“You were paid to make me walk away, Ruby. But the problem is, I don’t know how to stop wanting you to stay.”

She accepted $5,000 to go on a date looking ugly. What she didn’t expect was that he was the CEO of her company, the most powerful billionaire in the country. Now, her lie comes with a dangerous price.

The problem is, he never expected to fall in love.

Chapter 1, the disaster date.

Relax. This date is supposed to fail.

THE DISASTER DATE (Chapter 1)

The tablet screen cracked into a spiderweb across my display, like my bank account—completely shattered.

“Ruby, I need those designs by Friday,” my boss said, leaning over my cubicle with that smile that meant I don’t care about your problems.

“No problem,” I lied, staring at the black screen.

Problem? Massive problem. A new tablet cost more than my rent, and I’d already been living on ramen for two weeks.

My phone buzzed.

“Mia saw this weird ad. 5k for 3 hours work. Sounds sketchy, but $5,000.”

I stared at the link she sent. Anonymous post. Cash payment. Unique acting opportunity.

Every logical brain cell screamed, “Scam!”

But my bank account whispered, “Tablet.”

I clicked.

The café smelled expensive, like leather and privilege. I didn’t belong here in my thrift-store blazer, but the woman who’d messaged me apparently did.

She walked in like she owned the air itself. Designer everything. Ice-blonde hair. The kind of beautiful that makes you check your teeth for lipstick.

“A Ruby Carter?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

She sat without asking, crossing legs that probably cost more than my car.

“I need you to sabotage a date.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll go in my place,” she said, like she was ordering coffee. “Use my name. Vivien Sterling. Make him hate you. Five thousand cash.”

My mouth went dry. “Who… who am I sabotaging?”

“Archer Reed.”

The coffee I was drinking turned to cement in my throat.

Reed. Like Reed Innovations.

“You know it,” she said, watching my face. “I work there.”

My voice cracked. “I mean, I’m just a designer. But—”

Her eyes lit up like I’d solved world hunger.

“Perfect. He doesn’t know you.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I’ve never even seen him. The company’s huge and CEO types don’t exactly visit the design floor.”

“Even better.” She leaned forward, and I caught a whiff of perfume that probably cost my monthly salary. “He thinks he’s meeting me. You show up instead.”

“Wear something horrible. Be clingy, desperate, everything men hate.”

“Why would you want—”

“That’s not your concern.” Her smile didn’t warm. “Do we have a deal?”

I thought of my tablet. My rent. The reality that I was one emergency away from eviction.

“Deal.”

“You look like you got dressed in a blackout,” Mia said, circling me like a disappointed fashion designer.

The mirror confirmed her assessment. Brown oversized hoodie that had seen better decades. Green cargo pants with too many pockets. Colorful sneakers I’d stolen from my teenage years. My hair pulled into a lopsided bun held together by visible bobby pins.

And the pièce de résistance—fake pimples Mia had drawn with red eyeliner.

“It’s perfect,” I said, fighting a smile. “He’s going to run screaming.”

“The pimples are genius,” Mia agreed, adding another one. “Very… ‘I have zero self-awareness.’”

We rehearsed lines.

“My ex was perfect. You’re like his beta version.”

“Do you have life insurance?”

“I want four kids.”

“Is your salary public or do I need to Google it?”

Mia collapsed laughing.

“He’s going to block your number before appetizers.”

If only.

Le Bernardin made me feel like I’d walked onto a movie set where I was definitely not the lead.

The valet’s face when I stepped out of my Uber said everything.

“I have a reservation,” I told the hostess. “Sterling.”

Her smile tightened. “Of course. Right this way.”

Every step through that restaurant felt like a walk of shame. Designer dresses turned to stare. Whispers followed.

My hoodie had never felt more offensive.

Then I saw him—back to me. Shoulders that made the expensive suit look casual. Dark hair that probably felt unfairly soft.

When he turned, I forgot how to breathe.

Blue eyes scanned me head to toe. A slow assessment that should have felt insulting, but somehow felt like being seen through an X-ray. His expression shifted.

Not disgust. Not horror.

Fascination.

“Vivien,” he said.

His voice was smooth whiskey with a hint of amusement.

“Yes.” I made my voice too high, too eager. “Hi, you’re Archer.”

I extended my hand and pumped it aggressively.

“Reed, right? Like the company? Weird coincidence. I work at a company with the same name. Small world.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

“Very small,” he said.

He held my hand a beat too long, thumb brushing my pulse point.

Testing.

“You’re tall,” I blurted. “Like… six-two? Six-three? Six-two.”

His smile was dangerous. “Good eye.”

“I’m great with measurements,” I chirped.

Oh God. Kill me now.

I pulled my chair out too fast. It caught the water glass the waiter had just placed.

Water cascaded across the white tablecloth, narrowly missing Archer’s lap.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I slapped napkins down like that would fix it. “I’m such a disaster. One time, I knocked an entire wedding cake onto the bride.”

“Were you at the wedding?” he asked, grabbing napkins, helping clean up.

“I was the bride.”

His hand paused. Those blue eyes found mine—sharp and assessing.

“You were married.”

I was supposed to talk about my ex, not invent a wedding disaster.

“No,” I stammered. “I meant I was near the bride. At a wedding. Not my wedding.”

I forced a laugh. “That would be crazy, wouldn’t it?”

He sat back, that smile playing at his lips like he was enjoying a private joke.

The waiter appeared mercifully.

“Wine?”

“Do you have that rosé?” I asked. “The cheap one?”

The waiter’s face could have frozen hell.

“We have Château d’Esclans,” he said carefully. “Whispering Angel.”

“Whatever.” I laughed too loud. “I don’t even like wine, honestly.”

Several tables looked over.

“Whispering Angel,” Archer said smoothly.

“‘To me you don’t like wine?’” I repeated, confused.

“Not really,” I said. “But it seems fancy to order it, right?”

I winked.

I actually winked.

He leaned back, studying me like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve.

“Tell me about your ex.”

“Oh, he was a doctor.” I scrambled for details. “Super successful. Made a ton of money.”

“A doctor?” He filed that away. I could literally see him cataloging it.

“Yeah,” I said. “A surgeon, actually. But he was also—” I caught myself before saying lawyer like my fake backstory said. “Also very handsome. But not as handsome as you.”

His eyebrow arched. “I appreciate the ranking.”

The food arrived. I made a show of eating with my mouth open, making sounds that physically hurt me to produce.

Archer barely touched his food. He just watched, like I was the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen.

So I said, mouth half full, “Your company, Reed Innovations… you must be related to the CEO or something.”

“Something like that.”

“What do you do there?”

“I oversee things,” he said. “Like management. You could say that.”

His smile was cryptic.

“And you said you work at a similar company.” He tilted his head. “Same name. Crazy coincidence.”

“But I’m just a designer,” I said quickly. “Nobody important. I’ve never even seen the CEO.”

“He’s supposedly this super intimidating guy who never leaves his floor.” I stopped, realizing I was babbling. “Anyway. Your ex. Do you have one?”

“Several.”

His honesty was jarring.

“Oh.” I blinked. “Um… were they pretty?”

“Beautiful.” He leaned forward. “But beauty is common. Intelligence is rare.”

The way he looked at me when he said it made my stomach flip, like he was talking about me specifically—which was impossible because I was wearing fake pimples and a hideous hoodie.

