Pretend to Be Mine

The invitation arrives in an envelope thick enough to pay rent. Gilded letters spell out: The Harrington Foundation Charity Gala.

I stare at it on the kitchen table while Maya twirls the envelope like it's a wand.

"A gala," she says reverently. "That's code for free champagne and judgmental rich people."

"It's code for humiliation," I mutter. "I don't belong in rooms like that."

"Correction," Maya says, pointing with the envelope. "You pretend to belong. That's the deal, right? Fake it till you make it."

I groan. "You make it sound easy."

"Because it is. Walk in there with Adrian, head high, pretend you own three yachts.

Smile at cameras like you have nothing to hide. Piece of cake."

"Piece of humiliation cake," I correct.

By Saturday night, I'm zipped into a navy gown borrowed from the Harrington wardrobe team-fabric that shimmers like starlight under our apartment's weak bulb.

Even Maya is speechless for a full ten seconds before whispering, "You look like you were born to ruin billionaires."

I study my reflection, adjusting the shimmer of the gown. Every bead and fold makes me feel like I'm stepping into someone else's world. Maya circles me like a trainer, whispering, "Posture, girl. Shoulders back. Smile like you own the room-even if you want to crawl under it."

The gala is held at a hotel ballroom that looks more like a palace. Chandeliers glitter like frozen constellations, waiters float by with trays of champagne, and cameras explode the moment Adrian and I step out of the car, clicking relentlessly.

My heels clack against the marble, each step echoing like a drumbeat in my chest. I clutch Adrian's arm as we move through the crowd, marveling at the glint of diamonds, silk gowns, and polished shoes. My pulse races as though the room itself could swallow me whole.

Adrian's hand finds mine-firm, steady, grounding. "Breathe," he murmurs without looking at me.

I do.

Inside, heads turn. Conversations hush. I feel like I've been dropped into a cage filled with predators in silk gowns.

Every camera flash makes me flinch, forcing a smile that feels like armor. I can feel dozens of eyes tracing me, judging every movement. Even the smallest misstep feels like a headline waiting to happen.

A reporter surges forward. "Mr. Harrington, care to comment on your new relationship?"

Adrian's grip tightens as he answers smoothly, "We're very happy."

Cameras snap like gunfire. I force a smile, praying it doesn't look like panic.

Marcus appears at our side, grinning like the devil on holiday. "Well, well. Look at you two. Almost believable."

I shoot him a glare. "Glad my humiliation amuses you."

"It does," Marcus says cheerfully. Then, lowering his voice, "But seriously-smile more. The sharks are circling."

I adjust the gown for the fifth time, muttering under my breath. Do they notice the awkward tilt of my shoulders? The way my hair won't cooperate? Everyone here probably grew up knowing how to glide like this... and I'm barely keeping my balance.

I swallow hard, reminding myself: Fake it till you make it.

At our table, Adrian introduces me to board members and donors with unnerving ease. His hand stays lightly over mine, enough to ground me without drawing attention. I notice the way his eyes scan the room, always returning to me, calculating, protective. It's unnerving-yet comforting in a way I hadn't expected.

I smile, nod, try to keep my fork from trembling. But every whispered glance reminds me I don't belong.

Halfway through dinner, I excuse myself for air. The balcony is mercifully empty, the city spread out below like a promise I can't touch. The night air is sharp against my skin, carrying the faint scent of the hotel's rooftop garden.

"You look like you're planning an escape," a voice drawls.

I turn. Clara Vance-sleek, stunning, eyes sharp with amusement-steps into the moonlight. Adrian mentioned her once in passing: an investor's daughter, polished and ambitious.

"I'm not planning anything," I say cautiously.

Clara's smile is sweet poison. "Don't worry. You won't last. None of them do."

My heart thuds. "None of who?"

"Adrian's distractions," Clara replies, her voice soft as silk. "But don't feel bad. You're pretty enough to be convincing-for now."

With that, she glides back inside, leaving my stomach in knots.

When I return to the table, Adrian's gaze sweeps over me, sharp. "You were gone a while."

"Balcony," I mutter, avoiding his eyes.

Something in his expression hardens, but he doesn't press. Instead, he offers his hand again, a silent anchor.

I take it.

By the time the gala ends, my face hurts from smiling. Cameras flash as Adrian guides me toward the car. Inside the backseat, silence stretches.

"You handled yourself well," Adrian says finally.

I scoff. "I nearly fainted into the champagne tower."

His lips quirk. "But you didn't. That's what matters."

Marcus leans back in the leather seat, smirking. "I'd say you survived, but your smile gave it away. Almost believable."

I roll my eyes, ignoring the faint warmth rising in my chest.

I want to argue, but exhaustion settles too heavy.

I dare a glance at Adrian; his expression is unreadable, but there's something in the slight upturn of his lips that I almost miss.

I lean back, closing my eyes. For one dangerous second, I let myself imagine this is real-not a performance, not a contract, but a hand I could hold without conditions.

The illusion shatters when my phone buzzes with a notification.

A headline blazes across the screen:

"Adrian Harrington's Mystery Girlfriend: Gold Digger or Genuine?"

Notifications ping relentlessly. Every mention of my name feels like a small explosion in my chest. Gold digger? Mystery girlfriend? Who even writes this stuff?

My throat tightens. I turn the phone so Adrian can see.

His jaw clenches. "Ignore it." But I know better. Whispers like that spread fast-and once they do, they can swallow everything.