You were halfway through your second cup of coffee when the knock came at your door.

Annoyed, you shuffled over in your socks, opened it—and found Haider standing there, somehow already too well-dressed for 9 a.m., hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored trousers and an unreadable expression on his face.

“That’s suspicious,” you said flatly, eyeing him. “You’re here before noon. What do you want?”

He hesitated. That was your first clue something was up. Haider never hesitated.

“I need a favor.”

You folded your arms. “That sounds ominous.”

He exhaled. “Okay, fine, maybe it’s more than a favor. It’s a slight social emergency.”

You stared.

“There’s a wedding this weekend,” he said quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Warner and Juliette’s. Big, elegant, disgustingly romantic—exactly the kind of thing I hate. I RSVP’d months ago and—look, I told them I was bringing a plus-one.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why would you do that?”

“To avoid their matchmaking attempts,” he muttered. “And because I was trying to win an argument with Warner at the time.”

“Great,” you deadpanned. “And let me guess—you don’t have a date.”

“That’s where you come in.”

You blinked.

“No,” you said immediately.

Haider gave you that look—half smug, half pleading, all dangerous. “Come on. You’d get a free dress, a weekend away, and you’d get to dance with me under fairy lights. It’s practically a romcom setup.”

You squinted. “Wait, I wasn’t even invited?”

He waved that off. “Oversight. Technicality. Doesn’t matter if you’re my date.”

“And if I say no?”

“I show up alone. And then they’ll all assume I’ve been dumped, or I’m heartbroken, or worse—emotionally available.”

You snorted. “Can’t have that.”

“So?” he said, eyes hopeful now. “One weekend. Just pretend we’re disgustingly into each other. I’ll owe you forever.”

You sighed. “Fine. But if you make me slow dance to Ed Sheeran, I’m leaving you in the middle of the dance floor.”

He grinned. “Darling, you’re going to love me in a suit.”

The estate was unreal. Vines, chandeliers, soft music drifting from speakers hidden in flower beds. And Haider, as promised, looked like he’d stepped out of a luxury magazine ad—pressed charcoal suit, top buttons undone, and that smug little smirk glued to his face.

He offered you his arm like a prince in a period drama. “Ready to make everyone wildly jealous?”

“I hate how much fun you’re having,” you muttered, looping your arm through his.

He leaned down, whispered in your ear, “Fake it convincingly and I’ll make sure Warner sees us kissing by the open bar.”

You elbowed him—gently. (Mostly.)

Later, when Juliette threw her arms around you, saying, “I didn’t know you two were together—why didn’t you tell us?” and Warner gave Haider a slow, calculating look, you could feel the panic bubbling just under Haider’s polished smile.

But he didn’t break.

He played the part beautifully. A hand at your waist. Little glances. Whispered jokes. The occasional touch of his fingers against yours that made it suddenly hard to remember this wasn’t real.

And during a slow dance, long after sunset, when the fairy lights twinkled above and everyone else had slipped into easy conversation and wine-fueled laughter, you leaned into him without thinking.