that mean?”
“It means tomorrow’s proposal? I’m not reading Mia’s script. I’m saying what I actually feel. Let the chips fall where they may.”
“Leander—”
“And it means I’m done running. Done pretending this is just business. You were right—somewhere in all the lies, this became real. At least for me.”
I couldn’t breathe. “You mean that?”
“I’m terrified. But yes.”
He crossed to me. Cupped my face. Kissed me like we had all the time in the world instead of seven more months and a contract hanging over our heads.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t seen before.
Hope.
Fragile. Easily broken. But there.
“Sunday’s proposal,” I said. “If you’re really going to speak from the heart, I need to know—are you proposing to fake-Morgana? Or the real one?”
“There’s a difference?”
“There’s everything different.”
“Then the real one. The woman who crashed a wedding. Who challenges me. Who makes me want to be better than I am.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “That’s either the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard or the best performance you’ve ever given.”
“With us, isn’t it always both?”
He pulled me to the bed—our bed now. Held me like I was precious. Like I mattered.
“I can’t promise this won’t be a disaster,” he murmured. “I’m damaged. Difficult. Probably going to hurt you a hundred times without meaning to.”
“Same. I’m stubborn. Impulsive. Likely to call you out at the worst possible moments.”
“Perfect. We’re both disasters.”
“Absolutely catastrophic.”
“Then let’s be catastrophic together.”
We fell asleep tangled together. No performance. No cameras. Just us and the terrifying possibility that maybe this could work.
Sunday arrived with overwhelming production.
The Merchandise Mart gala was Chicago’s event of the season. The city’s elite. National media. Perfect stage for a perfect moment.
Galina dressed me in something between armor and fantasy—midnight blue, dramatic back, enough sparkle to be memorable.
“You look like a bride,” she said.
“I’m not getting married. Just fake-proposed to.”
“Is it still fake if you both want it to be real?”
Good question.
Leander wore Tom Ford black. Devastating and controlled. But his hand shook slightly when he took mine.
“Nervous?” I asked.
“Terrified.”
“Me too.”
“Good. At least we’re honest about something.”
The gala was spectacular excess. Ice sculptures. Champagne towers. Orchestra playing as we arrived.
Cameras everywhere. Documenting our every move.
Mia found us immediately. “The speech—”
“I’m not using it,” Leander said.
“But I wrote—”
“I know. Thank you. But I’m doing this my way.”
She looked like she wanted to argue. Then saw his expression and backed down.
“Fine. But make it good. We’ve got twelve million people watching the livestream.”
Twelve million. No pressure.
We circulated. Smiled. Played our parts. But underneath, tension hummed.
This was it. The moment that would define whether we were still performing or had crossed into something real.
Around nine, Leander pulled me to the center of the ballroom. Orchestra faded. Everyone turned to watch.
“Morgana Duffy,” he said. Loud enough for the room. “Three weeks ago, you crashed into my life. Literally. You were chaos and conviction and everything I’d convinced myself I didn’t need.”
I stared. This wasn’t Mia’s script.
“I fought it. Fought you. Told myself this was just business. Just a contract. Just temporary.” He took my hands. “But somewhere between fake dates and real conversations, I fell for you. The real you. Not the performance.”
Tears started. I couldn’t stop them.
“You make me want to be braver. Better. More honest about what I feel. And what I feel—” His voice cracked slightly. “—is love. Complicated, messy, absolutely terrifying love.”
He dropped to one knee. Pulled out a ring I’d never seen.
Not the prop Mia provided. Something else. Vintage. Delicate. Real.
“This was my grandmother’s,” he said quietly. “The only thing I have from her. She told me to give it to someone worth fighting for. Someone who’d fight back.”
Oh god. This was really happening.
“So I’m asking—not for cameras, not for the show, but for real—will you marry me? For real?”
The room held its breath.
Twelve million people waiting for my answer.
But I only saw him. Kneeling. Vulnerable. Offering everything.
“Yes,” I whispered. Then louder, “Yes. For real.”
He slid the ring on my finger. Stood. Kissed me while the room erupted in applause.
But under the cheers and camera flashes and Mia’s victorious expression—
We’d just turned a lie into truth.
Or told the biggest lie yet.
I didn’t know which.
And that scared me more than anything.
Because loving Leander Cork was either the bravest thing I’d ever done.
Or the biggest mistake.
And I wouldn’t know which until it was too late to back out.
But I’d said yes.
To him. To us. To the terrifying possibility of real.
No taking it back now.
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