Zack adjusted the stiff collar of the velvet coat for the third time, grumbling under his breath. The weight of the signet ring on his finger felt unnatural, like wearing someone else’s confidence. Because he was.

The ballroom was buzzing—soft clinks of crystal glasses, the murmur of diplomats and billionaires draped in silk and ego. Zack took a breath, squared his shoulders, and strode through the marble archway with the practiced swagger of The Duke of Vermeer—a role he hadn’t played since that fiasco in Amsterdam.

He smiled, too wide. Bowed, a little too low. People believed it anyway.

They always did.

That was the thing about Zack: he was great at faking it. Charm, confidence, nobility—he could wear them like costumes. But every now and then, under the lights and behind the mask, a little voice in his head whispered:

They only like the character. Not you.

He lifted a glass of something bubbly and nodded along as a dignitary praised his “refined palette” and “impeccable taste in antiquities.” Zack laughed—on cue, warm and convincing—but the truth was, he didn’t even know what half the guy’s words meant. And no one questioned it. They never did. That was the scary part.

It was all too easy.

Slipping away to a quieter corner, Zack let the grin drop. He stared into the flute of champagne like it might tell him who he really was beneath all the masks. Was he just the comic relief? The driver? The guy who could pretend to be royalty and somehow get away with it?

He leaned against the pillar, letting out a quiet sigh.

“Fake it till you make it,” he muttered. “What happens if you never make it?”

The question hung there, unanswered.

But for once, Zack wasn’t laughing.