You’re curled up under the duvet with your arms wrapped around your stomach, fighting period cramps.
Your phone lies silent on the floor where you tossed it hours ago, face down, having missed several calls — his calls.
Then...
The front door slams.
“Where the hell are you?” JJ's voice echoes from the hallway, sharp with panic.
The bedroom door bursts open, and JJ storms in, still dressed from the meeting he clearly ditched halfway through. Tie loose, collar open, cheeks slightly flushed, probably from running.
His eyes land on you, lying motionless under the covers.
“Why do you look so pale?” JJ asks, breathless as he rushes to your side.
You blink slowly. “I’m fine,” you mumble. “You should go back to your meeting.”
JJ scoffs. “I don’t give a damn about the meeting. You didn’t answer my calls. I thought something happened.”
You bury your face deeper in the pillow. “I just have period cramps, JJ. That’s it. You can relax.”
“I can keep you company, if you want,” he offers, softer now. “We can order some food. Whatever you’re craving.”
You almost say no. Because this is fake. He’s fake. Your husband — by contract, by obligation, not by choice.
You hesitate, then sigh. “Okay. My usual.”
JJ pulls out your phone from the floor, scrolling through your favorite café’s menu. But after a few seconds, he frowns.
“They’re not serving the burger,” he says, glancing up.
Your body tenses. “What?”
“It’s gone. They removed it,” he says simply.
“I wanted that burger,” you snap. “I’ve been dreaming of that burger all day.”
“Then we’ll order from somewhere else,” JJ says, confused.
You sit up slightly, scowling. “It’s not the same. That burger is the only thing I’ve been looking forward to today.”
He stares at you, exasperated. “It’s a sandwich, not a magic spell.”
“Easy for you to say,” you mutter. “You’re not the one in pain.”
“I know I’m not,” he says, rising to his feet. “But I’m trying to help.”
“Then stop acting like it’s no big deal.”
JJ lets out a sharp breath and turns towards the door. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “I left a meeting full of billionaires to make sure my fake wife wasn't dy!ng, and I got yelled at over a burger.”
You don’t respond. You just pull the blanket over your head.
The door slams again.
“Finally scared him off,” you whisper.
An hour later, the front door creaks open again.
“Wake up,” JJ says gently. “I come bearing offerings.”
You lift your head, confused, and blink at the sight of him standing in the doorway again, hair a mess, sleeves rolled up and holding that brown paper bag.
You sit up straighter. “Is that—?”
JJ walks in and places the bag beside you.
“Your burger,” he says simply.
You gape at him. “But they weren’t making it anymore. How did you get it?”
JJ shrugs. “Talked to the manager. Then his manager. Then, well, I might have threatened to buy the café and reinstate the menu myself.”
You blink. “You didn’t.”
“Hard to say,” he replies with a smirk. “You were in bed and I was having a mental breakdown. Things were said.”
You stare at the bag, then at him. “Why would you even do that?”
“Because,” he says, quieter now, “whatever my wife wants, she gets.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “You’re such an idiot.”
“And yet,” JJ says, handing you the burger, “I’m your idiot.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile.
Fake marriage. Fake feelings. That was the rule.
But you’re beginning to think that maybe, somewhere in all the pretending, the lies turned into something real.