Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~11 min read
The address Mia Barton sent was in the Gold Coast. The kind of building where doormen wore white gloves and judged you for existing.
I showed up in the same outfit from last night—I owned exactly three outfits and they were all some variation of black leather and defiance—and ignored the doorman’s obvious disdain.
Twenty-fourth floor. Corner unit. The door opened before I could knock.
Mia Barton was petite, blonde, perfectly put together in a cream silk blouse and tailored pants. She looked like she’d never sweated a day in her life. The kind of woman who made you feel underdressed just by breathing.
“Morgana. Come in.”
Her apartment was ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan. Minimalist furniture that probably cost more than my annual rent. Art on the walls that looked important.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“No. Just tell me why I’m here.”
She smiled. “Direct. I like that. Sit.”
I sat on a white couch that felt like sitting on a cloud made of judgment.
Mia settled across from me, tablet in hand. “I’m going to show you something. Try not to overreact.”
She turned the screen. A video played. The wedding. My dramatic entrance. Warren lunging at me.
And then—
Oh god.
The footage had been edited. Slowed down. The angle made it look like after Warren stumbled, I’d deliberately turned and slapped Leander Cork across the face. Hard.
Except that’s not what happened. I’d spun around when Warren ran, hand flying out to maintain balance. My palm had connected with Leander’s cheek purely by accident—I hadn’t even realized it happened until I saw his expression shift from annoyed to furious.
But this video made it look intentional. Vicious. Like I’d crashed a wedding specifically to assault a billionaire.
“That’s not—I didn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter what actually happened,” Mia said calmly. “What matters is what the internet thinks happened. And the internet thinks Morgana Duffy, brave documentary filmmaker, slapped Leander Cork, notorious corporate shark, at a wedding. You’re a hero to millions.”
I stared at the view count. Three million. In less than twelve hours.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“Because I want to make you a deal.” She set down the tablet. “I’m a producer. Reality television, mostly. Relationship shows, competitive dating, that sort of thing. My newest project is called ‘Love Incorporated’—CEOs looking for real love in a world where everyone wants their money.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“It’s going to be massive. And I want you and Leander Cork as the centerpiece couple.”
I laughed. Actually laughed. “You want me and the guy I allegedly assaulted to be on a dating show together? Have you lost your mind?”
“Not dating. Engaged. Fake engaged, obviously. You’ll pretend to fall in love despite your dramatic first meeting. America loves a redemption arc.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’ll pay you five hundred thousand dollars.”
The number hit me like a physical blow. “What?”
“Five hundred thousand. Plus expenses. Six-month contract. All you have to do is play Leander Cork’s fiancée on camera. Attend events, live in his penthouse, let the cameras document your ‘relationship.'” She leaned forward. “By the end, your documentary career will be funded for life. You’ll have the platform you’ve always wanted. All I need is six months of your time.”
My mind raced. Five hundred thousand dollars. That was… everything. Every dream I’d chased, every project I couldn’t fund, every time I’d chosen ramen over rent.
“Why me? You could cast an actress—”
“Because you’re real. That slap, that video—you’re already famous. Leander Cork is one of the most eligible bachelors in America and he’s famously private. Getting him to agree to any relationship show is impossible. But with you? The woman who publicly humiliated him? The internet is already shipping you two. The chemistry is undeniable.”
“There’s no chemistry. He hates me.”
“Even better. Hate to love is a classic arc.” Mia pulled out a contract. Actual printed pages. “I need an answer today. Leander’s already reviewing his version of the offer. If you both sign, we start filming next week.”
“Leander agreed to this?”
“Not yet. But he will. Because I’m offering him something he needs—control over his public image during a hostile takeover attempt. His ex-girlfriend is causing trouble, making him look unstable. A stable, loving relationship would neutralize that narrative.”
“So I’m a business move.”
“Everyone’s a business move in his world. You might as well get paid for it.” She slid the contract across the glass coffee table. “Read it. Take your time. But know that if you say no, I’m offering this to someone else. And they won’t be as interesting as you.”
I picked up the contract. Skimmed it. The terms were insane. I’d have to live with Leander. Attend events. Pretend to be in love. Let cameras document everything except bedroom activities—though even that had a clause about “implied intimacy if both parties consent.”
“There’s an NDA,” I noticed.
“Of course. You can’t tell anyone it’s fake. Not your best friend, not your sister, nobody. As far as the world knows, you and Leander Cork fell in love despite impossible odds. The truth stays between us, him, and my legal team.”
“For six months.”
“Six months. Then you’re free, rich, and famous. Your documentary career will explode. You’ll have offers you can’t imagine.”
I thought about my apartment—if you could call it that. A studio in a building where the heat didn’t work and the neighbors dealt drugs. I thought about my sister, who wasn’t speaking to me. My mother, who’d called me a selfish disaster.
Five hundred thousand dollars could change everything.
“I need to think about it.”
“You have until five PM today. After that, the offer expires.” Mia stood, indicating the meeting was over. “For what it’s worth? I think you and Leander are perfect for each other. You’re both self-destructive in fascinating ways.”
She walked me to the door.
“One more thing,” I said. “That video. The slap. Can you take it down?”
“Why would I? It’s the reason you’re valuable. Don’t fight your viral moment, Morgana. Ride it.”
I left feeling dirty. Like I’d just been evaluated and found useful, not human. Just a product in Mia Barton’s entertainment empire.
My phone rang. Atkins.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling all morning!”
“Sorry. Had a weird meeting.”
“Weirder than going viral for slapping a billionaire?”
“I didn’t actually slap him. The angle just made it look—”
“Doesn’t matter. The internet has decided you’re their new hero. ‘Woman Slaps Corrupt CEO At Wedding’ is trending. People are making memes. Someone started a GoFundMe for your ‘legal defense’ even though you’re not being charged with anything.”
