Chapter 3
1487 Words
Maria:
It got worse.
I knew it before I even reached for my phone. Something about the quiet felt… off. Too still. Like the day had already moved without me and left something behind.
Then I saw the screen.
Six missed calls.
My mother.
Six.
I sat there for a second, just looking at it, like the number might change if I gave it time.
It didn’t.
I pushed the covers off and went straight to the kitchen, not bothering with anything else. My reflection caught in the microwave door—hair everywhere, face drawn, like I’d slept through something important. Maybe I had.
Three messages.
One link.
I didn’t open the messages. I already knew the tone—urgent, dramatic, probably all caps by the third line.
The link felt worse.
I tapped it.
Regret was immediate.
A society blog. One of those ones that pretends it’s reporting but really just… feeds on people.
Photos loaded slowly, like they wanted to give me time to brace.
Daniel and me on the balcony.
Too close.
Or maybe not. Maybe it was normal. It hadn’t felt like anything at the time—just standing there, talking. But the angle… the stillness… it turned it into something else.
Another picture. Earlier in the night.
We were laughing.
That one was worse somehow. It looked… easy. Familiar. Like there was something there.
There wasn’t.
There wasn’t.
The headline sat at the top, bold and confident:
WALKER AND ROTHFIELD RECONNECT AT FOUNDATION GALA
Reconnect.
I almost laughed.
I scrolled anyway, even though I knew better.
Powerful alliance.
Families with history.
Interesting match.
Match.
I dropped the phone onto the counter, the sound sharper than I expected.
“Oh no.”
It buzzed again, sliding slightly across the surface.
Noah.
Of course.
I picked it up quickly, answering before it could ring again.
“Please tell me you haven’t looked at the internet today.”
Silence.
That was enough.
“Too late.”
I pressed my hand against my forehead, eyes closing for a second.
“So you saw it.”
“I did.”
“Great.”
A pause.
Then, lightly, “Should I be jealous of a billionaire?”
I almost smiled. Almost.
“You should be jealous of my mother,” I said. “She’s the one pushing this.”
That got a laugh out of him—soft, familiar, the kind that usually settles something in me.
Usually.
“So what actually happened?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “We talked.”
“How long?”
“Five minutes. Maybe ten.”
“And the internet married you.”
“Exactly.”
There was a small gap before he spoke again. Not long. Just enough to notice.
“I’m not worried.”
Something about that landed oddly.
“You should be.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother is.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve survived worse.”
“Barely.”
I leaned back against the counter, staring at nothing in particular.
“I’ll call you later,” I said. “When this gets worse.”
“It won’t.”
I didn’t argue. Didn’t feel like it.
“Okay.”
“And Maria?”
“Yeah?”
“Try not to accidentally get engaged before lunch.”
That time, I did smile. Small, but real.
“No promises.”
I hung up and stayed there for a second longer, phone still in my hand.
It felt heavier than it should.
Not because of what I said.
Because of what I didn’t.
This wasn’t nothing.
Not anymore.
I grabbed my keys before I could think about that too much.
Coffee first.
Then I’d deal with everything else.
⸻
The café was quiet when I got there, the way it always is in the mornings. Low voices, soft music, people minding their business.
Exactly what I needed.
Which is why seeing him there felt almost… deliberate.
Daniel Rothfield sat by the window like he’d been placed there. Coffee in hand, completely at ease, like the room had adjusted itself around him.
I stopped for a second.
Of course.
Of course he was here.
He looked up.
“Good morning.”
I blinked. “You again.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“I live three blocks away.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
Right.
I walked over anyway and dropped into the chair across from him, setting my bag down a little harder than necessary.
“Have you seen the internet today?”
“Yes.”
Of course he had.
I pulled up the article and slid my phone across. He looked through it quickly, like it didn’t matter much.
“Efficient,” he said.
I stared at him. “Efficient?”
“They didn’t waste time.”
“My mother is probably already planning a wedding.”
“My father would want something formal.”
I rubbed my face, dragging my hands down slowly.
“This is exactly what they’ve been waiting for.”
He watched me for a moment.
“They’ve been pushing this.”
“Relentlessly,” I said. “Especially since Noah.”
He tilted his head slightly. “They don’t approve.”
“They barely acknowledge him,” I said. “Sometimes they don’t even use his name. It’s always ‘that boy.’”
Saying it out loud made it sound worse than I’d let myself admit.
“They act like he’s temporary,” I added. “Like I’ll just… outgrow him.”
Daniel didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t soften it.
Just listened.
“And you won’t,” he said.
I shook my head. “No.”
A pause.
“I love him.”
The words felt steady. Grounded.
Simple, at least on the surface.
Daniel leaned back slightly, considering that.
“I don’t understand that,” he said.
“Love?”
“Yes.”
I huffed a quiet breath. “Must be nice.”
“My parents disagree.”
I frowned. “What do they want?”
“A relationship.”
“With someone specific?”
“No. Someone appropriate.”
“Meaning rich.”
“Meaning useful.”
I let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s bleak.”
“It’s practical.”
“For them,” I said.
“Yes.”
I watched him for a second, trying to place something about the way he said things—so calm, like none of it touched him.
“And if you don’t?” I asked.
He paused.
“My inheritance becomes conditional.”
I sat up a little. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“That’s… insane.”
“Yes.”
We sat there for a moment, the noise of the café drifting around us.
Different problems.
Same kind of pressure.
“At this rate,” I muttered, “my mother is going to replace Noah herself.”
“With whom?”
I gestured between us.
“You, apparently.”
He didn’t react much, but something in his attention shifted.
“That would solve her problem,” he said.
“It would ruin my life.”
“It wouldn’t have to.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t like how calm you are.”
“I’m being practical.”
“That’s not comforting.”
A small pause.
Then—
“You could let them think it’s real.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“They would stop interfering.”
“No.”
“They would leave your boyfriend alone.”
That made me hesitate.
Just for a second.
He noticed.
“Your relationship becomes protected,” he said. “By something they accept.”
“And yours?” I asked.
“My parents get what they want.”
“And we just pretend?”
“Yes.”
I leaned back slightly, the idea settling in whether I wanted it to or not.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“It works.”
“It’s still a lie.”
“It’s controlled.”
I shook my head, more to myself than to him.
“I have a boyfriend.”
“And he would know.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it honest.”
I let out a quiet breath, glancing at my phone as it buzzed again.
Another notification.
Another article.
Another push.
This wasn’t going away.
I looked back at him.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“If we do this… does it actually work?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Just certainty.
And that—more than anything—was what made it dangerous.
Because suddenly, it didn’t sound completely ridiculous.
It sounded possible.
My phone buzzed again.
I didn’t check it.
I already knew who it was.
And the problem wasn’t the article anymore.
It was the fact that I was actually thinking about it.
- Writer
