Falling For His Fake Mate

1

Jas.

I was no Cinderella, but damn if my life didn’t come with all the same plot twists. There was no glass slipper or any fairy godmother, but I certainly had a stepsister who made my daily existence feel like an unpaid internship in hell.

My mom married her dad when I was sixteen. They were happy for a little while, and we were all happy. But then they died together in a car crash on their way to my high school graduation party. And ever since that night, Lily made it her life’s mission to blame me for her father’s death. Somehow, in the twisted novel her mind had wrote her, I was the villain who had lured him into the car that killed him. She forgot my mother died too.

When her uncle… Uncle Matthew, took us in after the accident and raised us like we were both his blood, you would think things would get better.

Spoiler: they didn’t, not one bit, of anything, her resentment only festered. Apparently I had stolen not just her father, but her uncle’s affection too. As if love is a finite resource she was forced to split with the undeserving girl who came with it.

And then, three years ago came my great debt to her, just a few months out of college, I had been too distracted, too tired, too something, and walked straight into the path of an oncoming car.

Lily had pulled me back at the last second. It was one tug of my arm, and she had lost her balance and stumble onto the sidewalk, and suddenly she had a permanent scar on her shoulder… and I had a permanent IOU hanging over my head.

She called it “a small bruise,” but she acted like she took a bullet for me, my own step-sister with the hero complex. And ever since that day, every little favor, of errand, or humiliating moment I had to endure at her request was done under the banner of that single, unsolicited act of heroism.

God forbid I ever say no, because then I would be “ungrateful.”

And that was what brings us to tonight.

It was Friday, and most people my age were out enjoying themselves, dressed up, drinks in hand, living like tomorrow didn’t include an eight-hour shift.

But not me. Aside from Lily’s errand, I would be here at home normally, resting from having to stand up for a long period of time.

And now, here I was in my room, staring at a dress I didn’t even like, preparing to go on a date that was not mine, of course, but hers.

Apparently, Uncle Matthew had arranged a setup for Lily, some effort to clean up her reputation after her last scandal, something about a married politician, a yacht, and a pool boy with a camera. But instead of showing up to meet this poor unsuspecting man, she had a better plan. She wanted to go off gallivanting with one of her “lovers” the so-called prince of Dubai. And because she couldn’t be two places at once, naturally, I was expected to take her place.

Pathetic doesn’t even begin to cover it, how I feel each time she sent me on her errands. This was a first, though, meeting someone on her behalf.

The door creaked open behind me, and in the mirror, I saw her walk in. Speak of the devil and she sashays in wearing a Gucci nightdress, and a smirk.

“Hey, Jasmine,” she chirped, like she hadn’t just upended my life yet again. To an outsider, she was nice, but she wasn't really. You know those set of humans that seem nice on the outside but were mean on a low key when they wanted to? That's her. “You getting ready?”

I turned toward her, suppressing the urge to scowl. “Yes, Lily. I just showered.”

My back hurt, my feet were numb, and all I wanted was to curl into bed with instant noodles and a bad romcom. But instead, I was doing this for her.

“That’s good,” Lily replied, stepping closer. “You really don’t want to be late to meet that man, you hear me.”

I rolled my eyes. Subtle wasn’t exactly her strong suit.

She walked over to the bed and picked up the dress I had laid out. One look at it and she wrinkled her nose like it personally offended her.

“This is what you’re wearing?” Her voice practically dripped in judgment, and I shrugged.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, defensively.

“For goodness’ sake, Jasmine,” she sighed, like I was some tragic project she was forced to mentor on a reality show. “You’ve got to do better. I have a reputation to protect, and I’m already stooping low by asking you to do this.”

There it was; the casual cruelty dressed up as superiority. And it only got worse.

“You’re not as pretty as I am, but you’re… passable. Don’t ruin it by showing up in that thrift-store disaster.”

I gave a half-hearted shrug, not even pretending anymore. “I don’t have anything else, Lily. Not all of us have a rotation of sugar daddies funding our fashion choices. Some of us actually have to work.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, already digging through my closet like a hurricane in Louboutins. She tossed clothes behind her with zero regard, muttering under her breath. “No, no, no. Ugh.”

