Unscripted After

Chapter 5

Talia’s POV

The next morning, I woke with a knot in my stomach and a notebook full of questions. I had spent the day, and half the night, tossing crumpled pages, scribbling boundaries, imagining every possible scenario. There was no more thinking. Today, I had to face him.

The Uber ride to Cassian’s apartment felt like a slow crawl through hell. Every red light felt personal. Every song on the radio sounded like a love ballad mocking my sanity. I stared out the window like I was in a sad R&B music video, my heart thudding like a drumline under my ribs.

What was I doing?

Marrying Cassian, even for pretend, was like playing Russian roulette with my heart. Except every chamber was loaded, and I was the i***t pulling the trigger.

I ran the plan through my head for the hundredth time:

Go in.

Stay calm.

Set boundaries. No mixed signals. No slipping. No letting the butterflies win.

By the time we pulled up to his building, I was already halfway to a panic attack. Still, I rolled my shoulders back, exhaled, and fixed my expression into something that screamed unbothered goddess energy.

Fake it till you fake marry it.

I stepped out and adjusted my dress. Not because of him, but because sweatpants screamed regret, and I needed at least one win today.

Cassian opened the door like he had been waiting. Barefoot. Sleeves rolled up. Shirt slightly wrinkled like he’d been pacing. His hair was a little messy. On anyone else it would have looked careless. On him? Unfair.

He smiled. “You came.”

Why did that stupid smile still short-circuit my nervous system?

I brushed past him, headed straight for the living room, gripping my notebook like it was a legal document. “Do not get excited. I am here to discuss boundaries.”

He shut the door quietly. “Boundaries?”

“If I am going to marry you, even fake marry you, we’re doing this my way.”

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I was the most interesting thing in the room. “Go on.”

I turned to face him. Lawyer mode activated.

“Rule one. No funny business.”

He lifted a brow. “Define funny business.”

“You know exactly what I mean. No kissing unless we’re in public and it’s absolutely necessary. No touching. No lingering looks. No post-shower surprises.”

His grin widened. “That sounds very specific.”

I ignored the heat creeping into my cheeks. “Rule two: separate bedrooms.”

“No objections.”

“Rule three: this ends in six months. No extensions. No emotional confusion. No blurred lines. We go in clear, we come out clean.”

He stepped closer. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I should be asking you.”

Something shifted in his expression. The teasing dimmed, just a little.

“Talia,” he said quietly, “I meant what I said. I trust you. You’re the only person I’d even consider for something this insane.”

That cracked something in me. Because even if it wasn’t love, it was real. And in his world of curated perfection and carefully told lies, real meant everything.

“So,” he said, voice lower now, “are we really doing this?”

I held his gaze, heart slamming against my ribs.

Then I nodded. “Yeah. We are.”

His smile was slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“Then let’s get married.”