Monday morning slapped me in the face like a soggy bagel.
The minute I stepped into the office, the vibe shifted. Eyes darted. People whispered. One intern tripped over a trash can trying to sneak a look at me.
Tasha's text had not been an exaggeration. We were viral. Miranda's post had been picked up by some romance-themed Instagram account with half a million followers. The comments were worse than I imagined:
"If they break up, I'm suing."
"I believe in love again!"
"I ship them harder than Amazon Prime."
I slid into my cubicle, ducking like someone would throw confetti at me. My phone buzzed again.
Leo: Ready for round two, fake girlfriend?
Me: I hate you.
Leo: That's the spirit.
Before I could fake an illness and crawl out of the building, Miranda appeared like a sleek, Prada-scented shadow.
"Isabelle," she said. "Come walk with me."
You know what's never good? A 'walk' with your boss. Especially when said boss has the emotional range of a stapler.
I followed her down the hall, heels clicking like gunshots.
"I saw your post. You and Leo make quite the pair," she said.
"Oh. Yeah. He's... great. We're... great. Just super."
She gave me a look like she knew I'd never said the word super in my life. "There's a leadership dinner Thursday night. Senior team only. Bring Leo. I want to see how he fits into our culture."
Translation: she wanted to see if my love life matched her power couple fantasy.
"Sure! Absolutely. He'll be thrilled," I lied.
She nodded and disappeared, probably to go crush a dream or two before lunch.
Back at my desk, I slumped like a deflated balloon. Leo messaged again.
Leo: Did I just get invited to a dinner where your boss will judge my soul?
Me: Yes. Wear something you can be judged in.
Leo: I always do.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of awkward questions, side glances, and one suspiciously enthusiastic "good for you!" from Karen in accounting. Karen, who once tried to set me up with her cousin who owned a ferret rescue.
When five o'clock hit, I bolted. Or I tried to bolt. Because Leo was waiting by the elevator, holding a coffee like some smug, beautiful lie.
"Thought you might need caffeine therapy," he said.
I narrowed my eyes. "Why are you like this?"
"Charming? Devastatingly handsome? Emotionally available in a fake-boyfriend kind of way?"
I groaned and grabbed the coffee. "Miranda wants us at a dinner. Thursday. Bring your fake best behavior."
He sipped his drink. "Do I get dessert this time, or are we skipping straight to dramatic toasts and uncomfortable networking?"
"If you behave, I'll let you pretend I find you irresistible."
"That's my favorite game."
We walked toward the parking lot, still halfway bickering. The sky had that golden, late-afternoon glow, and for a second, I forgot this was all fake. He opened my car door before I could.
"You do realize this is going to spiral, right?" I said.
He leaned in, smirk in place. "I'm counting on it."
And that's when he winked.
Not an ironic wink. Not a joke. A full, slow, devastating wink that made my stomach do stupid, traitorous things.
I drove home that night mentally drafting a list titled: "Reasons I Should Not Fall For Leo Black."
Number One: He is faking it.
Number Two: I am also faking it.
Number Three: He knows all the lyrics to Mamma Mia! and might be dangerous.
By the time I reached my apartment, the list was ten reasons long and still utterly useless.
Because I knew something, deep in the most embarrassing part of my heart:
I was already in trouble.
And Thursday's dinner? That was going to be the match that lit the whole thing on fire.