Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~8 min read
The stylist arrived Tuesday morning with an entourage and enough designer clothes to fill a boutique.
Her name was Galina, and she looked at me like I was a particularly challenging renovation project.
“Hmm,” she said, circling me like a predator. “Good bone structure. Terrible fashion sense. We can work with this.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t be sensitive, darling. You’re dating a billionaire now. You need to look the part.” She snapped her fingers. Assistants descended with garment bags. “The gala is black-tie. Leander will wear Tom Ford. You need something that complements without matching. Think elegant rebel.”
“I am an elegant rebel.”
“You’re a documentarian in combat boots. Different aesthetic entirely.”
She wasn’t wrong.
For the next two hours, I was poked, prodded, and stuffed into dresses that cost more than my car. Every outfit came with commentary from the production team, who filmed everything for “authentic content.”
“Too formal,” Galina declared, dismissing a navy gown.
“Too young,” she said about a pink cocktail dress.
“Too—oh.” She stopped when I emerged in a black dress. Simple silhouette, dramatic back, slit that showed just enough leg to be interesting. “That. That’s the one.”
I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself. The dress transformed me from documentary filmmaker to someone who belonged in Leander’s world.
“I can’t afford this.”
“Mr. Cork’s account. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not his charity case.”
“No, you’re his fake fiancée on a reality show. Different transaction entirely.” Galina handed me shoes—Louboutins, red soles, dangerous heels. “Practice walking in these. You have thirty-six hours.”
After the stylist left, I found Leander in the living room, reviewing contracts on his laptop. He glanced up when I entered.
“How was dress shopping?”
“Humiliating. Expensive. Necessary.”
“The trifecta of high society.” He closed his laptop. “I need to brief you on the gala. Who’ll be there, what to expect, how to handle certain conversations.”
“I know how to talk to people.”
“Not these people. Chicago’s elite are sharks. They’ll smell weakness and exploit it. Ask invasive questions. Test you.” He stood. “Let’s practice.”
“Practice what?”
“Introductions. Small talk. Playing the part.” He extended his hand. “Morgana Duffy, lovely to meet you. How did you and Leander meet?”
I took his hand. “We crashed the same wedding. Very romantic.”
“Wrong. That’s too honest. Try: We met at a difficult moment and found unexpected connection in shared purpose. Much better for consumption.”
We practiced for an hour. Him throwing scenarios, me fumbling through acceptable lies. By the end, I could smile through questions about our “whirlwind romance” without flinching.
“You’re getting better,” he said.
“At lying?”
“At playing the game. There’s a difference.”
My phone rang. Mia.
“Excellent timing,” she chirped. “I’m downstairs. Need to discuss something important. Both of you.”
She arrived five minutes later with her ever-present tablet and calculating smile.
“Good news,” she announced. “The pilot episode did phenomenal numbers. Twelve million streams in forty-eight hours. The network wants to extend the season.”
“Extend how?” I asked.
“Originally six months, twelve episodes. Now they’re proposing nine months, eighteen episodes. Same rates, extended timeline. Thoughts?”
“No.” Leander’s answer was immediate.
“Why not?” Mia looked genuinely surprised.
“Because that wasn’t the deal. Six months. That’s what we signed for.”
“Think of the exposure—”
“The answer is no. My business interests require—”
“Actually,” I interrupted, “what’s the new payment structure?”
Leander’s eyes cut to me. Warning.
Mia smiled. “Seven-fifty instead of five hundred. Plus extended media opportunities after the show ends.”
Two hundred fifty thousand more. That was… everything. I could fund three documentaries with that money. Build a sustainable career.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“Morgana.” Leander’s voice was ice. “We need to discuss this privately.”
“What’s to discuss? It’s more money for doing what we’re already doing.”
“For three more months of our lives.”
“Your life is already planned out. Mine needs funding. This is my chance.”
We stared at each other. Real tension crackling between us.
