Title: Married by 9, Divorced by 5
Part 4: One Bed, Two Idiots, Zero Chill
(aka The Trip That Broke My Brain)I would like to begin this chapter with a simple public service announcement:
If your billionaire boss-slash-fake fiancé suggests a “surprise romantic weekend trip to solidify our story,”
RUN.
Run like your ex is holding a ukelele.
Because otherwise you will end up—like me—in the middle of nowhere, in a five-star cabin, next to the hottest man alive, with exactly one bed and no escape route.
Welcome to my TED Talk.
Friday, 4:48 p.m. | The Cabin of Doom (and Potential Feelings)
“Okay, this isn’t so bad,” I lied, standing in the center of a Pinterest-perfect cabin while my soul left my body.
Bentley grinned as he flopped on the only bed. “I know, right? Cozy! Rustic! Intimate!”
“WHERE IS THE SECOND BED, RYDER?!”
He patted the mattress like it was a puppy. “Plot twist: there isn’t one.”
I stared at him.
He stared back with those huge eyes and an expression that said, “Please don’t murder me, I brought snacks.”
“You said the staff confirmed two beds.”
He gave me a sheepish smile. “They also confirmed a hot tub. Would you rather sleep in that?”
“Actually—”
“Lila.”
“Fine. But I’m building a wall between us. With pillows. And rage.”
“Deal,” he said, tossing me a chocolate bar. “Truce snack?”
I caught it. “You're lucky I’m weak for sugar and moral superiority.”
Friday, 7:22 p.m. | Dinner. Wine. Danger.
Bentley cooked dinner.
COOKED.
Like, in an apron. Whistling. Chopping vegetables. Looking like the lead in a Netflix rom-com titled “CEO By Day, Chef By Night.”
“Stop staring,” he said, handing me a plate.
“I’m not staring. I’m assessing your culinary technique. As a feminist.”
He smirked. “Right. How feminist of you to mentally undress me while I stir pasta.”
I choked on air.
“I was not—! Mentally—! You—!”
He just sipped his wine, smug.
I hated him.
I also hated how he smelled like cinnamon and betrayal.
Friday, 10:03 p.m. | The Bed Situation (Yes, It’s Worse Now)
“Don’t come near me,” I warned, cocooned in 13 pillows and one blanket of pure emotional detachment.
Bentley was on the other side of the bed, arms folded behind his head, grinning like this was the best Netflix show he'd ever been in.
“I’m not even touching you.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
“I’m thinking about how ridiculous this pillow wall is.”
“IT IS A STRUCTURAL BOUNDARY BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CHISELED CAPITALIST BODY.”
“I respect the boundary,” he said, smirking. “But can I ask a very important question?”
“What?”
“Why did you pack fuzzy pink socks that say ‘Feminist Queen’ in glitter?”
Pause.
“Because I contain multitudes.”
Saturday, 1:07 a.m. | The Storm and the Cuddle Crisis
A thunderstorm hit. Of course.
Because why wouldn’t the universe throw in dramatic weather when I’m already emotionally unstable?
I tried to sleep. Really. I did.
But thunder cracked, the lights flickered, and next thing I knew, I was accidentally clinging to Bentley like a koala in crisis.
He didn’t say anything.
Just… held me.
Soft. Gentle. Quiet.
One hand on my back, the other running through my hair like we weren’t fake. Like I wasn’t fighting feelings harder than I fought the patriarchy.
“Do you want me to let go?” he whispered.
I said nothing.
Because I didn’t.
Because I was tired.
And warm.
And maybe just a little in love with the idiot holding me.
Saturday, 9:00 a.m. | Morning Regret with a Side of Shirtless CEO
I woke up with my face in Bentley’s chest.
And his arm around my waist.
And my feminist values sobbing softly in the distance.
“Morning, wife,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, voice low and sleepy.
My soul screamed.
I rolled away so fast I fell off the bed.
Thump.
“You okay?” he asked, laughing into the pillow.
“I’M FINE. I JUST TRIPPED ON YOUR LIES.”
Saturday, 11:30 a.m. | The Jealous Ex Appears (Because Drama Never Rests)
We went into town to grab coffee. Cute, quaint, small-town café. Almost romantic.
Until Bentley’s ex showed up.
Tall. Blonde. The kind of woman who probably wakes up with lip gloss already on.
“Bentley,” she purred. “Wow. It’s been a while.”
Bentley stiffened. I sipped my latte like it was tea.
“This is Lila,” he said, slipping an arm around me. “My fiancée.”
Her eyes narrowed like I’d just kicked her poodle.
“Fiancée?” she said. “Didn’t think you were the… marrying type.”
I smiled, saccharine. “He wasn’t. Until he met a woman who doesn’t tolerate emotional man-babies.”
She blinked.
Bentley choked.
I smiled wider.
“Also,” I added, “he makes amazing risotto now.”
Saturday, 5:00 p.m. | The Aftermath
“You didn’t have to go that hard,” Bentley said as we walked back to the cabin.
“I go hard for the brand,” I replied.
He stopped walking. Turned to me.
“I meant it, you know. When I said you changed things for me.”
Pause.
Heart? Shaking.
Voice? Gone.
Brain? Just playing elevator music.
“Bentley—” I started.
He cut me off, stepping closer.
“But if you ever tell anyone I cried while watching a dog food commercial last week, the fake marriage ends immediately.”
I laughed. Too loud. Too relieved.
We kept walking.
Side by side.
Almost in step.
Almost... something more.
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