“My ex said I was too clingy,” I blurted, getting back on script. “Do you think I’m clingy? We just met, but do you feel a connection?”

I grabbed his hand across the table.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers closed around mine—firm, warm, deliberate.

“Maybe,” he said. “Tell me more about this ex.”

His eyes were so intense I forgot my next line.

“He was…” I swallowed. “He moved to another city. I thought he was clingy.”

“He was both,” Archer said, like he understood.

My voice pitched higher. “Clingy about me being clingy.”

Archer’s smile grew.

He was enjoying this.

Why was he enjoying this?

“So,” he asked, completely serious, “you want kids?”

“Four,” I said instantly. “I want to name them Oakley, River, Sky, and Leaf. Nature names.”

“My ex hated them. Said they sounded like hippie names.”

“They do,” he said.

His thumb stroked the back of my hand, sending electricity up my arm.

“But they’re bold choices.”

Wait—was that a compliment?

A waiter appeared with dessert menus. I was about to launch into another ridiculous comment when I saw it.

“Oh my God.” My voice dropped to normal. Real. “Is that tiramisu?”

The mask slipped before I could catch it.

Archer’s entire demeanor shifted. He leaned forward like a predator sensing weakness.

“You like tiramisu?”

I scrambled back into character. “I mean, it’s okay. My ex hated it. Said it was too coffee-forward.”

Archer finished my sentence.

“Most people find it too strong, but when it’s made right—with the perfect balance of espresso and mascarpone…” He trailed off, watching me.

I forgot I was supposed to be playing a role.

“Exactly,” I said, too fast. “And the cocoa powder has to be the right kind—not too bitter. And the ladyfingers need to be soaked just enough that they’re soft, but not soggy.”

I stopped.

His expression had changed completely. He was smiling, but it wasn’t the polite smile from before.

This was knowing. Triumphant.

“You’re a foodie,” he said quietly.

“No,” I said, fumbling back into my squeaky voice. “I just… I mean, I just like dessert, like everyone.”

“Not like everyone.”

He signaled the waiter.

“Two tiramisus. Your best.”

“You don’t have to,” I said quickly.

“I want to.”

His eyes held mine.

“I want to see your real reaction.”

The tiramisu arrived. I tried to eat it sloppily, messily, staying in character, but it was perfect.

Actually perfect.

The kind of perfect that makes you close your eyes involuntarily, which I did.

When I opened them, Archer was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

“What?” I asked, forgetting to squeak.

“Nothing.” His smile said everything. “Just enjoying the view.”

Outside the restaurant, I expected him to make an excuse and leave. Instead, he walked me to the curb, hands in his pockets, looking unfairly good under the streetlights.

“Uh, thank you for dinner,” I said, trying to sound relieved it was over. “It was memorable.”

“Good memorable or bad memorable?”

He stepped closer. Too close.

Close enough that I could smell his cologne—something dark and expensive that made me want to lean in.

“Still deciding,” he murmured.

“Vivien.” The fake name felt wrong coming from his mouth, like he was testing it, seeing if it fit.

“Well, goodbye then,” I said, taking a step back.

“No,” he said. “No, I want to see you again.”

He said it like it was already decided, like my opinion was optional.

“Why?” I demanded. “I talked about my ex. I asked about your salary. I was clingy.”

“You were?” He paused, considering. “Intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” My voice cracked. “I was terrible.”

“Or interesting.”

He stepped forward, backing me against the restaurant wall. Not touching, just present.

Overwhelming.

“Friday dinner,” he said. “Say yes.”

My brain screamed, No.

My mouth said, “I need to think.”

His smile was pure danger. Pure confidence.

“Yes or no, Vivien. This is direct.”

“Yes,” I blurted.

Problem.

I couldn’t breathe.

“No. Then it’s yes,” he decided for me.

His hand came up to rest against the wall beside my head. Not caging me in, but close enough to make my heart race.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Before I could protest, he lifted my hand and kissed it—slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.

Then he was gone, sliding into a car that probably cost more than my annual salary.

I stood there, back against the wall, completely frozen.

What the hell just happened?

The valet approached.

“Miss, do you need a car?”

“I took an Uber,” I said, dazed.

“Mr. Reed left instructions,” he said. “A driver is waiting for you.”

“He did what?”

“This way, please.”

As the driver pulled away from the restaurant, my phone buzzed.

Vivien: “Well? Is he gone?”

I stared at the message, then at the flowers visible through the restaurant window—flowers I’d seen Archer order before leaving, delivery address already memorized by the florist.

This was supposed to be simple.

One terrible date. Collect my money. Done.

Instead, I just met the most intense, perceptive, dangerous man I’d ever encountered, and he wanted to see me again.

I was so screwed.

FORCED TO CONTINUE (Chapter 2)

Chapter 2. Forced to continue.

This was supposed to end, so why is he calling again?

The phone screamed at 8:00 a.m., which should be illegal.

“Hello,” I mumbled, face down in my pillow.

“What did you do?” Vivien’s voice could shatter glass.

I sat up so fast my head spun.

“I did exactly what you asked. I was terrible.”

“Not terrible enough,” she snapped. She was actually yelling. “He called his parents. Said he wants to see you again.”

My stomach dropped.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know. I was there.”

“I tried to—”

“You were supposed to make him run,” she hissed, “not fall over himself asking for a second date.”

“That’s not my fault,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I wore fake pimples. I talked about marriage and four kids. I was clingy.”

“Clearly not clingy enough.” Her voice turned cold. Calculated. “You’re continuing.”

“No.” My throat tightened. “We had a deal. One date. Pay me.”

“You used my name. His parents think I’m you now. That was your plan.”

“The plan was him hating you,” she snapped. “Not calling me at midnight asking what my favorite flowers are.”

Tulips. He’d asked about tulips.

My chest tightened.

“That’s not my problem anymore,” I said, trying to sound firm. “Transfer the money and we’re done.”

“Or what?” Her laugh was sharp and cruel. “You’ll tell him?”

She let the threat hang, then twisted the knife.

“You work at Reed Innovations, Ruby. He’s your CEO. How do you think HR handles employees impersonating socialites?”

Ice flooded my veins.

“How do you know where I work?”

“I researched you thoroughly.”

A pause.

“Imagine a junior designer caught pretending to be me, scamming the company’s founder. They’d fire you before lunch. And I’d make sure you never worked in design again.”

My hands shook.

“You’re blackmailing me.”

“I’m motivating you.” Her tone softened into something worse—smug. “Ten thousand more. Total fifteen. Keep going until he gives up.”

“And if he doesn’t give up,” she added, “make it worse. Cry. Be needy. Be unbearable.”

The line went dead.

I sat there, phone in hand, feeling the walls close in. My tablet was still broken. My rent was still due.

And now I was trapped in a lie that was growing teeth.

The flowers arrived at 9:00 a.m.

I opened the door in pajamas, hair everywhere, zero dignity.

“Ruby Carter?”

“That’s me.”

“Delivery.”

He thrust the most beautiful arrangement I’d ever seen into my arms. Tulips. Every color imaginable. Perfect and fresh and so expensive I was afraid to breathe near them.

The card was simple.

“For Friday. —A”

“Oh no,” I whispered.

“Bad news,” Mia said, emerging from my couch where she’d crashed after helping me debrief last night. “He sent flowers.”

“Flowers?” She lunged for the bouquet. “Ruby, these are gorgeous.”

“This man is dangerous.”

