Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~7 min read
The producers wanted our “first official date” for the show.
Never mind that Leander and I had spent two weeks living together, sleeping together, existing in complicated proximity that defied simple labels.
They wanted a manufactured first date. Dinner, romance, the whole performance.
So we dressed up. Him in dark slacks and a button-down. Me in a red dress Galina had left—”for moments that require impact.”
The restaurant was Alinea. Three Michelin stars. Impossible reservations unless you were a billionaire CEO with a reality show contract.
Cameras discreetly positioned throughout. Microphones hidden in flower arrangements. Nothing about this was private or real.
But when Leander pulled out my chair and his hand lingered on my shoulder, the touch felt genuine.
“You look stunning,” he said. For the cameras. For me. Both.
“You clean up nice yourself.”
We ordered. Molecular gastronomy that was more art than food. Each course a tiny, perfect representation of excess.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Leander said. “Real. Not for the show.”
I glanced at the nearest camera. Wondered if this counted as content or confidentiality.
“I wanted to be a war correspondent when I was younger. Document truth from conflict zones. Make people see what they were ignoring.”
“What changed?”
“I realized conflict zones aren’t just overseas. They’re in boardrooms. Corporate offices. Anywhere power and money intersect.” I met his eyes. “That’s why I started investigating business corruption.”
“And now you’re dating a CEO. Ironic.”
“Dating is generous. We’re contractually obligated to pretend affection.”
“Is that what this is? Pretend?”
The question hung between us. Loaded. Dangerous.
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Me neither.” His hand found mine across the table. “But I’m willing to find out. If you are.”
This was good television. Perfect romantic beats. But it also felt terrifyingly real.
“I’m scared,” I admitted. “Of this. Of you. Of what happens when the cameras stop and we’re left with whatever’s underneath.”
“What if what’s underneath is better than the performance?”
“What if it’s worse?”
“Then at least we’ll know. No more wondering.”
Our food arrived. Deconstructed this. Foamed that. Everything beautiful and intimidating.
Like us.
“How’s the hostile takeover going?” I asked.
His expression darkened. “They’re gaining ground. Buying up shares faster than I can counter. If they get controlling interest, I’m out.”
“Is that why you agreed to the show? Image rehabilitation to maintain shareholder confidence?”
“Partially. But also—” He hesitated. “—this is going to sound manipulative.”
“We’re literally in a fake relationship for a reality show. I think we’re past worried about manipulation.”
“Fair point. The truth is, being on the show makes me harder to remove. If they force me out while I’m starring in a hit reality show, it looks petty. Vindictive. Bad publicity.”
“So I’m not just your fake fiancée. I’m your takeover defense mechanism.”
“You’re both. And more. But yes, there are strategic benefits to our arrangement.”
I should be angry. Feel used. But instead, I felt oddly relieved.
At least he was being honest.
“Does Mia know? That you’re using the show as corporate leverage?”
“Mia knows everything. She’s the one who suggested it. My image rehabilitation helps her show. My takeover defense helps me. Your career launch helps you. Everyone gets what they want.”
“Except the viewers who think this is real.”
“They get entertainment. That’s the exchange. We’re all using each other. At least we’re honest about it.”
“Are we? Because five minutes ago you were asking if this is real. Now you’re explaining how strategic it is. Which is the truth?”
He leaned back. Studied me. “Both. It started as strategy. But it’s becoming something else. Something I didn’t plan for and can’t control.”
“That scares you.”
“Terrifies me. Control is all I have. Lose that and I’m just a man who’s been betrayed too many times to trust anyone.”
“Including me?”
“Especially you. Because you’re the one person who could actually hurt me now.”
The confession stole my breath.
“I could say the same about you.”
“I know.” His hand tightened on mine. “That’s what makes this so dangerous. We’ve both been hurt. Both built walls. And now we’re choosing to be vulnerable anyway.”
“Are we though? Or are we just performing vulnerability so well we’re convincing ourselves?”
“Does it matter? If the performance becomes real, is it still a lie?”
I didn’t have an answer.
Dessert arrived. Chocolate something with gold leaf and pretension.
“If you could do anything,” Leander asked, “if money and contracts and cameras didn’t exist—what would you do?”
“Make documentaries that matter. Expose corruption. Tell truth to power.”
“You still can. After this. You’ll have the platform, funding, credibility.”
“Will I? Or will I just be known as the woman who fake-dated a billionaire? My serious work overshadowed by reality TV?”
“Then make the reality TV matter. Use the platform to expose real corruption. Turn this into something meaningful.”
I’d thought about that. Using my confessionals to highlight issues. Subtle commentary woven through the spectacle.
“What about you? If you could do anything?”
He considered. “Build something that lasts. Not just a company. Legacy. Something that outlives the quarterly earnings and stock prices.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe that’s what I’m supposed to figure out. With you.”
The cameras caught everything. Our linked hands. Soft expressions. The way we leaned toward each other like magnets.
Perfect content. Perfect lies that felt like truth.
After dinner, we walked along the Riverwalk. Cameras following at a distance. Chicago lit up around us, cold November air biting.
Leander draped his coat over my shoulders. “Better?”
“I’m not cold.”
“I know. But the gesture looks good for cameras.”
I laughed. “Everything’s a performance.”
“Not everything.” He pulled me close. “This isn’t for them.”
He kissed me under streetlights and pretense. And I kissed back, wondering if I’d ever be able to separate what was real from what was manufactured.
We returned to the penthouse around eleven. Cameras still rolling for “end of date” content.
“Coffee?” Leander offered.
“I should probably sleep.”
“Probably.” But neither of us moved toward our separate bedrooms.
Instead, we stood in his living room, the space between us charged with possibility.
“Goodnight, Morgana.”
“Goodnight, Leander.”
Still not moving.
“I’m going to kiss you goodnight,” he said. “Is that okay?”
“Cameras are rolling.”
“I don’t care about the cameras. I care if it’s okay with you.”
“Yes. It’s okay.”
He kissed me like we hadn’t just had dinner. Like the past two weeks hadn’t happened. Like this was new and frightening and worth exploring.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, I saw the cameras had discreetly retreated.
“They’re giving us privacy,” I noted.
“They’re creating romantic tension for next week’s episode.” But his smile was genuine. “Stay with me tonight. My room.”
“Leander—”
“Nothing has to happen. I just—I don’t want to be alone. And I don’t think you do either.”
He was right.
So I followed him to his minimalist bedroom. We undressed with new familiarity. Climbed into his too-large bed. His arms around me, my head on his chest, moonlight painting patterns we’d never discuss with cameras.
“This is real,” he whispered into my hair. “Whatever else is performance, this is real.”
“I know.”
“Are you okay with that?”
I thought about contracts and lies and nine more months of blurred lines.
“Ask me again in the morning.”
But I was okay with it. That was the terrifying part.
I was okay with falling for Leander Cork, billionaire CEO, my fake fiancé, the man who was supposed to be a transaction but was becoming something I couldn’t define.
We were liars performing honesty.
And somehow, that had become the truest thing in my life.
I fell asleep in his arms, wondering how I’d survive when this inevitably ended.
Because everything ended.
Even fake relationships that felt too real to quit.
The cameras would get their content.
The viewers would get their entertainment.
And we’d get our hearts broken trying to figure out what was performance and what was truth.
But for tonight, I let myself believe the lies we were selling.
Because sometimes, the best stories are the ones we tell ourselves.
And our story—fake engagement, real feelings, impossible odds—was shaping up to be epic.
Or tragic.
With us, probably both.
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