Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~12 min read
Saturday morning, I stood outside CorkTech Tower with two duffel bags and a growing sense of doom.
The building was glass and steel and money. Seventy stories of corporate intimidation in the heart of downtown Chicago. The kind of place where security checked your net worth before letting you in the elevator.
Leander’s assistant—a severe woman named Pamela who looked like she ate incompetence for breakfast—met me in the lobby.
“Ms. Duffy. You’re late.”
I checked my phone. 9:02 AM. “By two minutes.”
“Mr. Cork values punctuality.” She scanned me head to toe, clearly finding me wanting. “The penthouse is on the top floor. Here’s your key card, building access codes, and a list of rules.”
“Rules?”
“No parties, no unauthorized guests, no posting on social media without approved content, no—”
“I get it. Be invisible unless the cameras are rolling.”
Her lips thinned. “The cameras are always rolling, Ms. Duffy. Remember that.”
The penthouse elevator required three different security clearances. By the time it opened on the seventieth floor, I was already regretting every life choice that led here.
The doors slid open directly into the apartment.
Holy. Shit.
I’d seen nice apartments. This wasn’t nice. This was obscene.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the entire Chicago skyline. Open floor plan with a kitchen that belonged in magazines. Living room bigger than my entire last apartment. Art that was definitely real and definitely worth more than I’d make in a lifetime.
And in the middle of it all, wearing workout clothes and dripping sweat, Leander Cork doing pull-ups on a bar I hadn’t noticed.
He dropped down when I entered, barely winded. “You’re late.”
“So I’ve been told. Nice place. Do you oil the floors with orphan tears or is that just regular money-scented polish?”
“Funny.” He grabbed a towel, wiped his face. “Your room is down that hallway, second door on the left. Cameras are being installed in common areas tomorrow. Bedrooms and bathrooms are private.”
“How generous.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank the lawyers who negotiated basic privacy rights.”
I hauled my bags toward the hallway. “Where’s your room?”
“End of that hall. Opposite side from yours. Maximum distance. You’re welcome.”
“Again with the generosity. I’m overwhelmed.”
“Save the sarcasm for the cameras. Viewers love manufactured banter.”
My room was—predictably—perfect. King bed. Attached bathroom with a shower that had six different settings. A balcony overlooking the lake. The kind of space that made you forget what problems felt like.
I unpacked quickly. I didn’t own much. Clothes, laptop, camera equipment, a box of research materials for projects I couldn’t fund.
Yet.
When I emerged, Leander had changed into dark jeans and a black henley. Casual but still somehow expensive. His hair was still damp from the shower.
“Coffee?” he offered.
“Is it poisoned?”
“Not yet. Still deciding if you’re worth the effort.”
He poured two cups from a machine that probably cost more than my rent. The coffee was, annoyingly, perfect.
We stood in his massive kitchen, two strangers about to perform the world’s most lucrative lie, drinking overpriced coffee in uncomfortable silence.
“We should establish ground rules,” he said finally.
“Besides the building’s list of thou-shalt-nots?”
“Personal rules. Boundaries.” He set down his cup. “I don’t do mess. Keep your space clean, your stuff organized. I work early—gym at five, office by seven. Don’t disrupt my routine.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“And when the cameras are on, we’re a united front. No contradicting me, no making me look foolish, no breaking character.”
“Same goes for you. I’m not your prop.”
“Agreed. We’re equals in this performance.”
I laughed. “Are we? Because I’m pretty sure you’re the billionaire CEO and I’m the broke filmmaker playing dress-up in your world.”
“You signed the same contract I did. That makes you my partner in crime.” He leaned against the counter. “Speaking of which—we need a story. How we got past the wedding disaster to this.”
“Mia said we fell in love despite impossible odds.”
“Vague. We need specifics. When did I allegedly realize I was attracted to you? When did you stop hating me? How did we go from viral enemies to engaged?”
I thought about it. “What if you sought me out after the wedding? To apologize for being harsh. We got coffee. Talked. Realized we’d both been trying to stop it for the same reasons.”
“Bonding over mutual heroism. America loves that.” He nodded. “Then what?”
