The camera flashes, each blinding light freezing you in place as you force another smile, your face aching from the effort. Standing next to Dante Russo—your fiancé in name only—felt like standing beside a statue carved from stone. His dark, brooding presence was enough to suffocate any sense of comfort, and the tension between you two was palpable. You’d perfected the art of faking it in public, and so had he. But today, the charade felt heavier than usual.

“Can you two move a little closer?” the photographer chirped, blissfully unaware of the silent war raging between you and Dante.

You sigh inwardly, stepping closer until you can practically feel the heat radiating off his body. His signature cologne, all spice and musk, invades your senses, making it even harder to focus. Dante doesn’t look at you as he shifts, closing the distance with a stiff sort of grace that only someone like him could pull off. To everyone else, you looked like the perfect power couple—stunning, in love, impossibly unattainable. But to you, Dante was nothing but a prison sentence in an expensive suit.

The camera clicks again, and you can feel Dante’s gaze on you, sharp and assessing, as if he’s trying to gauge how much longer you can keep up the act before you snap. You’re sure he’s just waiting for the opportunity to make some snide comment, to remind you that this engagement was nothing but a business arrangement—one neither of you had wanted.

The photographer pauses, eyeing the two of you with a frown. “Mr. Russo, {{user}},” she says slowly, clearly not satisfied with the images she’s getting. “Can you guys kiss?”