Mia’s assistant was definitely filming this.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” Mia said, not moving.
“We need privacy,” Leander said.
“Bedrooms are off-camera. Talk there. I’ll wait.”
Leander grabbed my arm—not rough, but firm—and pulled me toward his office.
Inside, he shut the door. “What are you doing?”
“Making a smart business decision.”
“By extending our fake engagement for three more months? Do you have any idea what that means?”
“It means I get more money. Why do you care? You’re rich. This is pocket change to you.”
“It’s not about the money! It’s about—” He stopped.
“About what?”
He ran a hand through his hair. Frustrated. “I agreed to six months because I could compartmentalize it. Package it as temporary. Nine months starts to feel… real.”
“Nothing about this is real.”
“Exactly. And the longer we do this, the harder it becomes to remember that.”
I crossed my arms. “You think I’m going to actually fall for you? Trust me, I’m well aware this is performance.”
“I’m not worried about you falling for me. I’m worried about—” He stopped again.
“About what, Leander? Spit it out.”
“About myself. About spending nine months pretending to be someone I’m not. Someone capable of real connection. And forgetting how to be anything else.”
The confession caught me off-guard.
“That’s ridiculous. You know who you are.”
“Do I? Because five years ago I thought I was someone who could love and trust. Then Felicity destroyed that. Now I’m someone who makes business arrangements instead of relationships. If I spend nine months performing love, I might start believing I’m capable of it again. And that’s dangerous.”
“Why? Why is hope dangerous?”
“Because it leads to expectation. And expectation leads to disappointment. I’d rather be exactly who I am than pretend to be better and fail.”
We stood in his office, two liars arguing about the dangers of their own lies.
“I need this,” I said finally. “I need the money, the exposure, the platform. If that means three more months, I’m taking the deal.”
“Even if it destroys what little integrity you have left?”
“I sold my integrity when I signed the first contract. Might as well get paid properly for it.”
He looked at me like I’d confirmed something he’d suspected. “Then you’re more like me than you want to admit.”
“Maybe I am. Is that so terrible?”
“Yes. Because you still have a chance to be better. I didn’t.”
The sadness in his voice broke something in me.
“I’m taking the extension,” I said quietly. “With or without your agreement.”
“It needs both of us.”
“Then say yes. You’ll barely notice three extra months.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” But he opened the door. Called to Mia, “Fine. We’ll do the extension. Same terms, longer timeline.”
Mia beamed. “Excellent! I’ll have updated contracts by tomorrow. This is going to be the biggest show of the season. You two are magic together.”
After she left, Leander and I stood in awkward silence.
“I’m going to my office,” he finally said. “I have actual work that doesn’t involve performing for cameras.”
“Leander—”
“Don’t. Just… don’t.” He walked away.
I stood in his living room—our living room—and felt the weight of what I’d just done.
Extended our lie for money.
Proved him right about my compromised principles.
And worst of all—part of me was relieved. Because six months had started to feel too short. Like I’d barely begun to understand Leander Cork before I had to leave.
Now I had nine months.
Nine months to unravel his secrets.
Nine months to lie to millions.
Nine months to forget what was real and what was performance.
My phone buzzed. Atkins.
Saw the contract extension news. You’re really doing nine months with him?
Yeah. Better money.
Or you’re falling for your own lies.
I’m not falling for anything. This is business.
Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.
I didn’t respond. Because Atkins was wrong.
This was absolutely, definitely, only about the money.
The fact that I kept thinking about Leander’s confession about being scared to hope—that meant nothing.
The fact that I’d wanted more time with him before I even knew about the extension—coincidence.
The fact that my heart rate spiked every time he walked into a room—
That was just stress.
Definitely stress.
Nothing else.
I was not developing feelings for Leander Cork.
I was simply… invested in the performance.
That’s what I told myself.
Over and over.
Until I almost believed it.
Almost.
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