“Confusing,” she corrected, smelling a tulip dramatically. “Your boss.”

“My boss.”

“Your boss?” Her eyes widened. “CEO of Reed Innovations?”

“I just didn’t know,” I whispered. “I’ve never seen him. And the company has 3,000 employees and I was spiraling.”

“Mia, I’m so screwed.”

She sniffed another tulip like it owed her money.

“You could be honest. Tell him the truth.”

“Sure,” I said flatly. “I’ll just call him up. Hi, Archer. Funny story. Vivien Sterling paid me to sabotage our date because she’s obsessed with you.”

“But surprise—I’m actually your employee. And also, I think you’re unfairly attractive. Bye.”

Mia winced. “When you put it that way…”

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I stared at it like it might explode.

“Answer it,” Mia hissed.

I did.

“Hello?”

“Vivien.” That voice—smooth, confident, and completely unfair at this hour. “Friday. 7:00 p.m. I’ll pick you up.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Playful. He was enjoying this because I was horrible.

“You should have blocked my number.”

“On the contrary,” he said, and I could hear his smile, “I found you. Refreshing.”

“Refreshing?” I croaked.

“I talked about marriage and life insurance on a first date.”

“And I found it brave.” A pause. “Or possibly insane. Still deciding.”

So Friday.

He was backing me into a corner and somehow making it sound like flirting.

“I really think this is a bad idea,” I said.

“Do you have plans?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Then it’s not a bad idea.” His voice dipped lower. “It’s fate.”

“That’s not how fate—”

“Vivien.” Serious now. Intimate. “One dinner with me. I promise not to bite.”

A beat.

“Unless you ask.”

I choked on air. “What?”

His laugh was low and private, absolutely illegal.

“Joking,” he said. “Mostly.”

“So fine,” I said, sounding defeated because I was. “But something casual. Movies work.”

“Okay,” he said. “Perfect. Text me your address.”

“Wait,” I blurted. “I never gave you my number.”

“You gave it to Vivien.” His voice was calm. “She gave it to me.”

“See you Friday, Vivien.”

He hung up.

I stared at my phone.

He just decided for me.

“And you let him,” Mia said, grinning.

“Because I like staying employed,” I snapped. “There’s a difference.”

Mia grabbed my shoulders.

“You’re blushing. Your hands are shaking. You keep looking at those flowers like they personally attacked you.”

“Because they did.”

Archer’s office had a view that made Manhattan look like a toy city.

Cole walked in without knocking.

“Got the information you wanted.”

Archer didn’t look up from his computer.

“Vivien Sterling,” Cole said, “social media checks out. Galas. Charity events. Wealthy friends.”

“But the woman from last night—” Cole pulled up photos on his tablet. “Completely different person.”

Archer finally looked.

Instagram showed Vivien polished, sophisticated, ice queen beautiful. Nothing like the girl in the oversized hoodie who’d talked about hippie baby names and ate tiramisu like it was a religious experience.

“So who was she?” Archer asked, though he’d already started his own investigation the moment he’d gotten home.

“Tracked the phone number,” Cole said. “Ruby Carter. Designer. Works here. Three years. Strong performance reviews.”

Archer’s jaw tightened.

“She works here.”

“Design department,” Cole confirmed. “You’ve never crossed paths because 3,000 employees.”

“I know.”

Archer pulled up her employee file. ID photo. No glasses. Hair neat. Shy smile. Completely different from last night’s chaos.

“Why would Vivien hire one of my employees to sabotage a date?” Archer asked.

“Revenge,” Cole said. “You’ve turned her down how many times?”

“Enough,” Archer said, cold, “that she should’ve gotten the message.”

Archer studied Ruby’s photo. Really studied it.

“She’s pretty,” Cole said slowly. “Actually pretty. So why the costume?”

“Orders,” Archer said. “Probably.”

Cole exhaled. “It backfired.”

Archer smiled slowly. “Spectacularly.”

“Boss, this is complicated,” Cole warned. “She’s your employee. There are rules.”

“Which I’ll follow,” Archer said.

“But first,” he added, closing the file, “I want to see who Ruby Carter really is. Not Vivien’s performance. Not the act.”

“Her.”

“How?” Cole asked.

“By giving her enough rope to either hang herself,” Archer said, “or drop the mask.”

He leaned back.

“I’m betting on the mask.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Cole asked.

“I’m not.” Archer’s certainty was absolute.

“Did you see her face when she tasted that tiramisu? That was real. Everything else was performance.”

“Bad performance.”

“So you’re going to keep playing along,” Cole realized. “Let her think you don’t know.”

“See how long it takes before she can’t keep pretending.”

Cole shook his head. “This is either genius or disaster.”

“Often the same thing,” Archer said.

He stood, looking out at the city.

“I send flowers to her apartment. Tulips. She said they were her favorite.”

“You’re sending flowers to someone you know is lying to you,” Cole said, incredulous.

“I’m sending flowers,” Archer corrected, “to someone I want to stop lying to me.”

Friday arrived faster than I wanted and slower than I could stand.

“What are you wearing?” Mia asked, demolishing my closet.

“Something normal.”

“He’s already seen you as a disaster,” she said. “Bar’s low.”

“But you want to look good.”

“I want to look like me,” I said. Finally.

I pulled out jeans and a blue sweater. Simple. Honest. Real.

“You know you’re falling for him, right?” Mia asked softly.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because she was right.

And that was terrifying.

When the knock came at 7:00, I took three deep breaths and opened the door.

Archer stood there in dark jeans and a button-down with rolled sleeves, looking like every fantasy I’d tried not to have.

His eyes traveled over me, slow, appreciative, hungry.

“Hi,” he said, voice rougher than usual.

“Hi.”

Silence. Charged. Electric.

“You look…” He stepped closer. “Beautiful.”

I blushed. Actually blushed.

“Thank you for the flowers,” I managed.

“You said tulips were your favorite.”

His smile was softer now. Real.

“Lucky guess.”

“Very lucky.”

In the car, the silence felt different.

Comfortable. Dangerous.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“Uh, a little.”

“Why?”

“Because last time I was not myself,” I said. “And now I am myself.”

“And what if you don’t like myself?”

He glanced at me, eyes intense.

“I already like yourself better.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet.”

His hand found mine on the console and threaded our fingers together.

“But I’m planning to.”

My heart did something complicated and painful and wonderful.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” I whispered.

“Does it bother you?”

“It terrifies me,” I admitted, and he smiled.

“Good.”

And just like that, I knew I was completely, utterly, hopelessly in trouble.

THE REAL CONNECTION (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3. The real connection.

“This version of you… this one feels real.”

The movie theater lobby smelled like butter and sugar and first-date nerves.

Archer’s hand was still holding mine from the car, his thumb doing this absent, circling thing on my palm that was absolutely destroying my ability to think straight.

“What do you want to see?” he asked, scanning the board.

“You choose.”

“No.” He turned to face me fully, that intensity back in his eyes. “You choose.”

“I want to know what you like.”

“That’s very research-y of you,” I said, trying to sound playful.

His smile was dangerous.

“Call it interest.”

I looked at the options, hyper-aware of him watching me.

“The romantic comedy,” I said.

“Perfect.”

“You don’t seem like a romcom guy.”

“I’m not.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “But I am a watching-you-enjoy-things guy.”

My breath caught.

“And that’s…” I swallowed. “That’s a very smooth line.”