I sank onto a bench outside Mia’s building. Lake Michigan spread out before me, gray and infinite.
“Atkins, I need advice. If someone offered you life-changing money to do something morally questionable, would you do it?”
“How questionable?”
“Pretending to date someone you hate for a reality show.”
Silence. Then, “Is this about Leander Cork?”
“Maybe.”
“Morgana. That man is dangerous. I’ve been researching him since last night. He’s a shark. Ruthless. He destroys companies for sport. Last year he bought out a competitor just to fire the CEO who’d rejected him at a conference. He’s not someone you want to fake-date.”
“It’s just for show. Six months. Then I’m out with enough money to fund my work for years.”
“Or he eats you alive and spits out the bones. Have you met any of your heroes? None of them got there by being nice.”
She had a point. But five hundred thousand dollars…
“I have until five to decide.”
“Then decide not to. Come to my place. We’ll brainstorm other ways to fund your documentary. Safe ways.”
After we hung up, I pulled up everything I could find about Leander Cork.
CEO of CorkTech Industries. Self-made billionaire. Started his first company at twenty-two, sold it for fifty million by twenty-five. Built an empire on strategic acquisitions and ruthless business tactics.
Personal life: private. One long-term relationship five years ago that ended badly—the tabloids called it “Chicago’s Messiest Breakup.” Since then, he’d been photographed with models and actresses but never dated anyone seriously.
Until now. Until me. Allegedly.
The photos from the wedding were everywhere. Us in frame together. Him looking furious. Me looking wild. The slap that wasn’t a slap but looked perfect for narrative purposes.
MorganaVsLeander trending.
People were already invested in a story that hadn’t even happened yet.
At four-thirty, I made my decision.
I called Mia Barton.
“I’m in. Where do I sign?”
“Excellent. Come back to my building. Seventh floor, conference room. Leander will be there. You’ll sign together.”
“He agreed?”
“Twenty minutes ago. Apparently, you both have the same terrible judgment.”
The seventh floor conference room was all glass and chrome. Leander stood by the window, staring out at the city. He’d changed since yesterday—now in a simple black sweater and dark jeans that somehow still looked expensive.
He turned when I entered. Those cold gray eyes assessed me.
“You actually came.”
“Money talks.”
“Apparently.” He moved to the conference table where Mia had laid out two contracts. “I assume you’ve read the terms?”
“Enough of them.”
“Then you know what you’re agreeing to. Six months of playing house. Pretending to tolerate each other. Lying to everyone we know.”
“Sounds like a typical relationship, honestly.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “At least you’re honest about being dishonest.”
Mia breezed in with her assistant. “Perfect! You’re both here. Let’s make this official.”
She walked us through the contract. The money—$500K for me, undisclosed amount for Leander. The timeline—six months from first filming date. The requirements—minimum three public appearances per week, shared living quarters, cooperation with producers.
The penalties for breaking contract were severe. If either of us backed out or revealed the truth, we’d owe millions in damages.
“Any questions?” Mia asked.
Leander looked at me. “Can you handle six months in close quarters with someone you claim to hate?”
“Can you handle six months with someone who allegedly slapped you on camera?”
“That’s not what happened.”
“I know. But it’s what the world thinks happened.”
Something shifted in his expression. Respect, maybe. “At least we agree on one thing—we’re both liars now.”
“Liars with excellent contracts,” Mia chirped. “Sign here, here, and initial here.”
I signed. My hand shook slightly. This was insane. I was agreeing to fake-date a billionaire for six months on national television. Everything about this screamed disaster.
But I signed anyway.
Leander signed too. His hand steady, expression unreadable.
“Congratulations!” Mia beamed. “You’re officially America’s newest couple. Cameras start next week. Until then, get to know each other. Build chemistry. Learn to tolerate being in the same room.”
“Impossible,” we both said simultaneously.
Mia laughed. “See? Already in sync. This is going to be perfect.”
She left us alone in the conference room. Two strangers bound by signatures and lies.
Leander extended his hand. “I suppose we should introduce ourselves properly. Leander Cork. Billionaire shark who eats companies for breakfast.”
I took his hand. His grip was firm, warm. “Morgana Duffy. Broke filmmaker who ruins weddings for fun.”
“At least we know what we are.”
“Terrible people?”
“Perfect for each other.” He released my hand. “Fair warning—I don’t do this halfway. If we’re selling a relationship, I sell it completely. That means hand-holding, pet names, public displays of affection. Can you handle that?”
“Can you handle that I’ll probably hate every second?”
“I’m counting on it. Hate me all you want. Just do it convincingly enough that America believes we’re in love.”
“Why did you really agree to this?” I asked. “It’s not just about your image. You could hire a PR team for that.”
His eyes turned to ice. “I have my reasons. Just like you have yours. We don’t need to be friends, Morgana. We just need to not destroy each other for six months.”
“Low bar.”
“With us? I’m not so sure.”
He left. I stood alone in the conference room, contract signed, fate sealed.
What had I just done?
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number that I suspected was Leander’s assistant:
Moving day is Saturday. Pack light. The penthouse is fully furnished. Welcome to your new life.
I looked out at Chicago sprawling below. Somewhere in that city was my sister who hated me. My best friend who thought I was making a mistake. My tiny apartment that wouldn’t be mine much longer.
And somewhere was Leander Cork, the man I’d fake-love for six months.
The man whose eyes held secrets I couldn’t read.
The man who was either my salvation or my destruction.
I wouldn’t know which until it was far too late to back out.
But I’d signed the contract.
And Morgana Duffy never broke her word.
Even when keeping it might break her instead.
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