The 30 days of contract

THE ANNOUNCEMENT

The first thing I saw when I woke up was my phone.

And the second thing was my bank account.

`BALANCE: $50,213.56`

47 missed calls. 213 texts. 1 trending hashtag on X.

`#StarlingHaleEngaged`

I sat up in my bed in Brooklyn. The mattress had a dip in the middle. The heater didn’t work.

But there was $50,000 in my account.

And my signature was on a contract that said I was engaged to Starling Hale for 30 days.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

`7:00 AM. Black car outside. Don’t be late. Don’t wear sneakers. -S`

Right. Day 1 of fake fiancée duty.

The car was a Bentley. Matte black. Tinted windows. Driver in a suit who didn’t talk to me.

We pulled up to Hale Tower in Manhattan 30 minutes later. 80 floors of glass and ego.

Starling was waiting in the lobby.

Navy suit today. Same cold face. Same jaw that could cut glass.

But when he saw me, his eyes did something weird. They flicked down to my dress, then back up.

I was wearing the only nice dress I owned. Black. Simple. From 3 years ago at NYU graduation.

I’d steamed it in the bathroom.

“You look... fine,” he said.

“Thanks. You look like you sleep in that suit.”

Almost. Almost a smile.

Then his PR lady came sprinting up. Blazer. Clipboard. Panic.

“Mr. Hale, TMZ already has the photo. Vanessa posted it at 2am with the caption `Interesting choice.` We need to do damage control NOW.”

Starling’s jaw clenched. “Press release. 9 AM. Then the Met Gala tonight.”

The PR lady turned to me. “Ms. Carter. I’m Elise. We have 20 minutes to make you look like a billionaire’s fiancée and not a hostage.”

“I’m not a hostage,” I muttered.

Elise didn’t hear me. She was already dragging me to the elevator.

---

*30 minutes later*

I was in a chair getting my hair blown out by a guy who touched it like it was art.

Makeup artist contouring my face. Stylist zipping me into a red dress that cost more than my rent.

“It’s Valentino,” Elise said, seeing me stare at the tag. “Don’t spill anything on it.”

Diamonds were clipped to my ears. Heavy. Cold.

Louboutins on my feet. I could barely walk.

Starling was waiting when I came out.

He looked at me. Really looked.

For a second his mask slipped. He looked... stunned.

“Better,” he said. Then cleared his throat. “Rule 1: Don’t talk unless I nod. Rule 2: Hold my hand. Rule 3: Look like you love me.”

“I don’t love you,” I whispered.

“Act like you do.”

The press room was packed. Cameras. Reporters.

The second the doors opened, flashes went off. Blinding.

“MR HALE! WHO IS SHE!”

“IS IT TRUE YOU’RE ENGAGED!”

“WHAT ABOUT VANESSA!”

Starling pulled me against his side. His hand found mine. Warm. Steady.

He looked down at me and smiled.

And damn it, it looked real. Like the Starling from college who used to bring me coffee before exams.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, voice calm over the chaos.

“This is Jessica Carter. My fiancée.”

The room exploded.

I smiled. My cheeks hurt.

I thought about the $50,000. About Mom’s boutique.

I thought about the last time he held my hand. 3 years ago. Before he texted `We’re done.`

_This is fake_, I told myself. _This is a transaction._

But his thumb brushed over my knuckles.

And I forgot to breathe.

---

*8 PM. The Metropolitan Museum. The Met Gala.*

Crystal chandeliers. Champagne towers. Everyone who mattered in NYC in one room.

Starling didn’t let go of my hand once.

“Smile,” he murmured in my ear. His breath was warm. “Damian’s here. And he brought Vanessa.”

I looked across the room.

Damian Hale. Taller than Starling. Sharper suit. Meaner eyes.

And on his arm... Vanessa.

Blonde. Chanel. Diamond ring big enough to blind me.

She saw us. And she walked straight over.

Heels clicking on marble.

“Well well,” she said, voice sweet and poisoned. Loud enough for people to hear.

“Starling. And... Jessica, is it? The boutique girl from Brooklyn?”

Starling’s grip tightened on my hand. “Vanessa.”

“I just have one question,” Vanessa said, sipping champagne.

“How long have you two been dating? Because last I checked, 3 years ago you were posting those sad quotes on i********:. The ones about betrayal.”

The room went quiet.

Conversations stopped.

Phones came out.

I felt my face burn.

I could run. I could tell the truth. _This is fake. He’s paying me._

I could lose the $50,000. Lose Mom’s boutique.

Starling spoke before I could. Smooth. Unbothered.

“Three years,” he said. “We broke up. Young, stupid. Then we found our way back to each other.”

He looked down at me.

Gray eyes. Searching.

“Didn’t we, Jess?”

Everyone was watching.

The cameras were recording.

$50,000 was on the line.

I took a breath.

And I lied.

“Yeah,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. “We did.”

I stood on my toes.

And I kissed him.

Right there. In front of New York.

It was supposed to be fake.

Just lips. Just for show.

But his hand came up to cup my jaw.

And for 3 seconds, I wasn’t in a contract.

I was 19 again. In his dorm. And he was kissing me like I was the only thing in the world.

When we pulled apart, Vanessa looked furious.

Damian looked worried.

And Starling?

Starling looked at me like he didn’t know who I was.

The PR lady appeared out of nowhere. Whispered in his ear.

His face went pale.

“What?” he asked, low.

She showed him her phone.

A headline. Just posted 2 minutes ago.

*`BREAKING: STARLING HALE’S FIANCÉE IS DAUGHTER OF THE WOMAN WHO SUED HALE ENTERPRISES 5 YEARS AGO`*

Below it, a photo of Mom. Younger. Outside a courthouse. Holding a sign: `JUSTICE FOR CARTER’S STITCHES`

My blood ran cold.

Because it was true.

5 years ago, Hale Enterprises bought the building next to Mom’s boutique. Tore it down. The construction damaged our foundation. Mom sued. Lost.

And Starling had no idea.

He looked at me.

Betrayal. Anger. Confusion.

All of it crossed his face in 2 seconds.

“Is this true?” he asked. Quiet. Dangerous.

I opened my mouth.

But before I could answer, Vanessa smiled.

“Oh this is going to be good,” she said.

And walked away.