Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~8 min read
The updated contracts arrived Wednesday morning via courier.
I sat at Leander’s kitchen island—everything was “Leander’s” even though I lived here now—and read through thirty pages of legal language that basically said: You’re ours for nine more months. Smile pretty.
Leander signed his copy without reading it. Just flipped to the signature page and scrawled his name like he’d done this a thousand times.
“You didn’t read it,” I said.
“I pay lawyers to read things. I just execute.”
“What if there’s something terrible buried in the fine print?”
“Then my lawyers will sue Mia’s lawyers and I’ll get richer. Either way, I win.” He slid the contract to his assistant Pamela, who’d arrived to notarize. “Your turn.”
I hesitated. Pen poised over the signature line.
This was it. The point of no return. Six months had felt like a manageable lie. Nine months felt like choosing to be someone else entirely.
“Having second thoughts?” Leander asked.
“No. Just… first thoughts. About what this means.”
“It means you get paid. That’s all it ever means.”
I signed.
Pamela notarized both copies and left. Leander poured himself coffee like he hadn’t just locked us into nine months of manufactured romance.
“The gala’s tonight,” he said. “Car arrives at seven. We’ll make an entrance around seven-thirty. Stay close to me. Don’t wander. And for god’s sake, don’t tell anyone this is fake.”
“I signed an NDA. I’m legally prohibited from honesty.”
“Good. Remember that when people ask invasive questions about our sex life.”
I choked on my coffee. “They’re going to ask about our sex life?”
“High society’s favorite topic besides money. Just smile mysteriously and change the subject.”
“To what?”
“My business acumen. Your documentary work. Literally anything except the truth.”
Cameras had been filming this entire exchange. We were getting better at forgetting they were there. Or maybe we were just getting better at performing regardless of audience.
That scared me more than I wanted to admit.
I spent the afternoon in my room, preparing for the gala like I was preparing for battle. Hair styled. Makeup perfect. The black dress that cost more than my first car.
When I emerged, Leander was waiting in the living room wearing Tom Ford and devastating confidence.
He looked up from his phone. Stopped. Just stared.
“You look—” He cleared his throat. “That dress is perfect.”
“Galina chose well.”
“It’s not the dress.” His eyes tracked from my shoes to my face. “You look beautiful, Morgana.”
The compliment felt too real. Like he’d forgotten we were performing.
“Thanks,” I managed. “You clean up nice too.”
“I try.” He offered his arm. “Ready to lie to Chicago’s elite?”
“Born ready.”
The car was a town car, not a limo—”less ostentatious,” Leander explained. We sat in the backseat in practiced proximity. His hand found mine automatically.
“For the cameras,” he murmured.
But there were no cameras in the car. Just us. And his thumb tracing circles on my palm.
The gala was at the Field Museum, because apparently, rich people liked throwing parties surrounded by dinosaur bones. We arrived to camera flashes and shouted questions.
“Morgana! How does it feel dating Chicago’s most eligible bachelor?”
“Leander! Is the engagement real?”
He pulled me close. Protective. “We’re happy. That’s all that matters.”
Inside, the museum had been transformed into something from a fairytale. String lights. Ice sculptures. More champagne than should be legal.
And everywhere, people who looked like they’d been raised in boardrooms and finished in wealth.
“Stay calm,” Leander whispered. “They can smell fear.”
“Comforting.”
A woman approached. Sixties, dripping diamonds, expression predatory.
“Leander Cork. And this must be the famous Morgana.” She air-kissed near my cheeks. “Beatriz Morrison. Richard Morrison’s wife.”
Morrison. As in Leander’s ex-fiancée’s family.
“Pleasure,” I managed.
“I saw your little performance at the wedding. Very dramatic. Though I must ask—slapping Leander in front of cameras? Was that staged for publicity?”
“It was an accident,” Leander said smoothly. “Misunderstanding caught on film. We’ve since moved past it.”
“Have you? How convenient that it happened right before your reality show announcement.” Beatriz smiled like a shark. “Almost like it was planned.”
“Nothing about us is planned,” I said. Finding my voice. “We’re chaotic. Unexpected. Real.”
