Title: Married by 9, Divorced by 5
🔥 SYNOPSIS:
When feminist assistant Lila Iyer is forced into a fake marriage with her billionaire boss Bentley Ryder to save his reputation, they agree: no feelings, no drama, just business. But when exes, secrets, and unexpected kisses get in the way, their pretend marriage starts feeling a little too real.
💘 TROPES:
✔ Fake Marriage
✔ Billionaire Boss x Assistant
✔ Enemies-to-Lovers (kind of)
✔ Slow Burn Romance
📌 Think: The Proposal meets Crazy Rich Asians — with a spicy dash of feminist sass and billionaire charm.
Part 1: The Proposal I Didn't Ask For (Unless It's Pizza)
Let me just start by saying this: I don’t believe in marriage.
You could literally bring Beyoncé herself to officiate my wedding, and I’d still rather marry a croissant.
But life? Life has this nasty little habit of saying “Oh, you hate something? Cool. Let me throw you directly into it and watch you flail like a drunk duck.”
And that's exactly how I, Lila Suri—23, assistant to a billionaire, sworn hater of high heels and patriarchal nonsense—ended up fake married to my boss.
Yup. You heard me.
Let’s rewind 48 hours.
Monday, 8:03 a.m. | Office of Doom (aka Bentley Corp HQ)
I waltzed into the office, latte in one hand, and moral superiority in the other, fully prepared to fight capitalism one spreadsheet at a time.
“Good morning, Lila,” said a voice that sounded like a golden retriever got reincarnated as a boy band member.
Ugh.
Bentley Ryder. CEO. Millionaire by 25. Billionaire by 30. Owner of dimples that have no business being that adorable on a fully grown man. He says “heck” instead of swearing, drinks oat milk, and once offered to carry my menstrual heating pad from HR like it was a treasure map.
Basically, he’s…unreasonably nice. And unreasonably hot. Which is very inconvenient when your ideology includes phrases like eat the rich.
I gave him a nod. “Morning, Bossman.”
He beamed. “Did you read the email I sent last night?”
I squinted at him. “You mean the one you sent at 2 a.m. titled ‘Emergency – Please Read!’ that was just a meme about ducks in a line?”
“It’s important to stay organized.”
“Sir, I say this with love, but you need a hobby. That isn’t memes.”
He gave me the classic Bentley pout. “I have one. It’s running this company and annoying you.”
“Cute,” I deadpanned, sipping my latte. “You're doing amazing at both.”
That’s when my phone buzzed with a calendar notification that read: “Meeting with Legal. VERY IMPORTANT. Do not ghost this one, Lila, pls.” (Bentley writes like a 14-year-old on TikTok.)
And that meeting? It changed everything.
Monday, 9:00 a.m. | The Conference Room of Anxiety
The legal team looked like they’d just discovered I was a secret Russian spy. Bentley was sitting next to me, fidgeting with his tie like it was personally attacking him.
“You’re being audited,” said one of the lawyers, whose face was locked in a permanent scowl.
Bentley blinked. “Okay…but like, chill audit or angry audit?”
I slapped my palm to my forehead. “You can’t ask if it’s chill, Bentley. That’s not how the IRS works.”
Apparently, someone (cough his uncle cough) was trying to sabotage Bentley’s position as CEO by declaring him “unstable,” “immature,” and “incapable of commitment.” And guess what his uncle said in court?
That Bentley’s a man-child who can't even hold down a stable relationship, let alone run a billion-dollar empire.
Rude, but also… fair.
“So,” the lead lawyer said, “We need to present an image of maturity and commitment. A partner. A fiancée. Ideally, a wife.”
Bentley blinked. I blinked. My coffee blinked.
“Absolutely not,” I said instantly.
“I wasn’t even going to ask you,” Bentley replied.
“Oh,” I said.
Pause.
He turned slowly. “Wait. Why not you?”
“Oh hell no.”
He turned faster. “No, Lila, wait—hear me out.”
“Do you like getting stabbed with office scissors? Because I have access.”
Bentley clasped his hands like he was about to recite a prayer. “You’re the only person who knows me. You won’t fall for me—”
“Thanks?”
“—and you’d keep me grounded. Also, you already schedule my dentist appointments. Being my fake wife can’t be that different.”
“That sentence is why you're single.”
The lawyers, clearly loving the chaos, just watched like it was a Netflix drama.
“Just pretend to be my fiancée for one month,” Bentley said, eyes wide like a golden retriever that saw a treat.
I stood. “You’re asking a feminist to participate in a sham marriage to protect capitalism.”
“Yes.”
“...What’s the salary bump?”
Monday, 10:03 a.m. | Post-Meeting Crisis Boba Run
So here we are.
Bentley and I, sitting on a bench outside the office, sipping boba like our lives weren’t about to turn into an HR nightmare.
“I still can’t believe I said yes,” I muttered.
“You said, and I quote, ‘Fine, but I want a 30% raise, stock options, and the right to ghost you during PMS week.’”
“Fair terms.”
He smiled at me, eyes crinkling in that way that made me want to throw things.
“Thanks, Lila,” he said quietly. “Seriously. You’re saving my butt.”
“You better buy me unlimited dumplings for life.”
“Done.”
“And don’t expect me to cook, clean, or smile politely at your uncle.”
“I’d be terrified if you did.”
I turned to him, poking a straw at his cheek. “Let’s be clear, Bentley Ryder. This is fake. F-A-K-E. You don’t get to catch feelings. You don’t get to gaze at me like I’m your little sunshine pony.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“And if you dare fall in love with me, I will personally yeet you into the sun.”
He grinned.
“Deal.”
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