POV Emilia
Getting dressed for tonight feels like preparing for the corporate Olympics in couture.
I’ve changed outfits four times and my bedroom looks like Saks Fifth Avenue had a nervous breakdown.
The navy dress screams “trying too hard.” The black one whispers “funeral guest.” The red practically shouts “desperate for approval.”
I finally settle on emerald green silk that hits just below the knee—elegant without looking like I’m auditioning for trophy wife of the year.
My hands won’t stop shaking while I apply mascara, which is absolutely fucking ridiculous because I’ve survived hostile takeovers and public engagement announcements.
But meeting Adrian’s family feels different. More personal. Like they might actually see through our performance to whatever mess is happening underneath.
“Get it together,” I tell my reflection. “They’re just people with money and opinions.”
Except they’re Adrian’s people, and somehow that makes everything infinitely more complicated.
Adrian waited for me downstairs, looking like he stepped off the cover of GQ in a charcoal suit that probably financed someone’s college education. The man could make a garbage bag look couture.
“You look beautiful,” he says when I slide into his Porsche.
“I look terrified.”
“Beautiful and terrified. Very chic combination.”
I’m destroying my purse strap with nervous fidgeting, which never happens. I don’t do nervous anything. I do calculated composure and strategic charm.
“Emilia.” Adrian glances at me while navigating Manhattan traffic. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“No, you’re having an elegant panic attack. Different thing entirely.” He reaches over and covers my hand with his, and the contact sends electricity straight to places that have no business responding to fake fiancés. “They’re going to love you.”
“They’re going to see through this entire charade and expose us as corporate frauds playing dress-up.”
“Maybe. But probably not until after appetizers.”
Despite my internal meltdown, I laugh. “Your confidence is overwhelming.”
“My mom once served Thanksgiving dinner completely raw because she forgot to turn on the oven,” he says, clearly attempting distraction therapy. “We ended up ordering Chinese takeout and calling it ‘fusion cuisine.’”
“You’re lying.”
“Scout’s honor. My sister brings it up every year just to watch Mom turn purple.”
The stories keep coming during our drive through increasingly expensive neighborhoods.
Adrian getting expelled from prep school for running a candy black market. Adrian at sixteen, accidentally driving his dad’s Bentley into the pool house during his first driving lesson. Adrian showing up to his own graduation in flip-flops because he “forgot formal wear was a requirement.”
By the time we pull into a circular driveway that could double as a small airport, I’m actually smiling instead of planning my escape route.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, staring up at what can only be described as a mansion that ate other mansions. “This is where you grew up?”
“Yeah. Modest little cottage.” Adrian parks between a Mercedes and a BMW like this is totally normal. “Built in 1892, renovated every decade since. Twenty-three rooms, which sounds excessive until you meet my extended family.”
“Twenty-three rooms.”
“Don’t worry. We only use about half of them.”
The front door opens before we even reach it, and suddenly I’m engulfed in the kind of warm chaos that only comes from families who actually like each other.
“Adrian!” A woman who’s clearly his mother attacks him with hugs while simultaneously examining me with the sharp eyes of someone who’s perfected the art of polite interrogation. “And you must be Emilia. I’m Margaret, and I cannot tell you how thrilled we are.”
“Thank you for having me,” I manage, accepting a hug that smells like expensive perfume and genuine affection.
The introductions blur together—Adrian’s sister Sarah with her husband and two kids who immediately start telling me embarrassing stories about “Uncle Adrian’s awkward phase,” his brother David who works in London and flew back just for tonight, aunts and uncles and cousins who all seem genuinely delighted by this engagement announcement.
“He used to practice kissing on his bedroom mirror,” Sarah confides while we’re looking at photo albums. “Mom walked in once and he tried to convince her he was ‘checking his dental hygiene.’”
“I was twelve,” Adrian protests from across the room.
“You were fifteen.”
“Details.”
I find myself actually enjoying this. These people are warm and funny and completely unguarded in a way that feels foreign after years of corporate networking events where every conversation is a strategic maneuver.
Dinner is incredible—actual conversation instead of business talk, stories that make me laugh until my cheeks hurt, the kind of family dynamic I used to dream about when I was growing up in my father’s sterile corporate world.
Then dessert arrives.
It’s a cake. A massive, beautiful engagement cake with “Congratulations Adrian & Emilia” written in elegant script across the top.
My eyes widen because nobody mentioned cake. Nobody mentioned cake-cutting ceremonies or any of the traditional engagement bullshit that comes with fake relationships trying to look real.
“Time to cut the cake!” Margaret announces, producing a silver knife that looks straight out of a museum catalog.
Adrian and I stand behind this gorgeous cake while cameras flash—because of course everyone has cameras—and I realize we’re about to perform couple-ness for an audience of people who actually matter to him.
“Together,” Sarah instructs, positioning our hands on the knife handle.
The cake cuts smoothly, and everyone applauds like we just achieved world peace instead of successfully dividing frosting and sponge cake.
“Now kiss!” someone shouts, and my entire nervous system goes haywire.
Kiss. Right. Because that’s what engaged couples do when they cut cakes at family celebrations.
I look up at Adrian, and he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Something soft around the edges, something that looks dangerously close to real affection.
“You okay?” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
“Terrified,” I whisper back.
“Just follow my lead.”
He cups my face with both hands, gentle and sure, and leans down to kiss me. It’s supposed to be for show, a quick performance for his family’s cameras and expectations.
But the moment his lips touch mine, everything else disappears.
The kiss is soft, careful, nothing like the corporate power moves and strategic manipulations that define our usual interactions. It’s sweet and warm and completely unexpected, and I find myself melting into it like I’ve been waiting my entire life for exactly this moment.
I forget we’re performing. Forget his family is watching. Forget this is supposed to be fake.
All I know is Adrian’s hands on my face, his mouth on mine, and the way my entire world suddenly reorganizes itself around this single point of contact.
When we finally break apart, I’m completely lost.