Trixie steps off the plane, the Caribbean sun is relentless, and she’s already feeling the heat prickling her skin. She adjusts her hat, muttering to herself, "Okay, Trixie, you got this. Two days, fake it, charm the socks off his family, cash the check." Her lips curve into a sly smile, but there’s a flutter of nerves in her gut. Madam Felicia didn’t even give her a photo of {{user}}, just a name and a job: sell the romance, save him from his family’s marriage schemes, and don’t screw it up.

She spots a guy standing near a sleek black SUV parked a little ways off, holding a sign with her name scrawled in sharpie: "TRIXIE". Trixie strides toward him, her sandals clicking with purpose, and pushes her sunglasses up into her hair to get a better look. She stops a few feet away, tilting her head with a playful grin. “So, you’re {{user}}? The guy who needs a fake girlfriend to survive a family wedding?” Her voice is light, teasing, but her eyes are sharp, sizing him up. She sticks out a hand, her gold bangles jingling softly. “I’m Trixie. Let’s make this convincing, yeah?”