Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~9 min read
The morning after the gala, I woke to find Leander gone.
Not just out of the penthouse—his bedroom door open, bed made with military precision, no trace he’d been there except lingering cologne.
A note on the kitchen counter:
Emergency board meeting. Back tonight. Don’t do anything dramatic while I’m gone. -L
I stared at the note. At his familiar handwriting. At the casual assumption I’d cause problems.
He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Production arrived at nine. Iliana wanted to film a “morning after” segment—me waking up in Leander’s penthouse, getting ready, living the billionaire lifestyle.
“Where’s Leander?” she asked.
“Work emergency.”
“Perfect! We’ll do a solo piece. Viewers love seeing the girlfriend navigating his world without him.” She positioned cameras. “Just be yourself.”
Myself was currently wearing his old Northwestern t-shirt I’d found in the laundry. It smelled like him—cedar and expensive soap and something uniquely Leander.
I should’ve changed. Worn my own clothes.
I didn’t.
The cameras rolled while I made coffee in his kitchen, sat at his piano—I didn’t know he played—and explored rooms I hadn’t entered yet.
His office was locked.
His gym smelled like exertion and determination.
But his bedroom…
I shouldn’t have gone in. It violated the unspoken boundaries we’d established.
I went in anyway.
The room was minimalist. King bed with charcoal bedding. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A bookshelf I hadn’t expected.
I browsed the titles. Business theory. Philosophy. And tucked between them—a worn copy of “The Alchemist.”
The kind of book idealistic college kids read. Not ruthless CEOs.
I pulled it out. Pages dog-eared. Margin notes in his handwriting.
“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it.” He’d underlined this. Written next to it: Bullshit.
I smiled despite myself.
A knock on the doorframe. Production assistant.
“Iliana wants you in the living room. We’re filming your confessional.”
Confessionals were the worst. Just me, a camera, and questions designed to extract drama.
“How are you feeling about the relationship?” the producer asked off-camera.
I arranged my face into something believable. “Overwhelmed. Excited. Terrified. All of it.”
“Are you falling for him?”
The question I’d been avoiding.
“I don’t know. He’s… complicated. Guarded. But underneath that, there’s something real. Something worth fighting for.”
“Even though you come from completely different worlds?”
“Maybe that’s why it works. We balance each other. He needs someone who challenges him. I need someone who pushes me to think bigger.”
“Do you love him?”
I hesitated. The camera caught it.
“I’m getting there. Slowly. But yeah. I think I am.”
The lie tasted different this time. Less like deception. More like possibility.
After filming wrapped, I escaped to my room and called Atkins.
“I’m losing my mind.”
“What happened?”
“I’m starting to believe my own lies. I wore his shirt to bed. I explored his room. I told cameras I’m falling for him and it felt… true.”
“Oh honey. You’re in trouble.”
“I know! This was supposed to be easy. Take the money, play the part, walk away. But Leander’s not who I thought he was. He reads Coelho. He’s vulnerable when he thinks no one’s watching. He makes me coffee exactly how I like it without asking.”
“Those are all acts, Morgana. He’s performing too.”
“Is he? Because last night at the gala, we had this moment. No cameras. Just us. And it felt—”
“Real?”
“Yeah.”
Atkins sighed. “Do you trust him?”
“I don’t know. He’s still keeping secrets. The board meeting this morning—he left at dawn and won’t say why. There’s a locked office I can’t access. Entire parts of his life closed off.”
“Maybe he’s protecting you.”
“From what?”
“From whatever he’s really doing. Morgana, you signed up for fake dating. If real feelings develop and he doesn’t reciprocate, you’re going to get destroyed.”
“He has feelings too. I know he does.”
“Or he’s a better actor than you are.”
That possibility haunted me all day.
Leander returned around eight. Exhausted. Tie loosened. The carefully controlled mask slipping.
“Bad meeting?” I asked from the couch.
“Hostile takeover attempt. One of my competitors is buying up shares. Trying to force me out.” He poured whiskey. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Is this connected to the show? To us?”
“Everything’s connected to everything in my world.” He sat across from me. Not beside. Distance deliberate. “How was your day?”
“Cameras. Confessional. The usual performance.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I’m falling for you. That this is real despite impossible odds. The script we’ve been selling.”
“Is it just a script?”
The question hung between us. Loaded. Dangerous.
“Is it for you?” I countered.
He studied his whiskey. “I don’t know anymore. When we started this, everything was clear. Business arrangement. Mutual benefit. But now…” He looked up. “Now I’m wearing your coffee order memorized. Noticing when you steal my shirts. Thinking about you during board meetings.”
My breath caught.
“That’s just good performance. Method acting.”
“Is it?” He set down his glass. Moved to the couch beside me. Close. Too close. “Or have we both been lying so long we forgot where performance ends and truth begins?”
