Married for the Cameras

Fake it

Selena Vale- POV

I got out of the elevator with my high heels clicking on the ground as I reached the only door on the top floor of the penthouse.

Room 59-A. He’d sent me the keycard in an envelope with nothing but the words:

“Let’s make this official. Bring your game face.” – J.T.

I should’ve known then it wouldn’t be simple.

This was his secured meeting spot? He was a joke.

I slid the card into the door scanner as it opened and I stepped inside.

The first thing I saw made me stop halfway.

Jaxon throne was half-naked, on the phone, standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows like some kind of Calvin Klein ad come to life.

His shirt was gone. Just black briefs that showed his bulge and a low-slung towel he clearly hadn’t bothered to tie right. Tanned, sculpted muscles. Bare chest. Abs that made my mouth go dry against my will.

I froze.

He saw me before I could spin away. Ended the call with a casual, “I’ll handle it,” and then turned toward me with that maddening, arrogant grin.

“You’re early,” he said, voice low and lazy. “I was just about to shower.”

“Do it with the door locked,” I snapped. “And put something on.”

“Why?” He took a few steps toward me. “Am I distracting you?”

He knew exactly what he was doing.

“No,” I lied.

He raised a brow. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you find me attractive.”

I let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious,” he said. “I’ll put on a bathrobe. But only if you admit it.”

“Fine. You’re… symmetrical,” I said, walking past him to sit on the velvet couch. “That’s as far as I’ll go.”

“I’ll take it,” he murmured, and disappeared into the bedroom. A minute later, he came out in a black robe that somehow looked worse—more casual, more intimate, like he wore it just to mess with me.

“Better?” he asked, sitting across from me.

“Marginally. Let’s talk terms before I strangle you with that belt.”

He grabbed a sleek folder from the side table and tossed it toward me. “The basics are there. Duration: twelve months. Public engagements: minimum three per week. One live interview. One destination weekend trip. Optional ceremony. No legal filing unless mutually agreed.”

“We’re pretending to be dating, not actually doing it,” I muttered, flipping through the pages. “This isn’t a romcom, Jaxon.”

“I prefer thrillers,” he said with a wink.

“Touching?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Only in public. Unless you get handsy first.”

“Keep dreaming.”

“Sleeping arrangements whenever I stay over?”

“Separate rooms. Always.”

“Unless we’re traveling. And there’s only one bed?”

“Then you sleep on the floor.”

He leaned back, folding his arms over that annoyingly broad chest. “Fine. But if we ever need to fake intimacy for the cameras, I won’t be the one hesitating.”

I met his eyes—dark, unreadable, but too damn observant. “Neither will I.”

For a moment, the air between us went still. Quiet. Dense with things unsaid.

He smiled slowly. “This is going to be fun.”

“This is going to be hell,” I corrected, standing up. “But it ends with me finally owning my company and you saving your empire, so we’ll survive.”

“Oh come on,” he chuckled. “You can’t tell me you aren’t in the least excited for how this is going to turn out.”

“There’s nothing fun in this,” I spat.

“I’m not going to lie, I’m enjoying this a little too much.”

I ignored him and took in deep breaths.

This was just business. Just a contract for us dating.

And if he made my heart stutter sometimes?

I’d deal with that later.

***

The first event on our fake romance tour was a black-tie charity gala at The Sterling—New York’s most exclusive hotel rooftop. I wore a backless midnight-blue gown that whispered when I walked. Jaxon arrived late, of course, dressed like the climax of every billionaire romance novel—black-on-black suit, arrogant smirk, just enough stubble to look dangerous.

His eyes slid over me, unapologetically slow.

“You clean up well,” he said, lips twitching.

“Try not to drool on the dress,” I replied, walking past him without slowing.

We didn’t touch. Not yet. Not until we stepped onto the red carpet.

“We need a moment,” he murmured, low enough for just me to hear. “Something to make the blogs scream.”

Before I could object, his hand found the small of my back. Firm. Possessive. Infuriatingly warm.

“What did we say about touching?” I whispered through clenched teeth.

“We also said no surprises. And yet here you are,” he smirked.

The flash of cameras blinded me as I leaned in, smile practiced, voice dipped in honey.

“Touch me again without asking and I’ll leak your real tax returns.”

He chuckled. “Kinky. I love it when you’re feisty.”

We posed. We sold the lie. We were two perfect liars in a glittering cage of glass and gossip. And when he whispered something utterly inappropriate about my neckline for the cameras to catch, I laughed—not because it was funny, but because the heat in my stomach startled me.

He was dangerous. Not just to my career, but to my control.

Over the next few weeks, it became a routine.

Photoshoots. Dinner dates. Interviews.

He played the charming fiancé so convincingly, I almost forgot he was the same man who once called me “emotionally constipated” at a tech panel.

Then came the Forbes interview.

We sat across from a journalist in his penthouse office, all glass and steel. I wore cream silk and red lipstick—power tools. Jaxon, annoyingly, wore the same suit from last week and still looked like sin.

“You two have quite the chemistry,” the interviewer said. “How did you meet?”

I opened my mouth to lie, but Jaxon beat me to it.

“She yelled at me over coffee,” he said with a smile.

I blinked.

“And I realized right then—I wanted to fight with her for the rest of my life.”

My pulse skidded. He wasn’t looking at the journalist. He was looking at me.

“That’s not what happened,” I said quietly.

“It is to me.”

Something cracked. A breath. A beat. My skin felt tight.

The journalist was thrilled. “God, you two are gold.”

After the interview, we rode the elevator in silence. The tension was loud.

“You didn’t have to say all that,” I said finally.

“You looked like you needed reminding.”

“Reminding of what?”

He turned to me slowly, pinning me in place with that quiet intensity of his.

“That pretending doesn’t make it fake.”

I laughed. Short. Defensive. “You’re reading too much into your own script.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But tell me something, Selena.”

I lifted a brow.

“When I touch you,” he murmured, stepping into my space, “why do you stop breathing?”

Now he was getting on my nerves.

“We have that dinner with my parents,” I said with a frown. “Get ready for it before we go to your parents dinner.”