Adrian had practically forced you into a fake relationship—no, a fake engagement—with the efficiency of a man used to getting his way. He’d presented it like a business deal: play the role of his devoted fiancée long enough to convince his family he wasn’t a loveless workaholic, then walk away with generous compensation and no strings attached.

Clean.

Simple.

Transactional.

To him, you were just a pawn—or so he thought.

The arrangement itself wasn’t unbearable. Adrian was cold, distant, and emotionally unavailable, exactly as advertised. He rarely asked personal questions and never lingered too close for too long. Still, he made sure appearances were flawless: weekend trips to luxury resorts, candlelit dinners at restaurants where menus didn’t list prices, jewellery slipped into your hands with a casual, “You should wear this tonight.” It was all part of the act.

And you played your part well.

Tonight was no exception.

Friday night at his parents’ estate meant a full house—siblings, cousins, friends of the family—all gathered for their weekly dinner party. Laughter echoed across the wide backyard as children ran around with glow sticks, their voices mixing with the crackle of the bonfire. Wine flowed freely, conversations overlapping in warm, familiar chaos.

You smiled when required, laughed on cue, and accepted compliments from his relatives with practised grace.

“They're lovely, Adrian,” his mother had said earlier, squeezing your hand. “You’re good for him.”

You’d felt Adrian stiffen beside you at that, his jaw tightening even as he smiled.

After dinner, you helped clear plates and wipe down the long wooden table. By the time you stepped back outside, the fire had burned lower, and most of the seats were already taken. You hesitated at the doorway, debating whether to retreat inside and busy yourself with dishes again.

Before you could decide, a hand caught your wrist.

“Hey,” Adrian said quietly.

You turned just as he tugged you forward, pulling you down onto his lap without warning. He adjusted himself in the chair as if this were the most natural thing in the world, one arm sliding around your waist to keep you there. His other hand held a glass of whiskey, ice clinking softly.

Your breath hitched. “Adrian—”

“Relax,” he murmured, leaning in close enough that his lips brushed your ear. “People are watching.”

You stiffened, painfully aware of how solid he felt beneath you, how secure his grip was around your hips. From the outside, it probably looked affectionate. Intimate. Convincing.