The contract sits on my kitchen counter like a bomb I built with my own hands.
Six months. Public appearances. Social media engagement. Coordinated displays of affection with a man I've spent three years training myself to hate.
I signed it twelve hours ago and I still can't stop reading the same paragraph over and over. Section 4, Subsection B: "Both parties agree to maintain the appearance of a committed romantic relationship for the duration of the agreement." The words blur together until they don't mean anything anymore.
My coffee has gone cold. I don't remember making it.
I chose this. That's the part I keep circling back to. Nobody forced me to pick up that pen. Vance made his pitch and I weighed the options and decided that six months of pretending was worth the career doors it would open. Logical. Strategic. The kind of calculated decision I've been making since I learned that emotions get you hurt.
Doesn't make it easier to stomach.
My phone buzzes with a text from Vance's assistant. Meeting at the athletic office, 10 AM. Strategy session for relationship rollout. The words "relationship rollout" make me want to throw my phone across the room.
Instead, I drain my cold coffee and go get dressed.
The athletic office conference room feels smaller with Vance in it. He's spread papers across the entire table—calendars, spreadsheets, what looks like a color-coded timeline. Ethan sits at the far end, crutches propped against his chair, watching me walk in with an expression I can't read.
"Miss Calloway." Vance stands, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Thank you for being prompt. We have a lot to cover."
I sit without responding. The chair puts me directly in Ethan's line of sight, which I'm sure is intentional.
Vance slides a folder toward me. "This is your relationship rollout plan. Instagram calendar for the next six weeks, approved public displays of affection, talking points for any reporters who approach you."
I flip open the folder. The first page is literally a spreadsheet of scheduled Instagram posts. Dates, captions, hashtags. "Coffee date with this one" with a heart emoji, scheduled for tomorrow at 3:47 PM.
"You're joking."
"I never joke about branding." Vance taps the second page. "These are the approved PDAs. Hand-holding is standard. Arm around the waist for formal events. Kisses should be reserved for high-visibility moments—games, fundraisers, anything with press coverage."
"Kisses." I repeat the word flatly.
"Brief and tasteful. Nothing excessive." He says it like we're discussing quarterly projections. "The goal is to suggest intimacy without explicit displays. Think Disney romance, not HBO."
My fingers curl around the edge of the folder. "I'm not kissing him on command."
"It's part of the—"
"I don't care what it's part of." I push the folder back across the table. "I agreed to public appearances. I didn't agree to be choreographed like a puppet."
Vance's smile doesn't waver, but something tightens around his eyes. "Miss Calloway, the whole point of this arrangement is controlled optics. If we leave the physical component to chance—"
"Then we'll look like actual human beings instead of robots following a script." I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "I won't post anything without approving the caption first. I won't kiss him unless it happens organically. And I won't be packaged like a product for your marketing campaign."
The room goes quiet. Vance glances at Ethan, who hasn't said a word since I walked in. Just watching. Always watching.
"She has a point." Ethan's voice is calm, reasonable. "Forced intimacy reads as fake. If we're trying to sell authenticity, we need room to be authentic."
Vance's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Fine. Caption approval, organic physical contact, no scripted kisses." He pulls the folder back, making notes in the margins. "But I need content. If you're not following my timeline, you need to give me something I can work with."
"We'll give you plenty." I stand up, gathering my bag. "Are we done?"
"For now. First date is tomorrow—coffee shop on Fifth Street, 3 PM. I'll have someone positioned outside, not obvious. Just be yourselves." The irony of the statement seems lost on him. "Try to look like you actually enjoy each other's company."
I walk out without responding.
The hallway is quiet, most of the staff still in morning meetings. I'm halfway to the elevator when I hear the uneven rhythm of crutches behind me.
"Harper, wait."
I don't stop. "I have somewhere to be."
"Just give me thirty seconds." He catches up, slightly out of breath from the effort. "Please."
Something about the please makes me pause. I turn around, keeping my expression neutral. "What?"
Ethan stands there, weight balanced on his good leg, looking at me with something that might be admiration. "You're hot when you negotiate. You know that?"
My stomach does something complicated that I immediately suppress. "Is that supposed to be charming?"
"Just an observation." He shifts closer, lowering his voice even though we're alone. "The way you shut Vance down... I forgot how fierce you get when someone tries to control you."
"You didn't forget. You just haven't seen it directed at someone else in a while."
His mouth curves slightly. "Fair point."
I should walk away. The elevator is right there, fifteen feet and a button press from escape. But my feet don't move and his eyes don't leave my face and the air between us feels thick with everything we're not saying.
"About the party," he starts.
"Don't."
"Harper—"
"We perform for cameras." I cut him off, my voice hard. "That's it. That's the extent of this arrangement. The party was a drunk mistake I won't repeat."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't argue. Just watches me with that patient expression that makes my skin prickle.
"Okay," he says quietly.
"Okay?" I expected pushback. Charm. That infuriating persistence he's been wielding since he showed up in my gym.
"You said what you needed to say. I heard you." He adjusts his grip on the crutches, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "But Harper... mistakes don't usually kiss back the way you did."
My breath catches before I can stop it.
He notices. Of course he notices.
"Tomorrow. 3 PM." He turns and starts back toward the conference room, moving slowly on the crutches. "Try not to think about me too much before then."
I watch him go, my heart pounding against my ribs in a rhythm that feels like betrayal.
Twenty-four hours.
Twenty-four hours until I have to sit across from him in a coffee shop with cameras watching. Twenty-four hours until I have to smile and laugh and touch his hand and pretend that any of this is normal.
Twenty-four hours to figure out how to look at the man I almost slept with and pretend it meant nothing.
The elevator doors open behind me. I step inside and press the button for the lobby, watching my reflection in the polished metal.
My face looks calm. Controlled. The mask I've perfected over three years of practice.
But underneath, something is cracking. Something I thought I'd buried deep enough that it would never surface again.
Tomorrow, 3 PM. Coffee shop on Fifth Street. Our first fake date.
I have a feeling it's going to feel a lot more real than I'm ready for.