Engagement
736 Words
By Monday morning, Aria had an inbox full of bridal spam, a new address on record with USCIS, and precisely zero clue how to be someone’s fake fiancée without looking like a fraud.
She hadn’t told her mother yet. Partly because she didn’t want the inevitable “How romantic!” when she broke the news, and partly because lying to her mother made her break out in hives.
Instead, she called Jen.
“You did what?” Jen screeched over speakerphone as Aria tried to brush her hair into something less ‘I-slept-in-a-new-bed-and-had-anxiety-dreams’
“I moved in with Elias,” Aria said, calmly. “We’re engaged.”
“Engaged?! Aria. This is not The Proposal—he’s not Ryan Reynolds and you’re not Sandra Bullock!”
Aria picked up Louise the cactus and gave her a reassuring stroke. “He’s more like if Ryan Reynolds had a genius twin who could kill you with spreadsheets.”
“I can’t believe this.” Jen sounded part horrified, part intrigued. “So when’s the fake wedding? Are you faking your bridal meltdown too, or is that just naturally happening?”
Aria sighed. “The wedding’s in six weeks. Small ceremony. Close friends, staged photos. Maybe a Vogue puff piece if Elias gets his way.”
Jen groaned. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Probably,” Aria said. “But at least I’m staying in the country.”
---
The Rules
That afternoon, Elias called a “house meeting.” He was wearing fitted slacks, a navy t-shirt, and the kind of cologne that made Aria’s knees consider treason.
They sat across from each other in the living room, a notepad between them.
“We should set rules,” he said, businesslike. “Boundaries.”
“Okay,” Aria said. “Shoot.”
He held up a hand, counting.
“Rule one: no real dating. That complicates things.”
She nodded. “Agreed. Rule two: no s*x. Obviously.”
A pause.
Elias hesitated just slightly. “Right. Obviously.”
Aria tried not to let her mind spiral. Why did he pause like that? Was that... disappointment?
“Rule three,” she continued, trying to sound breezy, “you don’t micromanage my closet or my weird tea collection.”
“And you don’t judge my gym habits or my Friday night coding marathons.”
“Deal,” she said.
“Rule four,” Elias added. “We present a united front. To everyone. We’re in love. Disgustingly so.”
Aria snorted. “I can be disgustingly in love if there’s good lighting and a cheese plate involved.”
He gave a small, rare grin. “Excellent. I’ll have my assistant book the cheese.”
---
Engagement Photoshoot Day
A week later, they were standing in Central Park, fake laughing in coordinated outfits while a photographer named Matias shouted things like “Lean in like you just told her you bought a yacht.”
Aria was wearing a soft cream dress and borrowed heels. Elias, in a navy suit, looked like he belonged in a cologne ad.
“Touch her waist like you mean it!” Matias barked.
Elias’s hand settled lightly against Aria’s lower back. Warm. Controlled.
“Smile, Aria. Bigger!” Matias called.
“I’m smiling,” she whispered between clenched teeth. “This is my in-love-but-slightly-dizzy smile.”
Elias leaned in close. His breath tickled her cheek.
“You’re doing fine,” he murmured, lips dangerously near hers.
For a second, it didn’t feel fake.
And she hated how much she noticed.
---
After the Shoot
They walked back toward the car in silence. Aria’s heels clicked on the pavement like tiny accusations.
“That felt... surreal,” she said finally.
Elias glanced at her. “You handled it like a pro.”
“Thanks. I’ve always wanted to weaponize romance.”
They stopped at a streetlight.
“You good with what we’re doing?” he asked, softer this time. “We can adjust if anything feels too much.”
Aria looked up at him. In that moment, he wasn’t the media mogul or the fake fiancé. He looked human. Tired, maybe. Guarded.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Weirdly okay.”
He nodded.
The light changed. They crossed together, arms brushing.
And still, she wondered—
If this was how it felt to fake being in love...
What the hell would real feel like?
- Writer
