The first rule of faking it is to never let the mask slip, not even when his ex shows up looking like a Bond villain with better hair. Ava walked into the gala like she built the damn ballroom. And for all I knew, she probably did. Red dress, flawless smirk, every step announcing she was the moment. The music didn’t stop, but it felt like every conversation did.
She turned to me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You must be the stand-in fiancée.”
I gave her my best sweet-and-sour grin. “Oh, I’m just the halftime show. You must be the cautionary tale.” She actually laughed. I hated that.
“I do love your dress,” she said.
“Thanks. It was either this or show up in body armor.”
She looked me over like she could see every crack I was trying to cover. Then she turned back to Ives and said, light, breezy, loud enough, “Remember our engagement party here? That was a mess. But a beautiful one.”
My fingers tightened around my champagne glass, then I smiled. I nodded, but didn’t flinch. Ives didn’t deny it, he just sipped his drink like it didn’t matter. But it did, it mattered. She knew the board, she knew the donors, she greeted the servers by name, and she knew which vintage the Merlot was. She knew him, every corner of his world. And I? I was just playing house in someone else’s blueprint. I took another drink, then another.
By the fourth, I didn’t even realize I’d started swaying a little. My posture slipped, and I laughed too loud. My heels felt wobbly, or maybe the floor just hates me. Dana tried to step in, but I waved her off and made a beeline to the open bar like it owed me something. And then I said something flirty to a guy I didn't know. He laughed, I leaned in and Ives saw. He was on me in two seconds.
“We’re done here,” he said, gripping my elbow.
I yanked back. “Relax, daddy issues, I’m working the room.”
“Yeah?” His jaw clenched. “You’re also working on a tabloid headline.” He didn’t wait for me to argue. He just pulled me out, the side door, down the hall, into the cold.
The second the ballroom doors shut, I spun around. “What the hell is your problem?”
“You. Slurring. Flirting with some guy in front of every camera.”
I crossed my arms. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you jealous? Or just mad I wasn't clinging to your shadow like a good little PR puppet?”
He stepped closer. “You don’t get to pull this stunt because Ava showed up.”
“Oh, so we can pretend but I can’t spiral? Got it.” He stared at me, silent. His breathing heavy, his eyes furious.
“I don’t care that she was here,” I said, voice sharp. “I care that you just stood there. That you let her drag the past into my lap like it belonged more than I did.” He blinked, unable to respond..
I smiled bitterly. “You don’t have to say anything. I get it now.”
He stepped forward. “Marla-”
“Nope,” I snapped, yanking open the door. “Save it. You wanted a fake fiancée. Not a woman with feelings.”
I turned on my heel, ready to leave him stewing in his own guilt. But he caught my wrist. I barely had time to gasp before he spun me back, hand firmly on my waist, the other cradling the side of my face like he’d been waiting months to do it. And then he kissed me. Hard, and desperate.
Like an apology he didn’t know how to say, like anger and regret and possession all wrapped in heat. I froze. Then I kissed him back, fingers fisting in his shirt. I pulled him closer, because screw logic, screw feelings, and screw Ava and the stupid wine list and every rich donor inside that ballroom.
This wasn’t for them. This wasn’t even for the press, it was for us. For every argument, every lie, every look that lasted too long, every moment we pretended not to want this. His hand slid up my back, his mouth still on mine, breath ragged, chest pressed against me like he needed to feel I was real.
“You drive me insane,” he muttered against my lips.
“Good,” I whispered. His grip tightened like he didn’t want to let go, like he couldn’t, but I was already pulling back, breathless, lips swollen, heart punching against my ribs.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” I said, voice shaking, but not from cold.
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because I couldn’t let you walk away thinking you don’t belong.” For once, he wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel, and that made it worse. Because I wanted to believe him. But I’d seen how easy it was for people like him to forget, so I backed away.
“You got your kiss, Mercer,” I said, voice flat. “Go sell the headline.” Then I left him standing there, staring at the door like he didn’t know whether to chase me or let me burn.