Pretend Me Yours

Chapter 1 The Day Everything Fell Apart The envelope was thin. Aria Bennett had learned early in life that thin envelopes never carried good news. Thick ones held possibilities acceptance letters, contracts, second chances. Thin ones held single sheets of paper with words that changed everything in one neat, cold paragraph. She turned it over in her hands, standing outside the back door of Marlo's Diner where the smell of grease and burnt coffee had permanently soaked into the brick walls. Her fingers were still damp from washing dishes for six hours straight. Her feet ached. Her lower back had been sending quiet complaints since hour three. She opened it anyway. Dear Ms. Bennett, we regret to inform you that due to restructuring, your position at Harlow Administrative Services has been terminated effective immediately. Your final paycheck will be processed within ten business days. That was it. Eleven lines. No apology beyond the word regret. No warning. Just a thin envelope and a done deal. Aria read it twice. Then she folded it carefully, tucked it into the pocket of her worn jacket, and leaned her back against the cold brick wall. She tipped her head up toward the grey October sky and let herself have exactly thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. Thirty. She straightened up. Falling apart was a luxury she couldn't afford. She did the math in her head the way she always did quickly, practically, without emotion. The diner paid her $11.50 an hour, cash every Friday. That covered food and her transit card. The admin job had been covering rent. $1,340 a month for a room in a three-person apartment in the least fashionable part of the city, with a landlord named Gerald who had the warmth of a parking ticket. Without the admin salary, she had six weeks. Maybe seven if she stretched. She pushed off the wall and went back inside to finish her shift. The apartment was quiet when she got home at half past ten. Her roommates were either asleep or out she never kept close track. She didn't have the energy for closeness. That was something she'd learned young too, growing up in Sunnyside Group Home where attachments had an expiration date. Kids came and went. House parents rotated. The only constant was Aria herself, and she'd made peace with that a long time ago. She dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her shoes, and went to the small kitchen to make tea. While the kettle heated, she pulled out her laptop and opened three job listing websites simultaneously. She updated her resume adding nothing new, just refreshing the formatting, hoping the universe would reward the effort. It was while she was typing that she noticed the locket had slipped out from under her shirt. She paused. It was a small thing oval shaped, gold but not expensive gold, the kind that wore away at the edges with time. She'd had it her whole life. It had arrived with her at Sunnyside when she was four years old, already around her neck, already worn like it had always belonged there. Inside was a photograph so faded it was barely more than shapes two figures, blurred, standing somewhere bright. No names. No note. No explanation. She'd shown it to every house parent, every social worker, every kind stranger who seemed like they might know something. No one ever did. Or if they did, they weren't telling. She tucked it back under her shirt. Not tonight, she told herself. Wondering about where she came from was another luxury. Tonight was about where she was going. She applied for eleven jobs before midnight. She was back at the diner by seven the next morning. The breakfast rush at Marlo's was a specific kind of chaos short-order cooks who communicated exclusively through grunts, regulars who treated the waitresses like furniture, and a coffee machine that had been threatening to die for three years but somehow kept going out of spite. Aria liked it. There was something comforting about chaos you understood. She was clearing table four when her phone buzzed. A text from Gerald. Aria. Rent is due in 8 days. No extensions this month. Last warning. She set down the stack of plates, took a breath, and typed back: Understood. I'll have it. She had no idea how she'd have it. But she'd figure it out. She always figured it out. It was on her way back to the counter that it happened. She was moving fast she always moved fast, it was a survival skill carrying a tray with two mugs, a juice glass, and a plate of toast when a man stepped backward from the counter stool directly into her path. No warning. No looking. Just a broad-shouldered wall of expensive dark coat suddenly occupying the space she'd been about to walk through. The tray tilted. She grabbed for it. She almost saved it. Almost. The coffee went first a full mug, arcing beautifully through the air before finding the sleeve and lapel of what she immediately clocked as a very expensive suit. The juice followed, less dramatically but no less thoroughly. The toast landed butter-side down on the floor because of course it did. The man went very still. Aria set down what remained of the tray and grabbed the nearest cloth. "I'm so sorry that was my fault, let me " "Don't." The voice was low. Controlled. The kind of voice that was used to being listened to and had long since stopped needing to raise itself to be heard. She looked up. He was looking down at his ruined sleeve with an expression that wasn't quite anger. It was something colder than anger. More composed. Like a man calculating the exact cost of an inconvenience before deciding how to respond to it. He was, objectively, the most attractive man she had ever seen in person. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes the colour of deep water grey-green and unreadable. He looked around thirty. He looked like he owned things. Multiple things. Possibly buildings. He looked at her. "Do you have any idea," he said quietly, "how much this suit costs?" Aria straightened up. She was tired. She'd had eleven rejections in her inbox this morning. Her feet hurt. Gerald wanted rent in eight days and she had exactly $312 in her account. She met his eyes. "No," she said. "But I'm guessing you're about to tell me." Something shifted in his expression. Just slightly. Just for a second. He didn't tell her the price.