“Stop calling them lines,” he said simply. “I mean every word.”

We were heading toward the ticket counter when I saw them.

Two women. Designer everything. The kind of beautiful that comes with personal trainers and monthly spa budgets.

And they were staring at Archer like he was prey.

“Archer Reed,” the blonde one said, perfectly highlighted, perfectly threatening, descending on us with practiced grace. “Hey. What a surprise.”

His hand tightened on mine. Protective.

“Natalie,” he said flatly.

“And who’s this?” Natalie’s eyes ran over me—jeans, simple sweater, zero designer labels—and her smile sharpened. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We haven’t,” I said, trying to sound confident and failing.

“This is Vivien,” Archer said smoothly.

Then, with deliberate possessiveness, he pulled me closer.

“My date.”

“How nice,” Natalie purred.

Natalie’s friend—brunette, equally polished—looked me up and down.

“I love your casual style.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

“Thank you,” I said, because what else could I say?

“Archer usually dates—” Natalie started.

“Excuse us.” Archer’s voice went cold. CEO cold. “We have a movie to catch.”

He guided me away, hand on my lower back, and I could feel the tension radiating off him.

“Sorry,” he said once we were out of earshot.

“For what?”

“They’re…” He paused, choosing words carefully. “Persistent.”

“Exes?”

“No.” He exhaled. “Just women who don’t hear.”

He stopped and turned to face me.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because they were rude.” His jaw tightened. “And you looked…”

“Small?” I guessed.

“You never look small.”

Something in my chest cracked open.

“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’m used to not being the prettiest girl in the room.”

“Ruby.” He caught himself. “Vivien.”

“Look at me.”

I did.

Those blue eyes were blazing.

“You’re the only girl I’m looking at,” he said. “The only one I want to look at.”

His hand came up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Everyone else is just noise.”

I wanted to believe him.

God, I wanted to believe him.

“That’s a really good line,” I whispered.

“Stop calling them lines.”

His thumb brushed my cheek.

“I mean every word.”

Inside the theater, darkness wrapped around us like a secret.

Archer led us to seats in the back. Strategic positioning that felt both protective and intimate.

Our armrest was up before I could comment.

And suddenly there was no barrier between us.

The previews started. I tried to focus.

Failed completely because Archer was watching me, not the screen.

“You’re missing the trailers,” I whispered.

“No, I’m not.” His voice was low. Private. “Better view right here.”

“That’s—” I swallowed. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes my brain stop working.”

His laugh was quiet, pleased. “Good.”

The movie started. Predictable romcom with genuinely funny moments.

I forgot to be self-conscious. Forgot to monitor my reactions.

I just laughed. Really laughed.

When I glanced over, Archer was smiling. Not at the screen.

At me.

“What?” I whispered.

“Your laugh.” He seemed to search for the right word. “Unguarded.”

“I like it.”

“I snort when I really laugh,” I admitted.

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s perfect.”

My heart did something complicated.

Then came the sad part. The grandmother’s funeral scene.

The main character breaking down, reading a letter, and suddenly I was crying.

Not pretty crying. Real crying.

“Oh God,” I whispered, trying to wipe my face discreetly. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Hey.” Archer’s hand found mine in the darkness. “Don’t hide.”

“I’m crying at a romcom.”

“That’s human.”

He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. An actual cloth handkerchief like some Victorian gentleman.

He handed it to me.

“I came prepared.”

“You brought a handkerchief to a movie?”

“I researched the movie,” he said, looking almost embarrassed. “Saw it had sad parts. Figured you might…”

He shrugged.

“Call it insurance.”

I stared at him.

“You researched the movie so you could bring tissues.”

“Handkerchief,” he corrected. “Tissues are less romantic.”

“Archer Reed,” I said, stunned, “are you actually a secret romantic?”

His thumb stroked my knuckles.

“Only with you.”

I used his handkerchief, hyper-aware this was possibly the most intimate thing I’d ever done with someone—crying into their handkerchief during a romcom while they held my hand and didn’t judge me.

He kept holding my hand through the rest of the movie. Even when it got sweaty.

Even when I probably should’ve pulled away.

I didn’t want to.

The ice cream shop was one of those local places that looked like someone’s grandmother ran it.

“Two scoops,” Archer told the teenager behind the counter.

Then, to me, “Salted caramel.”

“Make that, too,” he added.

We sat outside on a bench, Manhattan buzzing around us.

And for the first time all night, I felt brave enough to ask real questions.

“So,” I started, licking my spoon, “CEO at 26?”

“That’s intense.”

“Twenty-five, actually.” He smiled slightly. “And yes. Very intense.”

“Do you regret it?” I asked.

“Starting so young?”

“Sometimes.” His honesty surprised me. “I missed a lot. Normal twenties things. Dating. Spontaneity. Sleep.”

“But…” His eyes lit up. “Building something from nothing. That’s better than sleep.”

“Spoken like a true workaholic.”

“Takes one to know one.” He gestured at me with his spoon. “Design.”

“You said it’s your piece.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice because we were getting dangerously close to real territory.

“Tell me about it,” he said. “What you love about it.”

“It’s control,” I admitted.

“Life is chaos. People are chaos. But when I’m designing, I choose every color, every line, every emotion.”

“It’s mine.”

“Control is important to you,” he said softly.

“Yes.” More than he knew. More than I wanted to admit.

“But life doesn’t work that way.”

“No,” he agreed. “It doesn’t.”

“But that’s where the magic is.”

“Magic,” I repeated, half mocking, half breathless.

He set down his ice cream and turned to face me fully.

“I planned tonight,” he said. “The movie. The timing. What to say.”

“But I didn’t plan you.”

“Me?”

“How you make me feel.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “That’s not something I can control or predict.”

“And it’s…” He searched for words. “Terrifying and addictive.”

My throat tightened.

“How do I make you feel?”

He leaned closer. Not touching, but close enough I could feel his warmth.

“Curious,” he said. “Constantly curious about what you’re thinking.”

“What makes you laugh. What makes you cry at romcoms.”

“That’s not—”

“And hungry.” His eyes held mine. “Not for food. For time.”

“More conversations. More of your real laugh. Not the fake one from last week.”

“More you.”

“Archer.” His name was barely a whisper.

“You don’t really know me.”

“Then let me.” His hand came up, fingers tracing my jaw. “Let me know every version.”

“The designer who loves control. The woman who cries at grandmother scenes. The person behind the performance.”

Performance.

The word hit like cold water.

“What performance?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Last week? The clingy act, the weird clothes?”

His thumb brushed my lower lip.

“That wasn’t you.”

“This is you.”

“And I vastly prefer this.”

Guilt twisted in my stomach.

He thought I’d been performing for fun—for first-date nerves—not because I was literally being paid to drive him away.

“I should tell you something,” I started.

“Later,” he cut me off gently. “Right now, I just want to be here with you.”

“No past. No explanations. Just this.”

How could I argue with that?

He walked me to my apartment door at 11:00.

The hallway was quiet. Intimate.

“Thank you,” I said. “For tonight. For the handkerchief. For the… everything.”

“Thank you for being real,” he said, stepping closer. “For letting me see you.”

“Archer, I—”

His phone rang. Loud. Intrusive. Corporate ringtone that meant business.

“Damn it,” he muttered, looking at the screen. “I have to.”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly. “Work emergency.”

“Server crash.” He looked torn, frustrated. “I need to authorize the fix.”

