Married To An Anti-Fan

Chapter 4

JUNIPER'S POV

Fake marriages, it turns out, are a lot of work—especially when your “husband” is emotionally constipated and aggressively hot.

Lance Sterling didn’t talk much, except to insult my coffee preferences or criticize my posture on red carpets. But he looked at me—too much and not enough. Like I was both an obligation and a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

Our wedding was very small—just me,him, Tatum and Devon. But we did a wedding photoshoot which went viral immediately. It was posted with the public commenting on how adorable we looked together.

But ever since that night—when I saw the scars—something had shifted in me. I couldn’t stop thinking about them.

They weren’t new. They were old. Deep. The kind that told stories no one wanted to say out loud.

“Hey,” I said one morning, while we waited in his penthouse kitchen for Tatum to arrive with her Armageddon or stylists to prep us for another photoshoot section. “I saw your back.”

He looked up slowly from his espresso. “Congratulations.”

“The scars.”

“I gathered.”

A long silence stretched between us. The kind that tightened like wire.

“Did someone… Do that to you?” I asked, gently.

He set down his cup gently. “Don’t ask me questions you’re not prepared to handle the answers to.”

“That’s not an answer.” I said

He stared at me, his expression flat. “And yet, it’s the only one you’re getting.”

My jaw tensed. “You know, for someone who gets paid to express emotions on screen, you sure suck at sharing them in real life.”

“And you’re shockingly nosy for a woman who just wanted internet clout. And it seems you're forgetting something which I'm going to remind you now. This….this—you and I? We don't exist, I'm paying you to be my wife not pokenose in my personal business”

That stung more than I wanted to admit. He didn't have to remind me of that.

“Forget it,” I muttered, storming off.

Of course, forgetting was impossible when our entire existence was now a montage of forced affection. PR events, red carpets, interviews where we smiled like the world didn’t know our relationship was stitched together with sarcasm and contracts.

Lance was always perfect—smoldering, charming, polished. I was the relatable wildcard, the Everygirl who had bagged the billionaire actor.

“America’s obsessed with you two,” Tatum said, waving her phone around after a photo shoot. “You're trending on t****k again—someone made a slow-mo of you fixing his tie. It’s getting shipped harder than Bridgerton.”

“I can’t decide if that’s flattering or dystopian,” I said.

“Both,” Lance muttered.

The most surreal moment came at a gala hosted by Sterling Media—an event so elite it smelled like generational wealth and foie gras. I wore a red dress worth more than my student loans and heels that doubled as torture devices.

That’s when I met them.

“Juniper?” a voice squealed. “Oh my God—you’re even prettier in person!”

Sophie Sterling—Lance’s mother—wrapped her arms around me in a bear hug, followed by Isobel, his younger sister, who kissed both my cheeks like we were royalty.

“We adore you,” Sophie gushed. She was maybe in her mid fifties and looked so much younger and prettier. Wealth. “You’re the only reason Lance is tolerable now.”

Isobel nodded enthusiastically. “He actually smiles. It’s weird. Please never leave.”

Their warmth caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected anyone in Lance’s orbit to be so... normal.

“I won’t,” I said automatically, then winced. “I mean, I hope not. I mean, I’m here. Still married. Yep.”

Sophie giggled. “You’re hilarious. No wonder he likes you.”

The comment lingered. Likes you. Present tense. Not PR, not pretend. Just... liked.

“But I still can't believe he got married without me. He's always been a reserved kid but I wanted to be at his wedding. I can't get mad at him,I love him too much” Sophie continued as she glanced over at where Lance was and gave him a little wave. “Isn't he just handsome?”

I knew a mother when I saw one. Sophie was very kind and she told me all about herself. She was a Cardiothoracic Surgeon and Isobel was…well,an influencer. They were very good companies.

I smiled through the rest of the evening, posed for photos, sipped champagne, and tried not to feel like a fraud. Because the truth was, I liked this. The silk, the attention, the way Lance looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

He wasn’t just beautiful. He was smart. Funny, in that dry, scathing way I secretly adored. And sometimes—when the cameras were off—he let himself laugh. Really laugh.

I was starting to forget this was supposed to be fake.

Which is why it hit harder when we got home that night and he reminded me.

“You did well,” he said as I kicked off my heels.

“Thanks,” I said, unpinning my hair. “Your mother and sister are amazing.”

He nodded. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

I turned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means don’t confuse this for something it’s not,” he said, stripping off his suit jacket. “We’re not real. You play a role. So do I. That’s all.”

I clenched my fists. “You don’t have to remind me every five minutes.”

“You’re not the only one risking something here.”

“Right, because this whole charade is so hard for you,” I snapped. “Must be exhausting, pretending to tolerate the girl who insulted you on the internet.”

His jaw tightened. “Go to bed, Juniper.”

“Gladly.”

I stormed to my room, heart pounding for reasons I didn’t want to name.

Later that night, I left my room for water—again. Only this time, I heard shouting.

Voices—one sharp and angry, the other low and furious.

I crept down the hall toward Lance’s office.

The door was ajar.

I peeked inside.

Lance stood near the window, fists clenched. Opposite him was a man I recognized from magazine profiles and tabloids.

Richard Sterling. His father.

“I told you to fix a mess,a simple mess and you couldn't do that?” Richard spat. “What were you thinking parading around with some internet girl, humiliating this family?”

“She’s not some internet girl. Her name is Juniper and she’s my wife now” Lance said, voice trembling. “I’d like for you to accept that”

“Listen to yourself. Wife? You can't even take care of yourself,you are good for nothing. Now you have a wife,a f*****g internet slut”

Why was he talking about me like that? He doesn't even know me

Lance stepped forward, chest heaving. “Don’t talk about her—”

The c***k of skin on skin echoed through the room and I froze

Richard had slapped him.

Hard.

Lance didn’t flinch. Just stared at the floor, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

Before he could react,Richard had grabbed a golf club that was in the corner of the room and was hitting Lance with it.

I backed away from the door, heart in my throat.

I wasn't sure what I was experiencing right now but I knew one thing for sure. This wasn’t just a PR stunt anymore.

There were real secrets here.

And I was in way too deep.