POV Emilia
Meeting Melanie for lunch feels like stepping into a confession booth, except instead of a priest I get my best friend who orders wine at noon and has zero filter about anything.
We’re at a ridiculously overpriced Midtown bistro where the salads are priced like jewelry, but the atmosphere screams “rich girls discussing their problems” so it’s perfect for today’s emotional trainwreck.
“You look like you got hit by a truck full of feelings,” Mel observes, not even glancing up from the menu. “Spill.”
“The family dinner happened.”
“And?”
“It was…” I pause because describing last night feels like trying to explain quantum physics using interpretive dance. “Complicated.”
“Complicated how? Did his mom slide a prenup across the table with the appetizers?”
“No, they were actually amazing—warm, funny, the kind of family that hugs without calculating strategic advantage.” I take a sip of water, glacier-cold and poured into crystal like it requires a sommelier. “His sister showed me baby photos where Adrian looked like a cherub with attachment issues.”
“Okay, so far this sounds disgustingly wholesome. Where’s the complication?”
“There was cake.”
Melanie’s fork stops halfway to her mouth. “Cake?”
“Engagement cake. With our names on it. In front of twenty family members with cameras.”
“Oh shit.”
“We had to cut it together. Do the whole couple thing.” My stomach does that weird flutter thing again just thinking about it. “And then they wanted us to kiss.”
“Standard engagement party protocol. Did you manage it without vomiting?”
I set down my glass and look directly at her because this is the part that’s been fucking with my head since last night. “Mel, it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.”
Her eyebrows shoot up like rockets. “Feel like what?”
“Like… real.” The word tastes dangerous. “It was supposed to be for show, quick and painless and completely meaningless. But when he kissed me, I just… disappeared.”
“Disappeared how?”
“Like I forgot we were performing. Forgot his family was watching. Forgot this entire thing is fake.” I lean forward because this requires conspiracy-level volume. “I got completely lost in it.”
Melanie stares at me for exactly three seconds, then starts laughing. Not cute girly giggles—full-body, wine-snorting, attracting-stares-from-other-tables laughter.
“This is not funny,” I hiss.
“This is fucking hilarious,” she wheezes. “You fake-engaged the hottest CEO in Manhattan and accidentally caught real feelings during cake-cutting ceremony.”
“I did not catch feelings.”
“Babe, you just described a rom-com moment where you ‘disappeared’ during a fake kiss. That’s feelings with a capital F and probably some hearts floating around.”
I want to argue, but she’s not wrong. “It gets worse.”
“How could it possibly get worse?”
“He’s been completely cold to me since we got home. Like, arctic tundra cold. Professional politeness and nothing else.” I attack my salad with unnecessary violence. “This morning he handed me coffee without making eye contact and said ‘good morning, Miss Hart’ like I’m back to being his fucking secretary.”
“Miss Hart?” Mel’s voice hits that pitch that makes dogs nervous. “He went back to Miss Hart after tongue wrestling at his family cake party?”
“No tongue was involved.”
“Not the point. The point is he’s doing that thing where guys get scared of their own feelings and retreat into formality like emotional cowards.”
“Or maybe he realized the kiss was a mistake and he’s maintaining professional boundaries.”
“Or maybe he’s terrified because fake feelings turned real and he doesn’t know how to handle it.”
I pause mid-chew because that thought had occurred to me, but hearing it out loud makes it feel more possible. “You think he’s scared?”
“Honey, powerful men are the most terrified creatures on earth when it comes to actual emotions. They can handle hostile takeovers and corporate warfare, but one genuine feeling and they run like their trust funds are on fire.”
“But what if he just… didn’t like it?” The question comes out smaller than I intended. “What if I misread everything and he thought it was gross or awkward or—”
“Stop.” Mel reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Em, I know you negotiate billion-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. Don’t let one emotionally constipated CEO make you question yourself.”
“He’s not emotionally constipated.”
“The man went back to calling you Miss Hart after a family kiss that made you forget your own name. That’s the emotional equivalent of wearing a hazmat suit to a hug.”
She has a point. Several points, actually.
“Besides,” she continues, leaning back with that knowing look that usually precedes uncomfortable truths, “the real question isn’t whether he liked the kiss.”
“What’s the real question?”
“Do you love him?”
The question hits like ice water. Love. The word I’ve been carefully not thinking about for days.
Do I love Adrian Marlowe?
The answer surfaces immediately, clear and terrifying and completely fucking inconvenient: Yes. Somewhere between his terrible jokes in the car and his gentle hands on my face and the way he looked at me like I mattered, I fell in love with my fake fiancé.
Which is the stupidest possible outcome of a strategic business arrangement.
“No,” I lie smoothly. “It’s just a business arrangement.”
Mel stares at me like I just claimed the earth is flat. “Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. It’s practical. We’re helping each other solve problems—his father, my father, corporate expectations. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh. And the part where you ‘disappeared’ during the kiss?”
“Temporary insanity brought on by expensive cake and family pressure.”
“The part where you’re analyzing his every expression and calling him by his first name in your head instead of ‘Mr. Marlowe’?”
“Professional familiarity.”
“The part where you just spent twenty minutes describing his family like you want to be adopted by them?”
“I was being thorough.”
Mel signals for another glass of wine, clearly settling in for a longer intervention. “Em, honey, you can lie to the press, lie to the board, lie to your father, but don’t lie to yourself. And definitely don’t lie to me because I’ve known you since college and you get the same look on your face whether you’re falling in love or about to vomit, and right now you definitely don’t look nauseous.”
I sit there picking at my overpriced salad, processing the uncomfortable truth that my best friend can read me like a corporate earnings report.
“Fine,” I finally admit. “Maybe I have… feelings. But that doesn’t change anything. This is still a business arrangement with an expiration date.”
“Or,” Melanie says, raising her new glass of wine like she’s making a toast, “it’s the beginning of the most expensive love story in Manhattan corporate history.”
“It’s fake, Mel.”
“Keep telling yourself that, babe. Maybe eventually you’ll believe it.”