The Hockey Captain's $300,000 Fake Fiancée

Eloise POV:

My father was dying, and I was on my third Hinge date in a week.

I sat in the Boston restaurant Prezza, feeling less like a person and more like a product on display. Across from me was an empty seat reserved for Kevin Price, an investment-banking analyst and tonight's candidate.

Dad's liver cancer was terminal. He didn't have much time left, and the one thing he couldn't let go of was the thought of me facing the rest of my life alone. So I had promised him I would seriously try to find someone—just enough to let him believe I would be loved after he was gone.

Breathe, I told myself. This is for Dad.

The doctor's words echoed in my head. Targeted therapy might buy him more time, but the drugs might as well have been made of gold, and our savings had turned to ash long ago.

Kevin was fifteen minutes late.

He slid into the booth, complaining about Boston traffic. A gleaming Rolex on his wrist caught the light as he gestured.

His eyes scanned me in a quick, dismissive appraisal. "Eloise, right? Briar University, art major... an interesting choice. Though going to an expensive university when your family was already broke seems pretty irresponsible. And art, of all things? You spent four years burning money on a hobby degree just to end up working at a coffee shop." He drew out the word interesting until it dripped with contempt.

My fingers tightened on the fabric of my dress. I forced a smile. "And you, Kevin?"

"Goldman Sachs. You know," he said, as if the name itself were a holy decree.

The food hadn't even been ordered before his interrogation began. "Your father's illness, I heard. Unfortunate. The medical bills must be a huge problem, right?"

The question was so direct it felt like a slap.

Heat flooded my cheeks. I wasn't here to beg. "We're figuring it out."

Kevin laughed. It was not a kind sound. "I ran the numbers. Your brother's cochlear implant surgery, that's about fifty thousand dollars. Your father's ongoing treatment, the targeted drugs plus hospital stays, you're looking at two hundred fifty thousand a year, minimum. That's three hundred thousand total. How exactly do you plan to 'figure it out'? Working at the coffee shop?"

Each number was a knife, twisted with precision.

He had researched me.

My blood ran cold. This wasn't a date. It was an interview. A humiliation priced out for his amusement.

"I don't mean it like that," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm just saying, be realistic, Eloise. The right partner can solve a lot of problems."

He leaned forward, a wave of cloying cologne washing over me. "Look, I have a great salary, a condo, a car. My social circle is top-tier. For your situation, your family's... predicament... I can provide a 'solution.'"

He glanced at my hands as though evaluating livestock. "Obviously, your little art career would have to go. A woman in your position doesn't need to play entrepreneur. Honestly, you should've become a tradwife years ago. You're going to end up relying on a man anyway, so you might as well make yourself useful and take care of his home."

Before I could speak, he continued, "And we'd start trying for children right after the wedding. Women who wait too long don't bounce back as well, and I wouldn't want my wife letting herself go. My family needs a son to carry on the Price name. If the first one is a girl, we'd try again. Two girls, same thing. We wouldn't stop until I had a boy."

My stomach churned. I thought I might be sick.

I stood up, my voice trembling with a rage I could barely contain. "You're right about one thing, Kevin. Marriage can solve problems. But marrying you would create a lifetime of them—and unlike my father's treatment, you're not worth the expense."

His face darkened. "Don't be ungrateful, Eloise. Who else do you think would be willing to take on your family's mess?"

I didn't answer. I just walked away, his stare clinging to my back like something venomous.

Outside, the cold Boston night air hit my face, but I couldn't feel it. All I felt was the burning shame.

Tears finally came, hot and fast. I leaned against a cold brick wall, a single, desperate thought screaming in my mind.

Is there really no other way?

I wiped my eyes and pulled out my phone, the Hinge icon making me feel nauseous. I swiped, my thumb hovering over the delete button.

But then Dad's face flashed in my mind. Pale. Tired.

No. I couldn't give up.

I took a deep breath and opened the app again, bracing for the next Kevin.

At the top of my Discover feed, a "Most Compatible" recommendation was waiting for me.

Numbly, I tapped on it. The photo showed a blond, blue-eyed man leaning against the boards of a hockey rink, his helmet tucked under one arm. Tousled golden hair fell across his forehead, framing a clean-shaven face with sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and a dazzling, effortless grin. His broad shoulders filled out his navy jersey, but there was something unmistakably boyish in the way he smiled at the camera—the kind of popular college athlete who could walk into any party and instantly become its center. He looked so handsome, so young, and so full of life.

His profile listed Briar University, and one of his prompts read, "Failing Philosophy. Need a tutor to save my GPA."

It was so different from the endless parade of "financial elites" and men "looking for a soulmate." It was almost a joke.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. The irony. I couldn't even save my own life; how was I supposed to save someone else's GPA?

My thumb moved toward the black X.

I should have pressed it. Instead, against every instinct, I tapped the heart beneath his philosophy prompt and sent him a Like.

I had barely lowered my phone when it vibrated.

Harrison matched with you.

A second notification appeared almost immediately. This time, it was a message.

"Hey, I'm Harrison. Your portfolio is amazing—especially the lighthouse under the stars. It feels lonely, but not hopeless. How did you make it do both?"

I froze.

One of my prompts mentioned my small Etsy shop by name. No one had ever bothered to look it up.

No one had ever looked closely enough at that painting to understand what I had been trying to say.

His sudden praise, so specific and unexpected, was like a single matchstick struck in the dead of a long, dark winter.

I knew it was probably just another line, a new kind of trap.

Still, my gaze drifted back to his photograph, and my heart gave a quick, traitorous flutter. He hadn't asked about my family's problems or calculated what I might cost him. He had looked at something I created and somehow seen the feeling hidden inside it. For one reckless second, the warmth spreading beneath my ribs felt dangerously close to hope.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I should have closed the app. Instead, my fingers moved on their own.

"Because a lighthouse can stand alone and still guide someone home. If you want the rest of the answer, Harrison, you'll have to ask me over coffee."