Title: Married by 9, Divorced by 5
Part 5: The Fiancé Files a PR Emergency
(aka We’re Having a Wedding in 3 Weeks & I Just Found Out from Instagram)
You know what’s better than waking up in a billionaire’s bed?
Absolutely anything else.
Especially when the billionaire in question is your fake fiancé and your feelings are getting squishier than microwaved marshmallows.
Especially-especially when you open your phone and see this on his company’s official Instagram:
🥂 BIG NEWS: Bentley Ryder & his fiancée Lila Iyer will be tying the knot in 3 weeks at the exclusive Blue Haven Estate! 💍💐
Save the date—this love story is just getting started! 💖 #RyderInLove #CEOFiancé
I dropped my phone. Screamed into a pillow. Then chucked that pillow at Bentley’s unsuspecting head.
Because this is war now.
Back at the Penthouse of Lies & Latte Machines
“Bentley Alexander Ryder!”
He shuffled in, hair a mess, wearing pajama pants with golden retrievers on them.
“What’d I do?” he asked, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy Greek god who hadn’t checked social media yet.
I held up my phone like it was Exhibit A in his upcoming murder trial.
“This.”
He blinked. Read. Blinked again.
“Oh,” he said, very slowly. “Okay. This… looks bad.”
“Bad? It looks like we’re getting married at a place that sounds like a destination for influencer detox retreats!”
Bentley winced. “PR moved fast. My uncle’s been pressuring me to lock this story down—he didn’t believe our engagement was real. The board’s been sniffing around.”
“And your solution,” I snapped, “was to accidentally schedule a wedding?!”
“To be fair,” he said, “they chose the date, not me. I was going to tell you tonight. With sushi.”
“I deserve at least tempura-level honesty, Bentley.”
“I will order double shrimp tempura. I swear.”
Sunday, 9:15 a.m. | A New Kind of Crisis Board
We sat at the kitchen island, coffee in hand, surrounded by the holy trifecta:
– A wedding planning spreadsheet (his idea),
– An emergency latte (my idea),
– And my death glare (always in stock).
“So,” Bentley said, nervously tapping his pen. “We can’t back out now. The PR wheels are turning, RSVPs are coming in, and... my mom already booked a harpist.”
I stared. “You don’t even like harp music.”
“She cried when she heard ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’ on strings.”
“Oh my god,” I whispered, “we’re going to hell in formalwear.”
He smiled, that soft-boy smile that’s ruined nations and feminist agendas alike.
“I promise you,” he said, “I’ll handle everything. All you have to do is fake-love me in an expensive dress and tolerate five speeches about how I used to wet the bed.”
I stared.
He blinked.
“Okay, four speeches.”
Sunday, 2:05 p.m. | The Pre-Wedding Photoshoot from the 7th Circle of Capitalism
PR made us do an engagement shoot. You know the kind.
Bentley in an overpriced suit. Me in a red dress I could never afford without selling my soul and possibly one kidney.
We posed in front of a vintage car like we were starring in “How to Marry a Billionaire and Not Cry Daily.”
“Lean into him a bit more,” said the photographer.
I leaned. Too far. Tripped. Bentley caught me with one arm and the kind of smirk that should be illegal in at least seven states.
“Try not to fall for me,” he murmured, low.
I glared. “Too late.”
Wait.
WAIT—
NOPE. NOT WHAT I MEANT.
He froze.
I froze.
The photographer just shouted, “YES! PERFECT! LOVE! REAL LOVE!”
We smiled.
But mine was panic-shaped.
Sunday, 7:33 p.m. | The Almost-Confession
Back in the penthouse, post-photoshoot, post-chaos.
Bentley was stretched out on the couch. I was sitting cross-legged, holding a slice of pizza and my dignity with equal care.
“Hey,” he said suddenly. “Can I ask you something?”
My heart tripped over itself. “Shoot.”
“If this weren’t fake... do you think we’d work?”
My pizza stopped halfway to my mouth.
“What do you mean?” I said, very, very carefully.
He shrugged, but his eyes were doing that thing again—the soul-seeing, honesty-stripping, forehead-kissing gaze.
“I mean... if it was real. You and me. Marriage. Chaos. All of it.”
I stared at him.
Felt the words pressing against my teeth.
Yes.
But also no.
But mostly please don’t break my heart.
So I said the safest thing I could:
“Let’s just get through the fake wedding first.”
His smile dropped just a little. Just enough to make my chest ache.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do that.”
Sunday, 11:59 p.m. | And Then It Got Worse
My phone buzzed.
One new email.
From: Anonymous.
Subject: You’re Not the First.
Attached was a grainy photo of Bentley.
Holding hands.
With someone else.
Timestamped: last month.
Before we started faking.
Before the ring.
Before me.
And just like that...
My heart forgot the rules of our game.
And started believing this was real.
Which meant it was about to break.
Hard.
Comments
Post a Comment