ALESSANDRE
“I’m not very good at pretending,” I admitted, fidgeting with the stiff collar of my shirt, as I felt a wave of apprehension wash over me.
Charlotte’s expression remained unwavering, her dark eyes piercing. “Then you’d better make a better effort.”
Without warning, she thrust a photocopied script into my hand, its surface cluttered with bullet points and phrases that dripped with fakeness.
- How did you and Ophelia meet?
- Who said'I love you' first?
- What was your most romantic moment together?
- What’s one habit of hers that you adore?
I tossed the script onto the couch, the pages flopping down like rejected offers.
“I refuse to play this ridiculous game on live television,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
“You don’t have a choice,” Charlotte replied, her ton
