Married To An Anti-Fan

Chapter 3

JUNIPER'S POV

By noon, my fake engagement had surpassed my student debt in terms of things haunting me.

It was everywhere.

#JuniperSterling was trending. Someone had created a fan edit of me glaring at Lance like I was about to murder him—set to Taylor Swift’s Enchanted. Even my inbox had turned feral.

I had brand collaboration request like:

Hi Juniper! Love your vibe. Would you be open to partnering on an artisanal oat milk line?

“I told you this would spiral,” Haley said in the break room, shoving a muffin in her mouth. “You can’t just casually fake a relationship with America’s Hemsworth.”

“I panicked!” I hissed. “You saw their faces. My boss was practically offering me her liver. I figured I’d walk it back in a day.”

“Sweetie,” she said, pityingly. “You’re viral. There’s no walking anywhere. You’re sprinting into a PR marriage.”

I groaned and slammed my forehead on the break room table. “Maybe I can fake my own death.”

“No need,” said a smooth, arrogant voice. “I’ll kill you myself.”

I jerked up. And there he was.

Lance Sterling. In the break room. In a black suit that looked tailored by actual angels. The man was a headline in motion.

“Great,” I muttered. “I was hoping to hallucinate from stress.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, sweeping his gaze around our drab office like he might catch a disease. “You think I wouldn’t find out you ran with the engagement story? You practically sold merch.”

“Ohhh, I'm going to excuse myself,” Haley said, slipping out of the break room.

“I didn’t sell anything,” I snapped. “I lied, yes, but it was a panic lie. You should relate to that, given your acting career.”

“Oh, she’s funny,” he said dryly, then glanced over his shoulder. “Let’s talk somewhere more private” He said, glancing at the glass wall of the break room,where everybody at work had now surrounded trying to see what was going on.

Before I could say anything his hand was in mine leading me out of the break room while everyone cooed and blushed like we were a scene from a rom-com.

Outside his luxury van was waiting with Tatum and Devon who was sitting in the driver's seat.

“Juniper,” she said before I could even take a seat with a terrifyingly pleasant smile, “the public loves it. Your tweet made you a feminist icon. His fans are calling it his Villain Era Redemption Arc. The internet is shipping you. We need to lock this down before it spins out of our control.”

“Too late for that,” I mumbled. “So what, now we pretend to be in love?”

Tatum slid a contract across the break room table.

“Six months. No intimacy, no emotional entanglements, and absolutely no leaks. You'll receive monthly compensation, wardrobe, media training, and—”

“Wardrobe?” I echoed.

“You’ll be photographed constantly. Your aesthetic currently says ‘Target clearance bin.’ We’re going to fix that.”

Rude.

“I’m not a mannequin.”

“No,” Lance said, arms crossed. “You’re the woman who called me a sentient haircut on the internet. Congratulations—now you’re my fiancée.”

I stared at the contract. Six months. Pretending. Lying. Living in a penthouse with a walking GQ spread.

“I need time to think.”

“You have ten minutes,” Tatum replied sweetly.

Within thirty minutes,I was standing in Lance Sterling’s penthouse with a suitcase and a regret-induced ulcer. I had signed the contract. I had nothing to lose. I was getting the attention I needed at work. My online presence was now strong,I could get people to see my writing now. Plus the money Tatum offered was too much to resist. All I had to do was pretend I was in love with Lance for 6months. That I could do. His image would get back to how it was before my tweet and his latest movie which had been a flop after my tweet was now gaining attention due to our engagement news. Which thanks to Diane and Tatum was now very public.

“Why am I here?” I asked, trudging into the marble palace of cold lighting and colder energy.

“For optics,” Tatum chirped. “Couples live together. You’ll have your own room, of course. Just… be visible. Make it believable. And for the love of God, delete that tweet about him looking like a cardboard cutout.”

“I stand by that tweet,” I said. I was going to delete it later in the day. Tatum had addressed the public that it was a little lover’s quarrel that pushed me to make the tweet and now we were back stronger. Fortunately the public believed it.

Lance, lounging on the leather couch like a smug Greek tragedy, smirked. “I hope you snore. Loudly.”

“I hope your jawline gets canceled.”

“Cute,” he said. “Tatum, when’s the stylist arriving?”

“Now.”

Armageddon enters in the form of a glam team.

Before I could protest, they were curling, clipping, brushing, highlighting. Someone yanked open my suitcase and audibly gasped.

“She owns khakis,” one whispered.

“Unironically,” another murmured.

Three hours later, I was standing in front of a mirror that probably cost more than my car, wearing designer jeans and a silk blouse that actually made my collarbone look expensive.

I hated how beautiful I looked. Like someone who belonged on his arm. Like someone who could be in his world.

“Wow,” Lance said, walking by. “You look almost tolerable.”

“Thanks,” I replied, “I was aiming for ‘expensive rage.’”

That night, everything felt… wrong.

The penthouse was too quiet. I kept thinking about how I’d wake up and realize it was a fever dream. That I’d still be in my shoebox apartment, that I hadn’t agreed to pretend-marry Hollywood’s most punchable icon.

I wandered toward the kitchen for water and heard movement.

Light spilled from the main living room.

I walked in.

And froze.

Lance was standing with his back to me, shirtless, a glass of something in his hand. His spine taut. Shoulders broad. And—

Scars.

Long, pale ones. Across his back like ancient brushstrokes. Faint but deep. The kind that don’t come from stunt training or gym accidents. It looked like scars from past accidents.

I didn’t mean to gasp, but I did.

He turned quickly,shocked to see me. Eyes narrowed.

“What the hell are you doing?” He bellowed.

“I—I just came for water,” I said quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He walked past me, grabbing a shirt off the counter.

“Don’t make it a thing,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.” He said as he disappeared into his own room.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The scars. The silence. The fact that, for one brief moment, the golden boy didn’t look shiny at all.

He looked human.

And that scared me more than anything else.