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Aria never thought saying yes would feel like signing away her last shred of sanity.
She sat at her tiny kitchen table that night, still in her hoodie, the folder Elias had given her spread out beside an untouched mug of tea. It felt like she was studying for a final exam she hadn't agreed to take.
The logical part of her brain had gone to war with the rest of her.
You’ll be financially stable.
You’ll be living with a stranger.
You won’t be deported.
You’ll be tied to a man whose favorite accessory is probably his own reflection.
And yet, every pro/con list came back to the same thing: Do you trust yourself to keep your heart out of it?
---
The next morning, she texted Elias:
Aria: I’m in. Let’s do this. But I have two conditions.
He replied in under a minute.
Elias: Name them.
Aria: 1. I keep my job search going. No “housewife” vibes.
2. You let me design the fake wedding invites. They’ll be ironic.
Elias: Deal. Also, ironic is good. It’ll sell well online.
---
They met later that day at a midtown office, where Elias’s lawyer—a no-nonsense woman named Gloria with resting lawsuit face—walked them through the legal details. Aria signed slowly, hand trembling just slightly.
It felt like selling her signature to the devil. If the devil had perfect hair and a sleek, two-floor apartment in Tribeca.
“Congratulations,” Gloria said coolly once it was done. “You’re now engaged in the most legally complicated relationship of your life.”
“Charming,” Aria muttered.
---
Later That Week: The Move-In
Aria arrived at Elias’s penthouse carrying two suitcases and a cactus named Louise.
“I don’t believe in moving trucks for temporary insanity,” she explained as Elias opened the door.
He looked slightly amused, like he was trying not to laugh at the giant sunflower sticker on her luggage.
His place was... excessive.
Open-concept, minimalistic, flooded with glass and marble. It looked like an Apple store fell in love with a high-end hotel and had a baby with too much money.
She stood awkwardly in the entrance, Louise cradled in one arm.
“I cleared the guest room,” Elias said, motioning down the hall.
“Guest room?” she raised a brow. “Isn’t this a marriage?”
“Contractual,” he replied, smirking. “We can’t give the neighbors everything at once.”
She rolled her eyes and walked past him.
“Let me guess,” she called back. “The towels are folded with military precision, the fridge is organized by barcode, and your espresso machine has a name?”
“Two out of three,” he said. “And her name is Valentina.”
---
Dinner, Quiet, and Tension
Later, they sat across from each other with takeout containers between them. Thai food, Elias’s pick.
“You don’t cook?” Aria asked.
“I code. That’s close.”
She raised her chopsticks. “To our absurdity.”
“To strategic absurdity,” he corrected, clinking his glass of wine against hers.
A moment passed—too quiet.
Then Elias asked, “Anyone in your life I should be aware of? Family? Friends? Anyone who might question this?”
Aria hesitated. “My parents are back in London. We’re… not exactly Friday-night FaceTimers. And Jen knows. She’s suspicious but she won’t talk. No one else would notice I’m married unless I told them.”
He nodded. “Good. Less risk.”
She paused. “And you?”
Elias gave a thin smile. “Just my assistant. And about twelve investors. And the entire internet.”
“No pressure,” she muttered, stabbing a spring roll.
---
Later that night, Aria lay in bed staring at the ceiling of the guest room, everything too clean, too quiet, too not hers.
This wasn’t a love story.
This was a deal. A plan. A lifeline.
But still… somewhere deep in her chest, she felt it:
That strange fluttering spark of something unpredictable.
And that scared her more than any immigration officer ever could.
- Writer
