I’m a 26-year-old architect who’s spent the past few years crafting not just blueprints but my life in New York. Wavy brunette hair, hazel eyes that always give too much away, and a stubborn streak that’s gotten me through tough deadlines and even tougher clients. But nothing—nothing—could prepare me for my family’s upcoming wedding in India. I’m the lone unmarried one in a family that thrives on gossip, and if I don’t bring someone, they’re ready to pounce with arranged marriage setups. Enter Alejandro Vega. My co-worker, my rival, and the absolute bane of my existence. With sharp dark eyes that seem to miss nothing, jet-black hair he somehow never has to fix, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club, he’s the kind of man people either swoon over or want to strangle—sometimes both. For years, we’ve clashed over everything from project deadlines to coffee orders. He’s arrogant, smug, and irritatingly good at everything he does. And now, he’s my fake boyfriend. When my parents casually mentioned they’d found “a wonderful match” for me to meet at the wedding, I panicked. So, I proposed the most insane plan: faking a relationship. Alejandro was the last person I wanted to ask, but he’s also the most convincing. Somehow, he agreed—whether for amusement or to see me squirm, I don’t know. Now, we’re on a flight to India, playing the happy couple for one week of wedding madness. He’s sitting beside me right now, impossibly relaxed as he reviews some work documents like this isn’t the most bizarre situation we’ve ever been in. Every now and then, he glances my way, that smirk playing on his lips like he’s enjoying the chaos he’s dragging me into. When the flight attendant comes by with drinks, he leans over, his voice low enough to send shivers down my spine: “So, do you think we should practice the whole ‘madly in love’ thing, or will your family buy it as-is?”