He took a breath and looked at me like it physically pained him to step back.

“Worse timing.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Really.”

He answered the call.

“Give me two minutes,” he said, then hung up, stepped close again, and cupped my face in his hands.

“I was going to kiss you,” he whispered. “Properly.”

“I know.”

“Rain check.”

“Rain check,” I agreed, even though my heart was screaming.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead—soft, lingering, achingly tender.

“Good night, Vivien.”

The wrong name. Still the wrong name.

It hurt more than it should have.

“Good night, Archer,” I whispered.

I watched him walk away, phone already to his ear, shoulders tense with responsibility.

Inside my apartment, I slid down the door, fingers touching where he’d kissed my forehead.

“I’m falling for him,” I whispered to the empty room, “and he doesn’t even know my real name.”

My phone buzzed.

Vivien: “How’s it going? Is he bored yet?”

I looked at the message. At the tulips, still beautiful on my counter. At the handkerchief I was still clutching.

Then I turned off my phone.

Some lies were too complicated to untangle tonight.

COMPLICATIONS (Chapter 4)

Chapter 4. Complications.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

What if he already knows who I am?

Monday morning arrived with an email that made my coffee taste like anxiety.

Subject: CEO presentation. All design team. Thursday 10:00 a.m.

No, no, no, no, no, I muttered, reading it three times like the words might change.

My coworker Sarah leaned over.

“You okay?”

“The CEO is coming here apparently,” I said. “First time in like two years.”

She lowered her voice.

“I heard he’s intimidating as hell. Never smiles. Makes grown men cry in meetings.”

I thought of Archer’s laugh at the movie theater. The handkerchief. The almost kiss.

“Yeah,” I said weakly. “Intimidating.”

“You’ve never seen him, right?” Sarah asked.

“Never,” I lied.

“Lucky you. I’d probably faint.”

If only she knew.

Thursday came too fast and not fast enough.

I dressed carefully—professional, but not trying too hard. My best work was printed and organized.

I’d practiced my presentation seventeen times.

What I hadn’t practiced was seeing Archer Reed walk into our conference room looking every inch the powerful CEO I’d been pretending he wasn’t.

Charcoal suit, perfectly tailored. Hair styled with more precision than our casual dates.

And his face—his beautiful face—was set in serious business lines.

This was CEO Archer. Not movie night Archer. Not ice cream Archer.

This was the man who built an empire at twenty-five.

“All right, everyone, please sit.” His voice was crisp, professional. “Let’s begin.”

I sat in the back, trying to be invisible, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders filled that suit.

Trying not to remember how those hands had held mine in the dark.

He went through each project methodically, offering feedback that was sharp but fair. People shifted nervously when he spoke to them directly.

Then he got to my project.

“Ruby Carter’s redesign of the client portal.”

He pulled up my work on the big screen.

“Excellent color theory. Intuitive user flow. This is the direction we should be moving.”

Everyone turned to look at me.

My face burned.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

Sir.

The word felt wrong in my mouth.

His eyes found mine across the room and held for one second too long.

Something flickered in them—warmth, recognition, promise.

Then it was gone, replaced by professional distance.

“Ms. Carter,” he said. “See me after. I have some questions about implementation.”

My heart stopped.

“Yes, sir.”

The meeting continued, but I didn’t hear any of it. I just kept thinking: he wants to see me alone at work where I’m his employee and he’s my boss and this is so incredibly complicated.

His office was on the top floor. All glass and chrome and power.

His assistant waved me in.

“He’s expecting you.”

Archer stood by the window, back to the door, Manhattan sprawled below him like he owned it.

Maybe he did.

“Close the door, Ruby.”

My real name.

He’d said my real name.

I closed it with shaking hands.

He turned. The CEO mask was gone.

This was date night Archer—intense, focused, hungry.

“Hi,” he said simply.

“You… you’re the CEO?”

“Yes,” he said. “Of your company. Technically my company, but yes.”

I felt dizzy.

“How long have you known—”

“Since Monday after our first date,” he said, walking toward me slowly, deliberately. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“Would you have come to dinner if I had?”

He stopped in front of me, too close. Close enough I could smell his cologne.

“Would you have let me hold your hand in the movie theater? Cry on my handkerchief?”

“That’s…” I couldn’t form coherent thoughts. “You’re my boss.”

“I’m aware.” His voice was rough. “Believe me. I’m painfully aware.”

“This is against every HR rule,” he continued, “which is why I’m transferring you.”

I froze. “What?”

“Different department. You’d report to Cole, my CFO.”

“No conflict of interest. No ethical concerns.”

He said it like he’d already made all the decisions.

“Your choice completely, of course,” he added, softer. “But I’m making it possible.”

“You planned this,” I whispered.

He didn’t deny it.

“I plan everything, Ruby.” He reached out and tucked hair behind my ear. “Except you.”

“You’re the variable I didn’t account for.”

“We can’t—”

“We can,” he said. “If you want to.”

His hand cupped my face.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes,” my body answered before my brain could. God, yes.

But—

“Archer,” I whispered, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

His phone rang.

He ignored it.

It rang again.

“Answer it,” I said, heart pounding. “It might be important.”

He looked at the screen and swore under his breath.

“My mother,” he said. “If I don’t answer, she’ll call security.”

“Your mother has the security team’s number?”

“She has everyone’s number,” he muttered.

He answered.

“Hi, Mom.”

I couldn’t hear her side, but I watched his expression cycle through resignation, frustration, and defeat.

“Friday?” He sighed. “Yes. Fine.”

“Okay.” Another sigh. “Love you too.”

He hung up and looked at me like he was bracing for impact.

“So,” he said, “funny story.”

“Oh God.”

“My mother wants us to come to dinner Friday,” he said. “At my place. With my parents.”

“No.” The word came out too loud. “Archer, no.”

“That’s too soon,” I said, panicking. “That’s too much.”

“I know,” he said, and he actually looked apologetic. “I told her that. She didn’t care.”

“Can’t you just say no?”

“Have you met my mother?”

“No.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And you won’t escape it forever.”

He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect CEO style.

“She’s excited about you.”

“About us.” He swallowed. “There is no us officially. We’ve had two dates.”

“Three if you count the disaster date,” I muttered.

“That counts,” he said immediately. “It counts to me.”

He stepped closer.

“Ruby, please. One dinner. I’ll be there the whole time.”

“I’ll protect you from any awkward questions.”

“And if it’s horrible,” he added, “I’ll personally apologize for the next year.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “Besides, you’ve already survived the worst date possible.”

“How bad could a dinner with my parents be?”

Famous last words.

Friday arrived wrapped in panic.

Mia helped me choose an outfit. Simple dress. Not too fancy, not too casual.

The kind of thing that said, I’m normal. Please like me.

When Archer picked me up, he stopped in the doorway.

He just stopped.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

He said it like it hurt, like the words were pulled from somewhere deep.

“You always look beautiful, but tonight you’re…” He shook his head. “I don’t have words.”

“Smooth talker,” I teased, but my cheeks burned.

“Not smooth,” he corrected. “Honest.”

He offered his hand.

“Ready?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Perfect,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Archer’s apartment was ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A kitchen that looked like a magazine spread. Art that was probably worth more than my car.

His mother opened the door before we could knock.

“You must be Vivien!” she cried, and pulled me into a hug that smelled like expensive perfume and warmth. “I’m Eleanor. Come in, come in.”

