Title: Married by 9, Divorced by 5
Part 3: Red Carpet, Red Flags, Red Lipstick
(a.k.a. The Night I Accidentally Flirted With My Fake Husband)
Here’s a universal truth no one warns you about:
You don’t realize you’re falling for your fake husband until he shows up in a tux, hands you your favorite snack, and says,
“You ready to destroy some billionaires with your beauty tonight?”
And suddenly your feminist values glitch like a busted Wi-Fi router.
Bentley’s Penthouse – aka Barbie DreamHouse for Billionaire Himbo Men
I was mid-scream at my eyeliner (it was rebelling, as usual) when Bentley knocked on the door to the guest bedroom I’d been occupying for exactly three hours.
Because apparently, showing up to a billionaire gala as a couple means getting ready together.
(I was against it. HR would be against it. But his puppy-dog eyes won, like they always do.)
“Lila?” he called. “Do you need help?”
“Unless you’ve mastered liquid eyeliner and feminist rage, NO.”
He peeked in anyway.
And y’all.
The audacity. The audacity of this man to show up looking like a tall, muscular, sad-eyed romance novel cover with dimples.
Black tux. Hair slightly messed. Smile set to ‘I respect women AND I volunteer at animal shelters’.
I nearly dropped my eyeliner and my morals.
“You’re staring,” he said, smirking.
“Sorry, I was just trying to mentally estimate how many brain cells it took to tie your bowtie.”
“Joke’s on you,” he said, walking closer. “It’s clip-on.”
Of course it was.
The Gala – or as I now call it: The Fancy Panic Zone
The ballroom sparkled like rich-people Disneyland. Everyone smelled like old money and newer lawsuits. Bentley slipped his arm around my waist and leaned in like we were in a perfume ad.
“You look... wow,” he whispered.
“You say that like you’ve never seen a woman wear red lipstick before.”
“I haven’t seen you in red lipstick before.”
My brain short-circuited. My heart glitched. My feminism tried to slap me back into focus.
“Focus, Romeo,” I muttered. “We’re here to sell the illusion. Smile, wave, avoid your evil uncle.”
Spoiler: We did none of those things successfully.
The First Slip-Up
Bentley had to go talk numbers with some Board Bros™, so I snuck off to the dessert table. As one does when one is emotionally fragile and wearing heels designed by Satan.
Enter: Linda Truesdale.
A board member. A socialite. And the kind of woman who calls every other woman “sweetheart” like it’s a slur.
“So,” she said, sipping wine like it was gossip juice, “how did you two meet?”
I smiled sweetly. “At work. I’m his assistant.”
Her face did the thing. The oh-she’s-just-a-secretary-who-fell-into-his-billionaire-bed thing.
“And now you’re... engaged?” she said, voice dipped in condescension.
I clenched my fists. “Yes. And I also do karate, read Marxist theory for fun, and once ran a protest against unpaid internships.”
Linda blinked.
Bentley reappeared, looped his arm around my shoulders, and said smoothly,
“She’s also the only person in this building who tells me when I’m being an idiot. Which is often. I’m lucky she said yes.”
Linda blinked harder.
Bentley winked at me.
And that was the moment I realized:
I might be catching feelings.
Help.
The Dance Floor of Confused Emotions
A slow song came on. Because of course it did.
We stood awkwardly on the edge of the dance floor, both trying to look like we weren’t sweating under the pressure of pretending to be madly in love.
“Should we…?” he asked, offering his hand.
“I don’t slow dance with capitalists,” I said, deadpan.
“I’m a soft capitalist,” he offered. “With dimples.”
I groaned. “Fine. But if you step on my foot, I’m filing a complaint.”
He pulled me gently into him.
It was... warm. Soft. His hand on my waist was light, respectful. His eyes searched mine like he was asking permission to breathe the same air.
“This is dangerous,” I whispered.
“Because we’re in public?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Because this almost feels real.”
He didn’t respond.
But his thumb brushed over my hand in the softest, slowest motion.
And I almost forgot we were faking it.
We stumbled into his penthouse, shoes in hand, adrenaline crashing.
“Great job tonight, Wife,” Bentley said, flopping onto the couch.
“Don’t call me that unless I’m getting tax benefits.”
He looked over at me, suddenly serious. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Just tired. Of lying. Of pretending. Of how... easy it’s becoming.”
He nodded back, quiet. “We don’t have to pretend when we’re alone, you know.”
I paused. “What if pretending starts to feel better than real life?”
Bentley looked at me like he had something to say.
Instead, he stood.
Walked over.
Brushed a hair out of my face.
And said, “Then maybe we make it real life.”
And then—
THEN—
The man leaned in, soft and slow, like a scene from a K-drama where everyone knows they’re about to kiss but no one says it.
My brain screamed:
YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO KISS YOUR FAKE HUSBAND.
So naturally—
I sneezed.
Right into his shoulder.
Perfect timing. Feminism is safe. Romance is canceled.
For now.
Comments
Post a Comment