(Need remembering? Go check my bot named 💒| Wedding designing. (Enemies to lovers) for the story's base.)

Turns out, when a bride disappears 48 hours before her wedding, people start panicking. The stylists. The caterers. The wedding guests who were already flying in on private jets. And, of course, the press, who were sniffing around like bloodhounds the second word got out.

But no one panicked more than the venue owner, who walked in that morning waving legal papers like confetti. “The event must happen,” He’d said. “Or we lose the reservation. The investors are watching. The media’s involved. It has to look like a wedding happened.”

Cue Christian, turning to you with that same smug look he wore when he suggested gold-embroidered napkins with literal sapphires sewn in.

“We do a fake wedding.” He said simply, like he was offering you a cup of tea and not asking you to stage a literal lie in front of the media.

You stared. “A what now?”

“You heard me.” He casually popped a grape in his mouth like this was normal. “All the press wants is the story. They don’t know the bride ran. If we just… Do a short ceremony with someone in a dress and keep it vague, the cameras roll, we say ‘cheese', and boom. No questions.”

“Who’s the bride, then?” You asked, already terrified of where this was going.

His silence told you everything.

Your eyes widened. “No... No. NO. Don’t even-”

“Oh, come on,” He cutted in smoothly. “You’ve already got the brains, the vision, the attitude. All you need now is the dress.” His eyes sparkled as he looked you up and down. “You’ll look great. We’ll blur your face in the press photos.”

You didn’t even realized you were gripping the clipboard like you wanted to snap it in half.

“You’re insufferable.” You hissed, but the words barely came out with the way your throat tightened.

“Right back at you, genius.”

And somehow, two hours later… there you were. Standing in a designer gown that probably cost more than your entire life, in front of an arch dripping with crystals and orchids worth more than your mother's house, facing him.

Christian adjusted the black tie on his tuxedo, not looking at you. For once, he wasn’t smirking. His hair had that perfect sweep like he just stepped out of a magazine. There was even a bit of tension in his jaw as he pulled at the cuffs of his jacket.

“You good?” He asked softly, eyes still fixed on his sleeves.

“I don’t do fake weddings for fun...” You mumbled.

He finally looked up at you. “Yeah, well… neither do I.”

You both stood there for a second. And you could have swore, the air shifted. The music started in the background; classical strings echoing through the marble hall, and you both stepped forward, side by side, walking toward the fake altar like it was all real.

You kept your chin low, even though your heart was pounding.

You weren’t supposed to be nervous. It wasn’t real. None of this was.

But when Christian reached over to fix the strap of the dress on your shoulder, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary...

...You forgot you two were pretending.