“Mom,” Archer said, half laughing, “let her breathe.”

“I’m just excited,” Eleanor said, then held me at arm’s length and studied me.

“You’re even prettier than he described.”

“He described me extensively,” she added, winking. “The boy’s been glued to his phone all week.”

“Mom.” Archer’s ears went red.

His father appeared behind her—tall, distinguished, with the same blue eyes.

“James Reed,” he said, offering his hand. “Pleasure.”

“Ruby—” I blurted, then panicked. “I mean, Vivien. Sorry. Ruby’s my middle name. I sometimes—”

I was babbling.

Archer’s hand found my lower back, steadying me.

“Breathe,” he whispered against my ear. “You’re perfect.”

Dinner was catered by some chef who apparently cooked for celebrities.

The food was incredible, but I barely tasted it because Eleanor kept asking questions.

“So, Vivien,” she said, smiling too brightly, “what do you do?”

I’d practiced this. “Graphic design.”

“Oh, lovely.” Eleanor’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Where?”

My mind went blank.

“Um… tech company.”

“She’s freelance,” Archer cut in smoothly. “Works with various clients.”

“Exactly,” I said, grabbing the lifeline. “Freelance. Lots of variety.”

“Freelance?” James asked. “Lots of variety?”

“How did you two meet?” Eleanor asked, leaning forward.

Archer and I answered simultaneously.

“Through friends.”

“A setup.”

We stopped. Looked at each other.

Eleanor laughed.

“Which is it?”

“Friends set us up,” Archer said, taking my hand under the table. “For a blind date.”

“That turned out better than expected,” I added.

“Much better,” Archer said, squeezing my fingers.

The lie tasted bitter but necessary.

We were navigating a minefield of half-truths, and one wrong step would detonate everything.

After dinner, Archer pulled me onto his balcony. The city glittered below us, a thousand lights, a thousand lives, a thousand secrets.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For surviving that.”

“Your parents are lovely.”

“They’re nosy,” I said.

“There’s a difference.”

He leaned against the railing, pulling me between his arms. Not trapping. Just holding.

“You okay?”

“Nervous.” I exhaled. “I kept almost saying the wrong thing.”

“I noticed,” he murmured, breath warm against my temple. “When you almost said you work at Reed Innovations.”

“I caught myself barely.”

He turned me to face him.

“Ruby, we need to talk about—”

“Don’t,” I whispered, pressing my fingers to his lips. “Not tonight.”

“Tonight was already complicated enough.”

He kissed my fingers, then my palm, then my wrist, where my pulse hammered.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured.

“Dramatic much.”

“Honest much.”

He pulled me closer.

“I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s affecting my work, my sleep, my sanity.”

“That’s—”

“And I don’t care.”

His forehead touched mine.

“I’d give up sanity for this. For you.”

“Archer,” I whispered.

“Can I kiss you now? Properly. The way I should have the other night.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

His lips met mine.

Soft at first. Testing.

Then deeper when I responded.

His hands slid into my hair. Mine gripped his shirt.

The city disappeared. His parents inside disappeared.

All my lies disappeared.

There was just this—just us—just the terrifying, perfect truth of how much I wanted him.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.

“That was…”

“Yeah,” I breathed.

“We should probably go back inside before your mother comes looking.”

“She’s definitely coming looking,” he said, and we laughed, and it felt like hope.

THE TRUTH EXPLODES (Chapter 5)

Chapter 5. The truth explodes.

“So tell me, Ruby… which part of you was the lie?”

The week after meeting his parents felt like living in a dream I knew I’d wake from violently.

Archer texted constantly. Good morning messages. Random thoughts during meetings. Pictures of his coffee with captions like thinking of you.

We couldn’t see each other. He was drowning in merger negotiations.

And I was trying to maintain some professional distance at work.

But God, the texting.

Archer: “Missing you is becoming a full-time job.”

Me: “You already have a full-time job.”

Archer: “This one pays better.”

I fell asleep smiling at my phone like a teenager.

Mia said I was disgusting.

She wasn’t wrong.

Tuesday afternoon, I was deep in a design when my desk phone rang.

“Ruby Carter, design,” I answered.

“Ms. Carter.” The voice was crisp. Female. Unfamiliar. “This is Archer Reed’s office. He’d like to see you now, please.”

My heart stopped.

“Is everything okay?”

“He didn’t specify. Floor 42.”

The line went dead.

I stood on shaking legs. Around me, colleagues worked obliviously.

No one knew I’d been kissing the CEO on his balcony three days ago.

No one knew my entire life was a complicated lie.

The elevator ride to 42 felt like ascending to my execution.

His assistant—a woman with severe glasses and a sharper expression—waved me through.

“Go right in.”

I opened the door.

Archer stood by the window, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense.

“Close the door, Ruby.”

I did.

“Is something wrong? Your assistant sounded…”

“We need to talk.”

He turned, and my stomach dropped. His expression was wrong.

Closed off. Angry.

“Okay,” I whispered.

I stayed by the door, suddenly afraid to get closer.

“Vivien Sterling was here,” he said.

His voice was too controlled.

“This morning.”

Ice flooded my veins.

“What?”

“Interesting woman.” His eyes were cold. Hurt. “Very angry.”

“Told me quite a story.”

He walked toward me slowly.

“Want to guess what it was about?”

“Archer—”

“She told me she hired someone to sabotage our first date.”

“Paid them $5,000 to make me hate her.”

His eyes held mine, brutal.

“Except it backfired because I didn’t hate her. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.”

Tears burned my eyes.

“Let me explain.”

“Were you going to tell me?” His voice cracked slightly. “Ever?”

“Yes,” I said desperately. “I tried multiple times, but—”

“But what?” He laughed, bitter. “The timing wasn’t right?”

“When would the timing be right, Ruby?”

“After I fell completely in love with you?” He said it like an accusation. “After I’d already crossed every professional line?”

“You—what?”

“I’m in love with you,” he said, jaw tight. “And I’m in love with someone who was paid to lie to me.”

“How’s that for timing?”

The door burst open.

Vivien stood there in designer armor, face flushed with fury.

“I told you to make him hate you,” she snapped.

I whirled on her. “You also blackmailed me into continuing because you failed at the one simple job!”

“Ladies.” Archer’s voice cut through like ice. “Vivien, leave.”

“Not until she—”

“Now.”

CEO voice. Power voice. The voice that built empires.

Vivien’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t over, Archer.”

“She’s a liar. A fraud. She used you.”

“She was desperate,” Archer said, and his words stopped her cold.

“You exploited someone’s desperation for your own petty revenge.”

“Who’s the fraud?”

“I did this for us,” Vivien insisted.

“There is no us,” Archer said.

“There never was.”

“There never will be.”

Each word was deliberate. Final.

“Ruby made a mistake,” Archer continued. “You made a choice to be cruel.”

“Now get out of my building.”

Vivien looked between us, realization dawning.

“You actually love her.” Her lips curled. “The nobody designer who lied to you.”

“Yes,” Archer said simply. Absolute. “Now leave before I have security escort you.”

She left, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glass.

Silence crashed down.

“Archer,” I started.

“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “I need… I need a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “God, I’m so sorry.”

Tears fell hot and fast.

“I was broke. My tablet broke and I had rent due.”

“And she offered $5,000.” My voice broke. “And I thought—one terrible date. Collect the money. Done.”