“You asked me to dinner. I said no. You persisted. Eventually, I gave in. We discovered we had more in common than we thought.”
“Like what?”
“Both stubborn. Both willing to crash weddings to expose fraud. Both…” I trailed off, unsure.
“Both using other people for our own agenda?” he finished. “The cameras won’t show that part, but it’s accurate.”
The honesty surprised me. “You don’t pretend to be noble.”
“Why bother? We both know what this is. A business arrangement. You get money, I get image control. Everyone wins except the viewers who believe we’re real.”
“Doesn’t that bother you? Lying to millions of people?”
“Does it bother you?”
I considered. “I tell truths for a living. Documentary filmmaking is about exposing reality. This is the opposite of everything I believe in.”
“And yet here you are. Living in my penthouse. Preparing to lie on national television.” His gray eyes pinned me. “So either your principles are negotiable, or you’re a hypocrite. Which is it?”
“Maybe both.”
“At least you’re honest about your dishonesty. I can work with that.”
My phone rang. Paisley. My sister hadn’t called since the wedding.
“I need to take this,” I said.
“Take it in your room. I have calls to make.”
I retreated to my new bedroom, heart pounding. “Pais?”
“Are you kidding me?” Her voice was ice. “A reality show? With Leander Cork? You destroy my wedding and then sign up to play house with a billionaire?”
“It’s not—how did you find out?”
“It’s all over the news! ‘Wedding Crasher Signs For Love Reality Show.’ There are photos of you moving into his building! Morgana, what the hell?”
“I needed the money—”
“You needed attention. Like always. You can’t just let me have one thing, can you? First, you ruin my wedding. Now you’re turning our family drama into entertainment.”
“Your wedding was a fraud! Warren was using you!”
“And you couldn’t have told me privately? You had to make a spectacle?” She was crying. “Mom’s not speaking to me. Dad’s furious. Everyone’s talking about us. About how the Duffy sisters are a disaster.”
Guilt twisted my gut. “I was trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection. I need you to stay out of my life.” She hung up.
I sat on the obscenely comfortable bed and let myself feel it. The weight of destroying my sister’s happiness, even if I’d been right to do it. The cost of being a truth-teller in a world that preferred comfortable lies.
A knock on my door. “Morgana?”
Leander. I wiped my eyes. “What?”
He opened the door slightly. “Mia’s coming over. Production meeting. Cameras start filming tomorrow instead of next week. Network wants to capitalize on the buzz.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Problem?”
“I thought we’d have time to prepare. Practice.”
“We don’t need practice. We just need to not kill each other on camera.” He studied me. “You’ve been crying.”
“Sister called. She’s thrilled about my new career in reality television.”
“Let me guess—she thinks you’re exploiting family drama for fame and money.”
“Perceptive.”
“She’s not entirely wrong.”
I stood. “If you’re here to make me feel worse—”
“I’m here to tell you it doesn’t matter. What your sister thinks, what anyone thinks. We signed contracts. The show happens regardless of how we feel about it.” He stepped into the room. “You can feel guilty on your own time. But when those cameras turn on, you’re all in. Understood?”
“You’re kind of an asshole.”
“I’m a realist. There’s a difference.” He moved to leave, then paused. “For what it’s worth? You did the right thing stopping that wedding. Your sister will realize that eventually.”
“You think so?”
“No. But it sounded comforting.” He smirked. “See? I can fake empathy when needed. We’ll be fine.”
After he left, I pulled out my laptop and did what I always did when life got complicated—I researched.
Leander Cork’s history wasn’t just business acquisitions and stock prices. There was a story underneath. A pattern.
Five years ago, he’d been engaged. Felicity Morrison—daughter of tech mogul Richard Morrison. The engagement ended spectacularly when Felicity was caught embezzling from CorkTech to fund her own startup. Leander pressed charges. She went to prison for three years.
The tabloids painted him as ruthless. Heartless. The man who sent his own fiancée to prison.
But buried in the articles was another detail: Felicity had been working with her father, Richard Morrison. The embezzlement was part of a larger plan to destroy CorkTech from the inside.
