The Fake Fiancèe
1225 Words
The private jet cut through the clouds at 37,000 feet.
Britney hadn’t been on a plane since her dad’s funeral five years ago. That one was coach, middle seat, crying quietly into a scratchy blanket. This one had leather seats that reclined flat, a mini bar she wasn’t allowed to touch, and a flight attendant who called Damian “Mr. Hale” like his name was a title.
She sat in the corner with the iPad, reading the NDA extension. Clause 14 made her stomach twist: _The Employee agrees to participate in all public appearances and social engagements as required by the Employer, including but not limited to romantic pretense._
Romantic pretense.
Cute way of saying lie to the entire city.
Damian hadn’t spoken since they left Chicago. He worked through the flight, face lit by the screen, jaw tight. He looked different out of the office. No suit jacket, sleeves rolled up, a vein visible in his forearm. Less CEO, more dangerous.
“Done,” Britney said, hitting sign.
He glanced up, then closed the laptop.
“Good. Rules.”
“More rules?” she said. She was tired of rules.
“When we’re in public, you’re my fiancée. You smile, you stand close, you don’t correct me. When we’re alone, you’re my employee. You call me Mr. Hale. You keep your hands to yourself. Understood?”
Britney crossed her arms. “And if I slip up?”
“Then the contract gets ugly. For both of us.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. She’d read the penalty clauses.
The plane landed in New York at 8:14 PM. A second SUV waited on the tarmac. This one drove straight to the Plaza.
Britney stared out the window as they passed Times Square. Neon, noise, people moving like they had somewhere to be. Her life was in a suitcase in the trunk.
“Room service will send dinner up,” Damian said as they got out in the lobby. “Be ready at 7 AM. We have a fitting.”
“A fitting?”
“For the engagement party. You can’t wear that.” His eyes flicked to her black blazer and slacks. Not unkind. Just factual.
Britney looked down. It was Ann Taylor, sale rack. It had gotten her through three interviews.
“I’m not your doll,” she said.
“No,” Damian said. “You’re my cover. Same thing, right now.”
---
The suite was two floors below the penthouse. Two bedrooms, a living room with a view of Central Park, and a bathroom bigger than her apartment.
Britney chose the smaller bedroom and locked the door.
She called Mia from the bathroom floor, voice low.
“He’s insane,” she whispered. “We’re pretending to be engaged. In New York. At the Plaza.”
Mia’s voice came through sharp. “Brit. Get out.”
“I can’t. Mom’s next treatment is Friday. If I walk, it’s canceled.”
Silence. Then, “Then play the part. But don’t forget it’s pretend. Guys like him don’t do real.”
“Noted,” Britney said. “He already told me not to fall for him.”
Mia snorted. “Arrogant bastard.”
After she hung up, Britney sat in the silent room and let the fear settle. She was in too deep to back out now.
She opened the closet. Inside hung a garment bag.
Inside that was a dress.
Black silk, deep V, slit up the thigh. A note on the hanger read: _Wear this tomorrow. D.H._
She hated that it fit perfectly. She hated that he knew her size.
She hated that she felt powerful wearing it, even for a second.
---
7 AM.
Damian knocked once, then opened the door without waiting.
“Up. Car’s downstairs.”
Britney was already dressed, hair pulled back, no makeup except mascara. She wanted him to see she wasn’t playing dress-up.
It didn’t work. His eyes ran over her once, clinical, and moved on.
“Good. You look professional enough not to embarrass me.”
“High praise,” she said dryly.
The car took them to a private atelier on 57th Street. The owner, a woman named Elise, greeted Damian like an old friend and looked at Britney like she was evaluating livestock.
“Your fiancée is stunning, Damian,” Elise said. “We’ll make her unforgettable.”
Britney shot him a look. He didn’t react.
The next three hours were hell. Dresses, pins, heels, photos. Elise kept calling her “dear” and adjusting the neckline lower than Britney was comfortable with.
“Damian wants a statement,” Elise said, pulling a deep emerald gown off the rack. “Something that says ‘mine.’”
Britney put the dress on. It clung to every curve. The mirror showed a woman she didn’t recognize. Confident. Dangerous.
Damian saw her when she stepped out.
He stopped talking mid-sentence.
“Keep it,” he said. Voice low.
Elise beamed. “Excellent choice.”
Britney felt her cheeks heat. “It’s too much.”
“It’s perfect,” Damian said. “You’ll wear it Saturday.”
On the ride back to the hotel, he finally spoke normally.
“Adrian’s fiancée is the daughter of Marcus Vance. Vance owns 12% of Hale Industries. If that engagement breaks, we lose the board vote next quarter. My job is to make sure it doesn’t break. Your job is to make sure I look stable.”
“So I’m a PR stunt,” Britney said.
“You’re a deterrent,” Damian corrected. “Vance doesn’t like scandal. He likes control. Seeing me engaged keeps him quiet.”
“And after Saturday?”
“After Saturday, we reassess.”
That wasn’t reassuring.
---
That night, Britney sat in the suite’s living room, going over marketing reports Damian had sent her at 2 AM. She was trying to pretend this was normal.
Damian came out of his bedroom at 11 PM, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hair damp from a shower. He looked younger like this. Less armor.
He stopped when he saw her.
“You’re still working?”
“It’s my job,” Britney said. “Even if it’s fake.”
He walked to the bar and poured two glasses of water. He set one in front of her.
“First rule of being my fake fiancée,” he said. “Don’t drink alcohol in public. You need a clear head.”
“Noted, Dad.”
His mouth twitched again. Almost a smile.
“Second rule. If anyone asks personal questions, you deflect. Say we’re keeping things private. If they push, I’ll handle it.”
Britney took the water. Her fingers brushed his.
He didn’t pull away immediately.
For half a second, the room felt too small.
Then he stepped back.
“Get some sleep, Britney. The party’s in two days, and Vance will be watching.”
She nodded, standing up.
As she walked to her room, she heard him say quietly behind her,
“Good work today.”
It was the first time he’d said anything that sounded like it wasn’t part of the contract.
Britney closed the door and leaned against it, heart beating faster than it should.
This was pretend.
It had to stay pretend.
Because if it didn’t, she’d lose more than her job.
---
- Writer