“I didn’t plan on you being you.”

“What am I?” His voice was hollow.

“Everything,” I whispered.

“You’re kind and funny, and you brought a handkerchief to a movie, and you notice when I’m uncomfortable, and you make me feel seen.”

“And I didn’t expect that.”

“I didn’t expect to fall for you.”

His jaw clenched.

“You fell for me.”

“Yes.” I nodded, shaking. “Completely. Terrifyingly.”

“And I know I don’t deserve—”

“Stop.”

He crossed the space between us in three strides.

“Stop saying you don’t deserve things.”

His hands cupped my face, thumbs wiping away tears.

“I’m furious with you,” he said quietly. “For lying. For not trusting me with the truth.”

“I know.”

“But I’m more furious with myself.” He pressed his forehead to mine.

“For not creating a space where you felt safe enough to tell me.”

“For being so busy playing my own game that I didn’t see you were trapped in someone else’s.”

He pulled back slightly.

“I knew, Ruby.”

My world tilted.

“You knew?”

“After the first date,” he said. “I investigated. Found out Vivien hired you. Found out you worked here.”

“Knew everything.”

“And you didn’t tell me because—”

“Because I wanted to see the real you emerge,” he said, voice raw. “I wanted you to trust me enough to drop the mask.”

His smile was sad.

“Manipulative, right? I manipulated the manipulator.”

“We’re both disasters,” I whispered.

“We really are,” he said, and his laugh sounded broken.

“But I meant what I said.” He swallowed. “I love you.”

“The girl who wore fake pimples. The one who cried at romcoms. The designer with incredible talent.”

“The woman who took a shady job because she was desperate.”

“All of it.” His eyes held mine. “Every version.”

“Archer,” I choked.

“Say it back.” His hands tightened on my face. “Please.”

“Even if this is complicated and messy and possibly a disaster—say it back.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

The words tumbled out.

“I love you so much it scares me.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

“Former boss,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Transfer went through this morning,” he said. “You report to Cole now.”

“You—when did—”

“Yesterday.” His smile flickered. “I was planning to surprise you.”

“Surprise,” I muttered, dizzy.

I kissed him hard, desperate, pouring every apology and declaration and fear into it.

He kissed back with equal intensity, hands sliding into my hair, pulling me impossibly closer.

When we broke apart, both breathless, I whispered, “What do we do now?”

“Now,” he said, tracing my jaw, “we figure this out together.”

“Honestly. No more lies. No more games.”

“Your parents think I’m Vivien Sterling. We’ll tell them the truth.” He said it with ridiculous certainty. “They’ll love you anyway.”

“My mother already does, by the way,” he added. “Called me yesterday to say I better not screw this up.”

Despite everything, I laughed.

“Smart woman.”

“The smartest,” he agreed, kissing my forehead.

“We’re going to make mistakes, Ruby. Both of us.”

“But we do it honestly from now on.”

“Deal,” I whispered.

“Deal.”

Two weeks later, we sat in his apartment with his parents.

“So,” Eleanor said after we’d explained everything, “let me get this straight.”

“Vivien hired Ruby to sabotage a date. You figured it out but didn’t say anything.”

“Ruby fell for you while pretending to be someone else.”

“And now you’re together.”

“That’s the summary,” James said, rubbing his temples. “This is like a bad romantic comedy.”

“I prefer to think of it as a good one,” Archer countered.

Eleanor laughed. Actually laughed.

“Ruby, dear, you should’ve seen his face when he came home from that first date. Like he’d been hit by a truck.”

“Mom,” Archer groaned.

“A very pretty truck wearing fake pimples,” James muttered.

I buried my face in Archer’s shoulder.

“Can we never mention the pimples again?”

“Never,” Archer agreed, kissing my hair. “They’re stricken from the record.”

“I like her,” James declared. “She’s got survival instincts.”

“Did what she had to do.”

“Thank you,” I said uncertainly.

“And she made my son smile again,” Eleanor said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “And that’s worth more than any socialite pedigree.”

After they left, Archer pulled me onto the balcony—our spot.

“See?” he murmured against my temple. “Told you they’d love you.”

“Your family is insane,” I said.

Says the woman who wore fake pimples on a date.

“You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Never.” He turned me to face him. “Ruby Carter. Real name. Real person. Real feelings.”

“Real disaster,” I added.

“My favorite disaster,” he said.

His smile was soft. Genuine. “The one I want to keep having disasters with.”

“That’s either romantic or deeply concerning.”

“Both,” he said. “Definitely both.”

He kissed me slowly.

“But you love me anyway.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, smiling against his lips.

“Fortunately,” he corrected, kissing me again.

“Very, very fortunately.”

The city glittered below us, full of secrets and lies and truths.

We’d started with deception and stumbled into something real.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t simple.

But it was ours.

And that was enough.

GRAND GESTURE & FOREVER (Chapter 6)

Chapter 6. Grand gesture and forever.

If everything started with a lie, what if we end it with the truth?

The email arrived on a Monday morning. Casual as a bomb.

Subject: Annual Reed Innovations Gala. Attendance mandatory.

I stared at it, coffee halfway to my mouth.

“No,” I whispered.

“Yes,” Mia said over video chat. She’d made me put her on speaker while I got ready for work. “You have to go.”

“It’s your company. It’s Archer’s company. There will be investors and press.”

“And people who knew fake you as Vivien Sterling,” I argued. “We already told the truth to his parents, not the entire social circuit.”

I dropped my head to my desk.

“This is a nightmare.”

“This is your life now,” Mia said, delighted. “Dating a CEO comes with galas.”

Her grin was audible.

“Wear something pretty. He’ll protect you.”

She wasn’t wrong about that last part.

Archer had spent the last month being aggressively protective—shutting down whispers about us at work, making sure my transfer went smoothly, taking me to quiet restaurants where no one would recognize us.

But a gala was different.

Public. Unavoidable.

Friday night arrived wrapped in anxiety and a blue dress Mia had insisted I buy.

“You look like a princess,” she’d said at the store.

“I look like I’m playing dress-up,” I’d argued.

Now, staring at myself in the mirror, I wasn’t sure which of us was right.

The dress fit perfectly. Simple, elegant, the kind of blue that made my eyes look darker.

My hair fell in waves I’d actually managed to style. Minimal makeup because Archer had once said he preferred me natural.

I looked like someone who belonged at a gala.

I felt like an impostor.

My phone buzzed.

Archer: “Car’s downstairs. You’re going to be the most beautiful person there.”

Me: “You haven’t even seen me yet.”

Archer: “Don’t need to. You’re always the most beautiful person.”

Me: “Smooth talker.”

Archer: “Honest talker. Now get down here before I come up and we never make it to the gala.”

My face burned.

Even through text, he could make me blush.

The venue was one of those Manhattan spaces that cost more to rent than most people’s yearly salary.

Chandeliers. Marble. People in designer everything.

Archer’s hand found mine immediately when I walked in.

“Breathe,” he murmured, pulling me close. “I’ve got you.”

He looked unfairly good in his tux—classic, tailored, the kind of sophisticated that made cameras flash when he moved.

“You clean up nice, Reed,” I managed.

“You destroy me, Carter,” he said, eyes traveling over me slowly. “That dress should be illegal.”

“It’s just blue.”

“It’s perfect.” His voice dipped. “You’re perfect.”

He kissed my temple.

“Stay close to me tonight.”

