I didn't sleep well that night.
Not because the bed was uncomfortable—hell no. That mattress was the softest thing I'd ever laid on.
It felt like sleeping on a pile of angel feathers and billionaire guilt.
But my brain?
It wouldn't shut up.
Because apparently, I just agreed to a fake marriage with the girl I hated the most.
For money.
And a suspiciously specific contract.
What could possibly go wrong?
The next morning, I woke up in a penthouse.
A freaking penthouse.
With floor-to-ceiling windows, an espresso machine I was too scared to touch, and a refrigerator that probably had a stock portfolio.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen like an idiot in borrowed pajamas.
She said I'd be "moved in" right away.
She wasn't kidding.
Last night, after I signed that stupid contract, she made one phone call—
And suddenly my sad little belongings from my rented room were delivered like Amazon Prime.
I was halfway through judging her perfectly organized fridge (who alphabetizes condiments?) when I heard footsteps.
Click. Click. Click.
And there she was.
Aurora Zhang.
Wearing heels inside her own home.
Because of course she did.
She looked at me like I was a stain on her designer rug.
"You're awake."
"No, I'm sleepwalking. This is just a very stylish nightmare."
She rolled her eyes.
Honestly, I think that's her default facial expression.
She walked to the coffee machine, pressed three buttons like a barista ninja, and turned to me.
"You have five minutes. Then we leave."
"Leave? Where?"
"Photoshoot. We need pictures."
I blinked.
"Pictures? Like—yearbook photos?"
She looked at me like I'd asked if the Earth was flat.
"Pre-wedding engagement shoot," she said.
"People need to believe this is real."
"Right. Because nothing screams real love like staged couple pics with fake smiles."
"You'll get used to it," she said, sipping her coffee like it was laced with patience.
I didn't respond. I was too busy trying to find a mug that wasn't made of crystal or gold.
One wardrobe change and one panic attack later, we were inside a studio in downtown.
Camera lights. Backdrops. A photographer who smelled like hairspray and pretension.
"You two are so cute together!" she squealed.
I nearly choked.
Aurora just smiled like a well-trained celebrity.
"Of course we are," she said, looping her arm around mine.
Her hand was cold.
And somehow… it made my face warm.
Great.
"Closer," the photographer said.
"Like you're in love!"
I forced a smile.
Aurora leaned her head slightly toward mine.
The camera clicked.
And my heart… did something stupid.
Stop it, brain.
She's not your girlfriend.
She's not even nice.
She's your employer.
Who just so happens to look like a villainous angel in a silk dress.
And this is all fake.
Right?
After an hour of fake laughing, fake staring-into-each-other's-eyes, and fake almost-kissing, we finally escaped.
She didn't speak in the car.
Neither did I.
The silence wasn't awkward.
It was... thick.
Like we were both thinking too much, but pretending not to care.
Back at the penthouse, she tossed her shoes aside and collapsed on the couch.
"Tomorrow's schedule will be sent to your phone. Stick to it. And don't embarrass me."
"What if I want to embarrass you on purpose?"
"Then I'll double your penalty fee."
I dropped onto the other side of the couch.
"You know," I said, "most people just break up with their parents. You didn't have to fake a whole marriage."
She didn't answer right away.
Then—quietly—
"You don't know my family."
There was something in her voice.
Not sharp. Not cold. Just… tired.
For the first time since this mess started, I saw something behind the ice in her eyes.
A crack.
A shadow.
Something human.
"Wanna talk about it?" I asked, surprising myself.
She turned her head.
"Do you?"
I hesitated.
Then shrugged.
"Not really."
She smirked.
"Then we're even."
We sat there, two fake lovers in a real expensive living room, saying nothing.
And for some reason,
that silence felt more honest than anything we'd said all day.