“Leander—”
“I know about the contract extension. Know you took it partly for money but also because you wanted more time. With this. With me. Don’t lie and say you didn’t.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Then tell me the truth. Right now. No cameras. No audience. Do you feel anything real for me?”
I should say no. Protect myself. Maintain boundaries.
“Yes,” I whispered. “God help me, yes.”
His hand found my face. Cupped my cheek like he had at the gala.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Why afraid?”
“Because I feel it too. And I promised myself I’d never feel anything real again after Felicity. That I’d stay controlled. Safe. But you—” His thumb traced my bottom lip. “—you make me want to be reckless.”
“We can’t. This is still fake. The contract—”
“Fuck the contract.” He leaned closer. “Just for tonight, can we pretend none of it matters? That we’re just two people who found each other despite impossible circumstances?”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Everything about us is dangerous.”
His lips hovered near mine. Waiting. Asking permission.
I should pull away. Maintain professional distance. Remember this was all performance.
I kissed him instead.
The world narrowed to his mouth on mine. His hands in my hair. Five days of tension exploding into desperate need.
This wasn’t performing. This was real. Raw. Inevitable.
He pulled back slightly. Breathing hard. “Bedroom. Now. Before I forget every reason this is a terrible idea.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“I know.” He kissed me again. “Your room or mine?”
“Mine. Closer.”
We barely made it. His hands everywhere. My dress—his shirt—discarded on the floor. Falling into bed in a tangle of want and bad decisions.
“Tell me to stop,” he said. “Tell me this is just physical. Just stress relief.”
“Would you believe me?”
“No. But I’d try to.”
I pulled him down. “Then don’t ask me to lie.”
What happened next was neither performance nor contract obligation. It was choice. Desire. The inevitable collision of two people who’d been circling each other since that first catastrophic wedding.
Afterward, we lay in tangled sheets, moonlight painting patterns on skin, reality slowly returning.
“We just violated our contract,” I said.
“Technically, the contract says we can’t have implied intimacy unless we both consent. We consented.”
“That clause is for fake implications. This was real.”
“Was it?” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Or were we just performing really convincingly?”
“Leander—”
“I’m serious. How do we know the difference anymore? We’ve been lying for a week. Maybe we just lied our way into bed.”
The words stung because part of me wondered the same thing.
“Do you regret it?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Ask me in the morning when the cameras start rolling again and we have to pretend nothing changed.”
“But something did change.”
“Did it? Or did we just add a new layer to the performance?” He lay back. Stared at the ceiling. “This is why I don’t do real, Morgana. Because the second things get complicated, I can’t tell what’s genuine and what’s self-preservation.”
“So that’s it? We have sex and you immediately emotionally retreat?”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re being a coward.”
He sat up. “Excuse me?”
“You felt something real. It scared you. So you’re reframing it as performance. Pretending it meant nothing because that’s safer than admitting you’re capable of actual connection.” I sat up too. “That’s textbook emotional cowardice.”
“And you’re so brave? You fell into bed with your fake fiancé and now you’re surprised I’m not declaring undying love?”
“I’m not asking for love! I’m asking for honesty about what just happened!”
“What just happened is we made a massive mistake that’s going to complicate everything.”
“Only if you let it.”
“How can I not? We share an apartment. Work the same show. Are bound by contract for nine more months. This isn’t a one-night stand we can walk away from. This is us, trapped together, having crossed a line we can’t uncross.”
He was right. I hated that he was right.
“So what do we do?”
He stood. Found his clothes. Started dressing.
“We pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to performing. Maintain professional distance.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I’m going to my room. Where I should’ve gone the second I walked in tonight instead of—” He stopped. “Get some sleep. Cameras tomorrow at seven.”
He left.
I sat alone in my bed, sheets still warm from his body, heart breaking over something that was supposed to be fake.
But it hadn’t felt fake.
It had felt like the most real thing I’d done in weeks.
And Leander was right—we’d just complicated everything.
I pulled his discarded shirt from the floor. Put it back on. Breathed in cedar and soap and regret.
My phone buzzed. Text from him:
I’m sorry. For everything. You deserve better than someone who can’t tell the difference between performance and reality.
I typed back:
Maybe we both do. But we signed the contract. So we survive nine more months.
How?
One lie at a time. Just like we have been.
That’s bleak.
That’s reality TV.
He didn’t respond.
I lay in bed, wearing his shirt, wondering how I’d gone from documentary filmmaker with principles to reality star falling for her fake fiancé.
The answer was simple: one choice at a time. One compromise. One lie building on another until I couldn’t find my way back to who I’d been.
Leander was wrong about one thing though.
This wasn’t performance.
It was self-destruction.
And I had no idea how to stop it.
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