Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

I stopped outside his door, took a deep breath like I was about to skydive without a parachute, and knocked.

No going back now. Not unless I fancied throwing myself down the stairwell.

The door swung open almost immediately, leaving me zero time to panic or bolt.

There he was—in a suit. A proper one. Not the kind you wear for a Zoom meeting or to make your ex jealous on Instagram, but the sort that whispered “money” and “I don’t queue for anything, ever.” He looked like he was on his way out.

Maybe a date.

Probably with someone tall, elegant, and dangerously immune to carbs. Regret made a swift U-turn in my gut, and I took a tiny step back, already rethinking everything.

But then he gestured for me to wait. He was on the phone, looking very much like a man who closed deals before breakfast. He held up a hand, mouthed “one second,” then pointed inside.

I stepped into his flat, trying not to look too nosy while absolutely snooping.

It was about the same size and layout as mine, but the vibe was completely different.

Where mine screamed “early-twenties chaos with a side of IKEA regrets,” his felt sleek, understated, expensive—in that annoying way where you knew each item had a brand name that required a six-month waitlist and a blood oath.

Still, it didn’t feel lived-in. No clutter, no mess, no personality. More hotel suite than home.

Either he’d just moved in like I suspected, or he barely slept here. Which, fair enough. He didn’t look like the type who needed more than four hours of sleep or any kind of throw cushion.

Before I could finish my impromptu Cribs tour, he ended the call and turned to me, eyebrow raised in question.

Right. Time to stop gawping.

I pulled out the check I’d written and held it out.

“For the shirt,” I said. “The one I sort of shredded during our, uh, you know… last time p>

He looked at the check.

“I don’t need it p>

“I know. But I do. Need to give it, I mean.” I set it on his glass coffee table.

He didn’t reply. And I suddenly had absolutely no idea what to do with my limbs. My arms felt weird. My legs were traitors. The silence swelled between us like a balloon full of awkward.

Then he moved closer.

Just a step. Barely even that. But it was enough.

“What’s the real reason you came p>

I froze. Every muscle in my body tensed.

Being this close, I was forcibly reminded of just how tall he was—and how much he radiated that very specific, very male sort of danger. That raw, unfiltered, primal energy that made my instincts twitch like I was standing in front of something wild and untamed.

He wasn’t doing anything. Just leaning in, breathing the same air. But my pulse was suddenly doing parkour in my neck, and my mouth was dry.

It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was that same instinctual thrill you’d get if you were face to face with a leopard in the wild—well-fed, maybe, but still looking at you like it hadn’t ruled out dessert.

Even if there was glass between you and the claws, your body still clocked that you were in the presence of a predator.

My palms were sweating. My knees had opinions about gravity. My fight-or-flight response was going through a full-blown crisis.

All because this man, this maybe-dangerous, possibly-rich, definitely-hot neighbor, was looking at me.

And here I was, about to pitch the world’s most deranged idea: fake marriage. Casual pretend engagement.

Just your everyday “hey, can you be my incredibly powerful and slightly terrifying fiancé so my parents will stop trying to marry me off to the highest bidder p>

Yeah. No way this was going to come across as anything but completely unhinged.

To stall, I said, “You mentioned a proposal that time… back at the hotel? I didn’t really catch the details p>

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s funny. Because I seem to remember I’m the one asking the questions right now, and you still haven’t answered me p>

Right. That.

My mouth opened, and before I could stop myself, the words just… spilled out.

“I want to marry you p>

There was a beat of silence. Then he blinked.

“I mean—not really marry you,” I added in a rush, the dam well and truly broken now. “I mean yes, technically, but not romantically. It’s fake. A cover. A bluff. A strategic performance. My parents—okay, my mum—has basically gone full villain mode and is trying to auction me off to some obscenely wealthy fifty-year-old who owns, like, half the shipping industry and is on the hunt for Wife Number Five. And if I don’t show up with someone even richer and more terrifying, she’s going to force me into some grotesque merger of souls and assets. I’ve got three days to conjure up a billionaire fiancé with serious scary-man energy, and the list of available candidates is currently: you p>

I finally paused to breathe, chest heaving like I’d just finished a sprint, which, emotionally speaking, I had.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t call building security. Just studied me for a second, like I was a crossword puzzle that had started solving itself.

And then he nodded.

“Alright,” he said.

I blinked at him. “Sorry—what p>

“Okay,” he repeated, like this sort of thing happened to him all the time. “I’ll do it p>

I stared. My brain short-circuited so hard I half expected to smell burnt toast. “Just like that p>

He shrugged. “My family’s been on my back about finding a wife. I’m not interested in dating. Your proposal happens to solve my problem too p>

Oh.

He went on, “In fact, that was what I was trying to bring up back at the hotel, before you left p>

I was speechless.

“I—this feels… surreal,” I said, blinking at him like he’d grown another head. “I mean, me needing a fake fiancé at the exact same time you’re in the market for a fake fiancée? What are the odds—? Wait, just to be clear,” I added hastily, “it is a fake fiancée you are looking for, right? Not a real one, I mean p>