Sophie's POV
The envelope burns in my purse like a living accusation.
Blaze's father slipped it to me when no one was looking—during that moment when Blaze went inside to help his mother with dessert, when the terrace was empty except for the two of us and the weight of our shared secret.
"For your continued support," he'd said quietly, pressing the thick manila envelope into my hands. "You're doing excellent work."
Excellent work. Like I'm some kind of employee of the month instead of someone systematically betraying his son's trust for money.
The envelope sits heavy in my purse now as Blaze drives us home, chattering about wedding plans with an enthusiasm that makes my chest constrict tighter with every word.
"I think my mom had a good point about the centerpieces," he's saying, one hand on the steering wheel, the other gesturing animatedly. "White roses are classic, but maybe something with more color would photograph better. What do you think?"
"Mm-hmm," I manage, staring out the passenger window at the blur of suburban streets.
"Yellow roses? Or those peach ones the florist showed us? They'd complement your dress beautifully."
Each word is a knife between my ribs. He's so excited about details that will never matter, planning a wedding that's built on lies I can't sustain much longer.
Back at the apartment, Blaze settles onto the couch with his laptop, pulling up Pinterest boards and vendor websites with the focused intensity he usually reserves for hockey strategy.
"Look at this," he says, turning the screen toward me. "Cascade bouquets versus traditional round ones. Which do you prefer?"
The photos blur together. White flowers, pink flowers, elaborate arrangements that cost more than most people make in a week. All of it meaningless when the entire foundation is rotten.
"Sophie? You're being unusually quiet. Is everything okay?"
I force my attention back to him, taking in his hopeful expression, the way his eyes light up when he talks about our future together. God, he's trying so hard to make this work. Trying to convince himself he's happy while his heart belongs to someone else entirely.
"I was thinking white roses," he continues when I don't respond, "but maybe something with more color would—"
"I can't do this anymore."
The words escape before I can stop them, raw and desperate and final.
Blaze blinks, confused. "The roses? That's fine, we can do lilies instead, or those sunflowers you mentioned…"
"Blaze." My voice cracks on his name. "Please sit down."
"I am sitting down."
"I mean... put the laptop away. Please."
Something in my tone must penetrate his wedding planning haze because he closes the laptop immediately, setting it aside. His expression shifts from confusion to concern.
"What's going on? You've been weird all afternoon."
The confession sits on my tongue like poison that needs to be purged. I've rehearsed this moment a thousand times in my head, but now that it's here, the words feel impossible to form.
"There's something I need to tell you. Something about us. About how we got together."
Blaze's face goes very still. "Okay."
"Your parents..." I start, then stop, my throat closing around the truth. "God, this is so much harder than I thought it would be."
"Sophie, you're scaring me. Just tell me whatever it is."
So I do. The story spills out like a dam finally breaking.
I told him about his parents contacting me six months ago. The arrangement to ‘fix’ him. The money they've been paying me to date him, to be the perfect girlfriend who would help him move on from his "phase" with men. The reason why I agreed.
Blaze's face cycles through confusion, disbelief, and something that might be horror.
"They told me you needed someone stable," I continue, the words tumbling out faster now. "Someone who could help you build a normal life. They made it sound like they were worried about you, like this was somehow for your own good."
"They paid you." His voice is flat, emotionless. "My parents paid you to date me."
"I was desperate. My father's company collapsed, left me with debts I couldn't possibly pay. Dangerous people were threatening me, and I saw no other way out."
The justifications sound pathetic even to my own ears.
"I told myself it was temporary. That I could find a way to make it work, to build something real despite how it started."
"How much?" The question comes out like a physical blow.
"Blaze…"
"How much did they pay you to pretend to love me?"
The number feels obscene when I say it out loud. Enough to cover my father's debts with money left over. Enough to make me agree to something I knew was fundamentally wrong.
"I do love you," I say desperately. "Not the way you deserve, not romantically, but as a friend. I respect you more than you know. I've watched you try so hard to be happy with me while your heart belongs to someone else, and it's been killing me."
Blaze stares at me like I'm a stranger. Like he's seeing me for the first time and doesn't like what he's looking at.
"The engagement," he says quietly. "When I proposed…"
"I never wanted that. I was supposed to engineer a natural breakup, something amicable that wouldn't hurt anyone too badly. But when you got down on one knee in front of all those people, I couldn't..."
My voice breaks completely. "I was a coward. I said yes because I was too afraid to destroy something beautiful in public."
The silence that follows is deafening. Blaze sits perfectly still, processing everything I've just confessed, and I can almost see the moment when understanding crystallizes into fury.
"Get out."
The words are delivered with surgical precision, cold as winter air.
"Blaze, please."
"I said get out." He stands abruptly, moving toward the door. "Now. Before I do something I'll regret."
"I know you hate me. I know this is unforgivable. But I needed you to know the truth."
"The truth?"
His laugh is bitter, sharp-edged.
"The truth is that my own parents hired someone to manipulate me. The truth is that the woman I was about to marry has been lying to my face for months. The truth is that everyone I trusted has been playing some sick game with my life."
I gather my things with shaking hands—purse, jacket, the few personal items I've left here over the months. The engagement ring slides off my finger easily, and I set it on the coffee table beside his closed laptop.
At the door, I pause, knowing this might be the last time I ever see him.
"I'm not asking for forgiveness," I say quietly. "I don't deserve it. I just... I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry for all of it. I hope one day you’ll understand."
The door closes behind me with a finality that echoes through the empty hallway. I make it halfway down the block before my legs give out.
The bench I collapse onto is cold and uncomfortable, but I can't bring myself to move. Sobs tear from my chest—relief and devastation tangled together in a way that makes it impossible to breathe properly.
It's over. The lies, the performance, the crushing weight of deceiving someone I genuinely care about. But the relief is overshadowed by the stark reality of what I've lost.
The only person in my life who genuinely cared about me now hates me. Rightfully so.
And I still have no idea how to survive my father's debt.