Let's set the scene, shall we?
It's midnight.
I'm in Eli's childhood bedroom. Still holding cheesecake. Still reeling from a viral video outing our "fake" relationship as—well—fake.
Which is stupid. Because even I don't know if it's fake anymore.
And also, Eli left. Just like that. No dramatic exit line, no dramatic kiss. Not even a dramatic cheesecake bite. Rude.
So what do I do?
I eat the cheesecake and plan revenge.
Not on Eli. (Well, maybe a little.)
But on whoever posted that video. I mean, they caught us during our one actual, sincere moment. Do you know how rare that is for me? And then plastered it on the internet like it was TMZ for Trust Issues Weekly?
Enter: my midnight research spiral.
I crack open my laptop like a woman possessed and stalk that video harder than I've stalked ex-boyfriends' new girlfriends (you know who you are, Carly).
---
By 1:12 AM, I've got the uploader's profile, location tags, and an entire Pinterest board of revenge aesthetics. (There's a glitter bomb. Don't judge me.)
And that's when Eli walks in.
Hair tousled. Shirt wrinkled. Face like he's aged five years in five hours.
He freezes when he sees me surrounded by glowing screens and half a cheesecake.
"Are you... plotting something?"
I look up sweetly. "Define plotting."
He sighs and flops beside me on the bed. "I went to confront Thomas Worthington. He's the one leaking everything."
"And?" I ask, scooting closer.
"He smiled. Sipped his wine. Said, 'You always did have a weakness for actresses.'"
"Ouch."
"Right?" Eli groans. "It's like I'm the main character in a telenovela, and everyone else got the script before I did."
We sit there in silence. Cheesecake. Regret. Pinterest boards of chaos.
Then, quietly, he says, "I know I said this wasn't real. That it was just for the inheritance. But tonight? With you and my family..."
He trails off.
"Yeah?" I prompt, my heart suddenly louder than my thoughts.
He looks at me.
And there it is—the look.
You know the one. The "I might actually feel something real but it terrifies me so I'm going to ruin it by being distant and noble" look.
Classic.
But instead of leaning in or confessing or doing literally anything romantic—
He says:
"We need to escalate."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"If they think our relationship's fake," he explains, standing up like we're about to go to war, "we make it so real they choke on their conspiracy theories."
My brain: Say something cool.
My mouth: "Like… get fake married?"
Eli freezes.
Turns slowly.
Looks at me like I've just suggested we rob a bank together.
Then—"That might actually work."
Hold up.
"No, no, I was joking. You were supposed to laugh and say, 'Haha, imagine,' not seriously consider it."
But it's too late. The idea has planted itself in his brain like a cursed seed.
He's pacing. "A fake wedding would go viral. Everyone would see how committed we are. Thomas wouldn't dare accuse us of lying if there were vows and photos and doves."
"Doves?"
"Too much?"
"Too medieval Disney."
He stops pacing and looks at me.
"Would you do it?" he asks. "Pretend to marry me?"
And for a second, my heart tries to crash through my ribs.
Because even if this is fake—pretending to marry Eli feels dangerously not fake.
I swallow.
"What's in it for me?"
He tilts his head. "Besides fame, scandal, and eternal glory?"
I smirk. "I want creative control over the wedding playlist."
"Deal."
"And a cake that doesn't have fruit in it. I want a cake that screams, 'we're in love and sugar-hyped.'"
"Noted."
"And I want—" I stop. Realizing what this means.
That I'm agreeing to a fake wedding. To a man I might actually have feelings for. Who's doing this to save his family business and spite a man named Thomas with vampire energy.
God help me.
"I want to pick the dress," I say.
Eli's smile? It could melt glaciers.
"Then it's a deal."
And just like that—we're planning a wedding.
---
But wait. You didn't think that was the real twist, did you?
Because five minutes after we shake on it, Eli's phone buzzes.
He picks it up.
Goes still.
Then holds it out to me.
It's a message from Olivia.
Just two words.
"We need to talk."
Boom.