Leander hadn’t just caught a thief. He’d uncovered corporate espionage.
And apparently, he’d never dated seriously since.
A knock on the door. “Mia’s here,” Leander called.
I closed my laptop and went to meet my fate.
Mia sat on Leander’s expensive couch like she owned the place, tablet in hand, assistant hovering nearby.
“Perfect! You’re both here. Let’s talk logistics.” She pulled up footage. The wedding. The slap. Everything that had gone viral.
“The network loves you two. Fifteen million views across platforms. #MorganaVsLeander is still trending. So we’re accelerating the timeline. Cameras here tomorrow at eight AM. You’ll have breakfast together, go about your day, let viewers see the ‘real’ you.”
“There’s nothing real about this,” I said.
“That’s what makes it perfect.” Mia smiled. “Now, first public appearance is Wednesday. Tech gala. Black tie. You’ll attend as an engaged couple. Leander will introduce you to Chicago’s elite. Morgana, you’ll be charming but slightly out of your element. Play up the fish-out-of-water angle.”
“I’m not playing anything. I’ll actually be out of my element.”
“Even better. Authenticity sells.” She swiped to more notes. “Social media strategy—you both need to post. Cute couple photos, behind-the-scenes content, nothing too polished. We want aspirational but achievable.”
“I don’t do social media,” Leander said.
“You do now. Part of the contract.” Mia pulled up an example post. “Something like this—Morgana in your kitchen, morning coffee, caption: ‘Starting to understand what all the fuss is about. #MorningsWith Morgana.'”
I groaned. “That’s horrible.”
“That’s viral content. And you’ll post it tomorrow morning.” She stood. “Any questions?”
“Yeah,” I said. “What happens when people realize this is fake? When the contract ends and we suddenly ‘break up’?”
Mia’s smile turned sharp. “That’s six months away. By then, you’ll both have gotten what you wanted. Morgana has money and fame. Leander has his image rehabilitated. And I have a hit show. Everyone wins.”
“Except the people who believed it was real.”
“They’ll recover. They always do.” She headed for the door. “Get comfortable with each other. The cameras pick up everything—tension, chemistry, lies. Make sure what they see is the right kind of compelling.”
After she left, I turned to Leander. “Does any of this bother you? The manipulation, the lies, the—”
“No.” His answer was immediate. “I learned a long time ago that everyone’s playing a role. At least this time I’m getting paid for it.”
“That’s bleak.”
“That’s reality.” He poured himself whiskey from a crystal decanter. “You want to know why I really agreed to this?”
“I assumed it was the image rehabilitation Mia mentioned.”
“Partially. But mostly?” He took a sip. “It’s because I wanted to see if someone like you could survive someone like me. If your idealism would last six months in my world.”
“That’s not an experiment. That’s cruelty.”
“It’s honesty. You walked into this thinking you’d take the money and walk away unchanged. But you won’t. By the time this ends, you’ll be just as cynical as I am.”
“You sound pretty sure about that.”
“I’ve never been wrong about people.” He finished his drink. “Get some rest. Tomorrow the performance begins. And Morgana? Try to look like you don’t hate me quite so much. America needs to believe we’re falling in love.”
“I’ll do my best. Try to look like you have a soul.”
“Now who’s being cruel?” But he almost smiled.
I went to my room and stared at the Chicago skyline. Somewhere out there was my old life. My principles. My truth.
And I’d just sold them all for five hundred thousand dollars and a man who collected broken things.
The question wasn’t whether I’d survive six months with Leander Cork.
The question was whether I’d recognize myself when it was over.
My phone buzzed. Text from Atkins:
I saw the news. Please tell me you know what you’re doing.
I typed back:
I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
That’s what I was afraid of.
I set the phone down and tried to sleep in a bed that cost more than my car.
But sleep didn’t come.
Because somewhere in this penthouse, separated by expensive walls and cheaper lies, was Leander Cork.
The man I’d fake-love for six months.
The man who thought he could break my idealism.
The man who might be right.
And tomorrow, America would watch us pretend to fall in love.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
The answer was everything.
But I wouldn’t know that until I was in too deep to escape.
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