“Planning on it.”

We made it ten steps before the vultures descended.

“Archer, is this your girlfriend?”

“Mr. Reed, can we get a photo?”

“Who’s your date?”

Archer’s arm tightened around my waist.

“This is Ruby Carter,” he said, voice calm and lethal. “And yes, she’s with me. That’s all you need to know.”

The press backed off slightly, but cameras kept flashing.

“I hate this,” I whispered.

“I know.” He brushed his thumb over my knuckles. “Two hours. Then we leave and get pizza in our pajamas.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

An hour in, I excused myself to the bathroom.

I needed air. Needed space from the stares and whispers and the weight of being Archer Reed’s girlfriend in public.

I was fixing my lipstick when she walked in.

Natalie from the movie theater. Designer dress. Calculating eyes.

“Ruby,” she said sweetly. “Isn’t it?”

Her smile was poisonous.

“Or should I say Vivien?”

My stomach dropped.

“It’s Ruby,” I said tightly.

“Right,” Natalie purred. “The designer who pretended to be someone else to trap Archer Reed.”

She leaned against the counter, examining her nails.

“Everyone knows, you know. About your little scheme.”

“It wasn’t a scheme.”

“No?” She smiled wider. “Then what do you call getting paid to sabotage a date and somehow ending up as his girlfriend?”

She stepped closer.

“You’re a gold digger with a better backstory.”

Something in me snapped.

Maybe it was the weeks of whispers. Maybe it was watching Archer defend me constantly.

Maybe I was just tired of apologizing for surviving.

“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I took money to sabotage a date because I was broke and desperate and my tablet was broken and I had rent due.”

“I made a mistake.”

Her smile widened, smelling victory.

“But then,” I continued, “I met Archer.”

“And he was kind and funny and he saw through every lie I told and still wanted to know the real me.”

“And I fell in love with him.” My voice steadied. “Not his money. Not his company. Not his status.”

“Him.”

I stepped closer, matching her energy.

“So yes, I started as a disaster.”

“But I stayed as myself.”

“Can you say the same,” I asked softly, “or are you still pretending to be interested in him versus what he can give you?”

Natalie blinked. Stunned.

“Now,” I said sweetly, “if you’ll excuse me. My boyfriend is waiting.”

I walked out with my head high, hands shaking, heart racing.

Archer was exactly where I’d left him, talking to investors, but his eyes found mine immediately, and something in my expression made him excuse himself.

“What happened?” He pulled me into an alcove, hands framing my face.

“You’re pale.”

“Natalie,” I said.

He went still. “She said something.”

“I said some things back.”

“What things?”

“That I love you,” I whispered, shaky. “That she’s fake and I’m not anymore.”

His expression softened into something that looked like pride.

“That’s my girl.”

“Your girl,” I breathed.

“Mine.” He kissed me softly.

“Should we get out of here?”

“Don’t you have to—”

“I have to do one thing,” he said. “Then we leave.”

He took my hand.

“Trust me.”

“Always,” I whispered, even though my stomach was a storm.

He led me back into the main ballroom, weaving through the crowd toward the stage.

“Archer,” I hissed, “what are you doing?”

“Trust me,” he repeated, squeezing my hand.

Then he climbed the stairs to the stage.

A tech person handed him a microphone.

Oh God.

This was happening in front of five hundred people.

“Good evening,” Archer said, voice carrying over the speakers.

Conversations died. Everyone turned.

“Thank you all for coming.”

“Before we continue, I need to say something.”

My heart was going to explode.

Right here. Cardiac arrest at a gala.

“I met someone recently,” he continued. “Someone unexpected.”

“Someone who wore fake pimples on a first date and cried at romantic comedies and has the worst poker face I’ve ever seen.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

My face burned as a spotlight found me.

“Someone who was paid to make me hate her,” Archer said, voice turning serious, “but instead made me fall completely, irrevocably in love.”

Gasps. Whispers. Cameras swiveling toward me.

Archer descended the stairs, walking straight to me, microphone still in hand.

“Ruby Carter.” He stopped in front of me.

“I know this is public. I know you hate attention.”

“But you deserve everyone knowing how extraordinary you are.”

“Archer,” I whispered, voice cracking.

“You deserve knowing that I see you,” he said. “Every version.”

“The designer who creates beauty. The woman who makes me laugh. The person who survived by doing what she had to do.”

His free hand found mine.

“And the love of my life who I want to keep surviving with.”

Tears were falling now. I couldn’t stop them.

“So in front of all these people,” Archer said, “investors, press, colleagues…”

“Ex-girlfriends who never were,” he added, and the crowd laughed again.

“I’m saying I love you.”

“I’m choosing you.”

“And I’m asking you to choose me back—officially, publicly, permanently.”

He dropped to one knee.

The ballroom erupted in gasps and camera flashes.

My hand flew to my mouth.

“Ruby Carter,” he said, pulling out a ring—simple, elegant, with a blue stone the exact color of my dress, “will you marry me?”

“You matched the ring to my dress,” I whispered, choking on a laugh.

“I’ve been carrying it for two weeks,” he admitted, smiling like he was actually nervous. “Waiting for the right moment.”

“You’re proposing in front of five hundred people,” I whispered. “Is this the right moment?”

His smile wavered.

“Is that a no?”

“It’s a—” I laughed through tears. “You’re insane.”

“About you,” he said quickly. “Yes. So put me out of my misery.”

I looked at him. Really looked at the man who’d seen through every lie, who’d brought a handkerchief to a movie, who’d fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself.

Who chose me publicly despite every reason not to.

“Yes,” I breathed. “Obviously, yes.”

He stood, slid the ring onto my finger, and kissed me in front of everyone—deep, claiming.

The ballroom exploded in applause.

When we broke apart, both grinning like idiots, I whispered, “Pizza and pajamas still happening?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “But first—”

He turned, and I saw Vivien near the entrance, face pale, looking like she wanted to disappear.

“One last time, Vivien,” Archer called out, loud enough to carry. “Leave us alone. We’re done.”

Vivien fled.

Natalie was nowhere to be seen.

And I was engaged to Archer Reed in front of five hundred witnesses.

“No takebacks now,” I whispered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He kissed my temple. “Ready to run away from our own engagement party?”

“God, yes.”

Six months later, we got married on a beach with twenty people.

Mia cried through the entire ceremony. Cole made a speech about how Archer had been insufferable until he met me.

Eleanor hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe.

Archer’s vows made me cry.

“You were paid $5,000 to ruin a date,” he said, voice breaking. “Best investment anyone ever made, because it gave me you.”

Mine made him laugh.

“You discovered I was lying and still stayed. You’re either crazy or mine.”

“I prefer mine,” he murmured.

At the reception, we slow danced while waves crashed nearby.

“No regrets,” he murmured against my hair, “about marrying the man who investigated you after our first date.”

“None,” I whispered. “About the fake pimples.”

“Ruby Reed,” he said, laughing as he kissed me.

Ruby Reed. My new name. My new life.

Started with a lie, became the truest thing I’d ever known.

“I love you,” I whispered back.

“Even though you’re impossible.”

“Especially because you’re impossible,” he corrected.

“Especially because of that.”

We danced as the sun set.

And somewhere in Manhattan, a design portfolio sat with my new business cards.

Ruby Reed, creative director.

Same person. Different name. Better story.

And it was all real.

Finally. Completely. Perfectly real.