“Real.” She tested the word. “How refreshing. Most relationships in this world are transactions. But you two? You’re different?”
“We are,” Leander said. His hand tightened on my waist. Possessive.
“Then I wish you luck. Though I do wonder…” Beatriz’s eyes glittered. “What happens when the cameras stop rolling? Will you still be real then?”
She walked away, leaving poison in her wake.
“She knows,” I whispered.
“She suspects. Different thing.” Leander guided me toward the bar. “Don’t let her get in your head. She’s trying to rattle us.”
“Working.”
He ordered drinks. Handed me champagne. “Look at me.”
I did. Those gray eyes serious.
“For the next four hours, you’re my fiancée. Not my business arrangement. Not my fake girlfriend. Mine. Believe that. Make everyone here believe it.”
“How?”
“By forgetting it’s not true.” He touched my face. Gentle. Like he had that night in my room. “Just for tonight, let yourself be the woman I’m falling for. The rest will take care of itself.”
“That’s method acting. Not lying.”
“There’s no difference in our world.”
The gala was exhausting. We made rounds. Met people whose names I’d never remember. Smiled through questions about our “whirlwind romance” and deflected inquiries about the wedding date.
“We’re taking it slow,” Leander would say. “Enjoying being engaged.”
“He’s old-fashioned,” I’d add. “Wants to do this right.”
Lies building on lies until I forgot what truth felt like.
Around ten, we escaped to a quieter gallery. Dinosaur fossils towering above us, party sounds distant.
“You’re doing well,” Leander said.
“I’m exhausted.”
“Welcome to high society. It’s all performance, all the time.”
“How do you stand it?”
“I don’t. I just endure it.” He loosened his tie. “My ex—Felicity—loved this world. Thrived in it. I think that’s partly why she betrayed me. I could never be the social butterfly she needed. Just the cash machine.”
“You’re more than your money.”
“Am I? Because most days I’m not sure.”
The vulnerability caught me off-guard. We were alone. No cameras. No audience. Just honesty in a dark gallery.
“You’re brilliant,” I said. “Calculated, yes. But also strategic. You see patterns others miss. Build things others can’t imagine. That’s not just money. That’s vision.”
“Morgana—”
“I’m serious. You’re not the villain everyone paints you as. You’re just…” I searched for the right word. “…self-protective. After being burned.”
“And you’re not the chaos agent everyone thinks you are. You’re—”
“A mess?”
“Passionate. Real. Unflinchingly honest even when lying.” His hand found my waist again. Pulled me closer. “We’re both performers playing our roles.”
“What’s your role?”
“The ruthless CEO who can’t be touched.”
“And mine?”
“The truth-seeker who exposes corruption.”
“Both lies?”
“Both half-truths. Which makes them perfect lies.”
We stood in the shadows, inches apart, the weight of our fabricated relationship pressing down.
“If this were real,” I whispered, “what would you do right now?”
“Kiss you. Properly. Not for cameras or viewers. Just because I wanted to.”
“And if I let you?”
“Then we’d both be making a terrible mistake.”
“Probably.”
His thumb traced my jawline. “We should get back to the party.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
The moment stretched. Dangerous. Loaded with possibilities neither of us could afford.
Then someone cleared their throat.
We jumped apart.
Mia Barton stood in the gallery entrance, assistant filming, smile knowing.
“Got some great footage there. The chemistry is perfect.” She winked. “Though next time, maybe save the near-kisses for when we have better lighting?”
She walked away. We stood frozen, realizing we’d just performed intimacy without meaning to.
Or had we meant to?
I didn’t know anymore.
“We should—” Leander started.
“Yeah.”
We returned to the party. Spent the rest of the night playing our parts. Perfect couple. Perfect lies.
But something had shifted in that dark gallery.
Lines had blurred.
And I was terrified they’d never un-blur again.
In the car home, Leander’s hand found mine.
“For the cameras?” I asked.
“There are no cameras in the car.”
“Then why—”
“Because it feels right. And I’m tired of fighting what feels right just because it’s not real.”
I didn’t pull away.
Because he was right.
Nothing about us was real.
But it was starting to feel like it could be.
And that was the most dangerous lie of all.
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