Marla’s POV
Ives wakes me with a knock and a schedule. Media brunch, photos, and a sit-down with a business columnist. No “good morning,” just a clipboard and a cold reminder that today is all performance. I barely get two sips of coffee before I’m being styled, briefed, and reminded, again, to smile like I mean it.
Now we’re in the car, on the way to whatever high-gloss event is first on the list. I’m holding my breath like we’re about to rob a bank. It’s our second time doing this, playing pretend, posing as a couple for people who care more about headlines than reality.
But tonight, we’re prepared, sort of. We’ve got a rough script, a few agreed-upon cues, and matching lies. I glance down at myself: navy satin gown, floor-length, low-cut in the back. Hair slicked into a clean bun with a few soft strands left out on purpose, wine-red lips, and heels that feel like ankle-snapping death traps.
I look like I belong next to him, but I don’t feel like I do. Ives sits beside me in the car, silent in a black tux that probably costs more than my rent. His hair is sharp, his jaw sharper. No tie, just his shirt slightly undone at the collar, like he’s above trying too hard. We sit in silence. Ives looks like something carved from expensive stone, black tux, collar undone, eyes fixed out the window like I’m part of the scenery. I shift slightly, adjusting my clutch.
“Stop fidgeting,” he says without looking at me.
“I’m not a trained poodle,” I mutter. He doesn’t reply. Just keeps staring straight ahead.
I wipe my palms down my dress. He doesn’t look nervous, he never does. Before I can spiral again, he speaks. “Give me your hand.”
I blink. “What?”
“Your hand, Marla.”
“Why-”
He reaches across the seat and takes it anyway. I flinched, not expecting the touch, then froze when I felt it: the weight of metal sliding onto my finger. I look down. The ring. Simple, stunning, blinding, and huge.
“What the hell is this?” I whisper.
“You said last time it was sloppy. We’re fixing that.”
“By... giving me a literal diamond?”
He doesn’t let go of my hand. “We’re walking into a room full of people who smell weakness. This ring says we’re not pretending.” My chest tightens. I glance at the venue through the window, flashes going off already, people waiting.
“You ready?” he asks, eyes still on mine. No, I want to say. Absolutely not.
Instead- “Yeah. Let’s sell it.”
Inside, the gala is all polished marble and high ceilings, the kind of place where waiters offer you champagne you can’t pronounce and people shake hands like they’re negotiating peace treaties. We barely get two steps in before the press finds us.
“Mr. Mercer, is this your fiancée?”
“Ms. Quintell, how did he propose?”
“Is there a date set yet?”
I take his arm, smile like I’ve practiced, and lie through my teeth.
“We met through work. Slow burn. He’s... persistent.”
He doesn’t react, just keeps his hand resting on mine like this is normal. Like he’s done this with a dozen women before. We move through the crowd, answer questions, drop fake memories like breadcrumbs. Sushi on the first date, Paris for our fake anniversary, and Indie music we “both” love.
And for the most part, it works. Until they show up, Mrs. and Mr. Legman. A Power couple. Matching smug grins, the kind of people who ask loaded questions and already know the answers. I know them because Ives warned me about them.
Mrs. Legman twirls her champagne glass like she’s bored. “How long have you two been together again?”
Ives answers cleanly. “Ten months.”
“Hmm,” she says. “You just seem... new.”
I keep the smile on my face. “We like to keep things quiet.”
She raises a brow. “Then prove it.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“Prove it,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Kiss him.”
The air between us stalls. I’m still trying to think of ways to avoid that but Ives? He clearly was not fazed about that. His hand moves to my waist and then… he kisses me. But not a brush. Not a polite peck. He kisses me like we’ve been doing it in secret for months.
His mouth is firm, his hand tight at my waist, pulling me flush against him. My fingers instinctively grip his lapel, trying to anchor myself, but he leans in deeper. His lips part mine. His mouth moves with purpose. He’s not rushing, he’s selling it.
“Uhm,” I gasp, barely, and he uses it, pressing his body into mine like it's a habit. I feel him breathe against me. I forgot that we were surrounded, that it’s fake. The only thing I can feel is him, his warmth, his control, the way his mouth slows before pulling away like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. When it’s over, my lips are still tingling.
The woman stared at us for a beat too long, then smirked. “Well. That was... convincing.” She walked away, and I didn’t move. Ives let go of my waist like he hadn’t just turned my brain into static. As my hand reached up to touch my lips, I blinked. Right. My first kiss was gone.