Finally, with a dramatic huff, she straightened up. “I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t ask questions. There was no point. Lily operated on chaos and couture, and whatever she had in mind was bound to be both.

Sure enough, she returned a few minutes later with a hanger slung over her shoulder and a dress draped across it. She tossed it at me like she was tossing a bone to a starving dog.

“Here. Try this. I bought it last month, even though it wasn’t my size.”

“You're giving me your clothes?” I was surprised, because she had never allowed me to touch her clothes before, always going on and on about me being fat, even when I wasn't.

“I would have asked you to pay, but you sure can't.” she said just as my eyes connected with the prize tag.

I gasped as I stared at it, still hanging from the side seam like a shiny little slap to my financial insecurities. It was eight hundred and seventy-five dollars. For a dress, a single dress. It wasn't for rent or groceries for the month. It was not even car repairs or my half of the Wi-Fi bill.

A. Damn. Dress.

“I… Lily, are you kidding me? This is practically more my entire paycheck for the month,” I sputtered, fingers brushing the silky material like it might burn me. Because really, it kind of did. Just not in the literal sense.

Lily leaned her hip against the doorframe with her arms crossed, smug as ever, her perfectly arched brow lifted in that way that always made me want to throw something, preferably at her head. “Oh relax. I’m not asking you to buy it. You’re welcome.”

I stared at her like she had sprouted horns. Lily didn’t lend clothes. She didn’t even let me stand too close to her closet, like my mere presence might contaminate her designer brands with the scent of minimum wage.

“So what’s the catch?” I asked, narrowing my eyes as I held the dress up to my body. It was gorgeous. Deep navy blue, with a sweetheart neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves. The fabric felt like liquid against my skin, and I could already tell it would hug my waist before flaring at the hips just enough to make it seem like I had my life together.

“There’s no catch,” Lily said innocently, too innocently. “You just need to smile and be charming, maybe don’t talk too much, and for God’s sake, don’t mention you work retail. The guy’s expecting me, not you, and I'm sure he’s got certain… standards.”

“You do realize this is messed up, right?”

She gave an exasperated groan, flipping her long chestnut hair over one shoulder. “Look, Jasmine, I saved your life, remember? I still have the scar to prove it, not that you ever show much gratitude. So how about just go to this and not argue?”

Ah. There it was, the emotional receipt she never stopped waving in my face.

I sighed again, because if I didn’t, I was going to scream. “Fine.”

She clapped her hands, a gleeful grin spreading across her face like she hadn’t just strong-armed me into impersonating her on a blind date. “Perfect. Mke sure you try to look pretty.”

“Charming as always.”

“You’re welcome.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

I looked back at the dress, at the ridiculous price tag, at my reflection in the mirror. My curls were still damp, sticking to the sides of my face, and my eyes looked a little too tired for someone going out on a “date.” I rubbed a hand over my face and reached for the blow dryer. This was happening. Against every ounce of common sense, this was really happening.

Ten minutes later, I was dressed, and twenty minutes afterthat, I was walking into one of the fanciest rooftop lounges I had ever seen, under the alias of Lily Marchand, on a date I didn’t want, with a man I had never met.

The hostess led me through the candlelit tables, jazz music playing low under the hum of conversation. She stopped at a corner table near the windows, smiled politely, and gestured. “Your guest is already here.”

I looked at who she meant, and froze.

Because sitting at that table, sipping whiskey and wearing a charcoal-gray suit that looked custom made, was a man who was definitely not what I expected.

Not some balding fifty-year-old recovering from a PR disaster.

No. This man was… tall, sharp-jawed, with dark stubble and even darker eyes. His fingers curled around the glass like he owned the building, the city, the sky.

And then he stood up, slowly, gracefully, and said in a voice smooth enough to belong on radio… or maybe my dreams… “Lily?”

I opened my mouth, but for some reason, my voice didn’t come out right away.