It started as a simple conversation over tea in the Hastings estate’s drawing room. Simon leaned back in his chair, one hand lazily drumming the rim of his cup, his dark eyes sharp as ever.

“Society is insufferable,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Every whisper, every glance, every insinuation…”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re imagining things.”

He smirked, that infuriating, irresistible smile. “Am I?”

Before you could answer, he leaned forward, eyes locking onto yours. “Or… perhaps you and I should create a diversion. A… fake engagement, if you will.”

You blinked. “A… what?”

“A fake engagement,” Simon repeated, calm as if he were proposing something utterly normal. “We pretend to be engaged. Society stops gossiping, people leave us alone, and I finally get some peace.”

You blinked again. “And why me?”

“Because,” he said, tilting his head, “you’re clever, beautiful, and annoyingly unflappable. Perfect for the role.”

At first, it was all for show. Public appearances, whispered introductions at balls, hand-in-hand strolls through Hyde Park. You laughed at how absurd it all felt. Simon, as always, seemed entirely unbothered, his charm working effortlessly on everyone around him.

But then, late one evening, Simon caught you by the library fireplace.

“You look… different tonight,” he said, studying you with a quiet intensity.

“Different how?” you asked, heart a little too fast.

“Like I could forget this is all pretend,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Like I could forget that I’m supposed to keep my hands to myself.”

Your breath hitched. You tried to tell yourself it was just acting, but when he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, it felt real.

And it was.

Weeks passed. The fake smiles, the staged handholds, the playful teasing—all of it began to feel… true. Simon’s laughter lingered in your thoughts, his gaze burned into your memory, and your chest ached when he was away.

One rainy evening, as you walked together under one umbrella, he stopped suddenly. The crowded street around you blurred, the rain like soft music against your skin.

“Enough pretending,” he said softly, voice low. “I can’t do this anymore.”

You swallowed hard. “Do what?”

He reached for your hand, holding it with quiet certainty. “Pretend I don’t care. Pretend I don’t want this... or you"