A Fake Marriage With The Real Tycoon

The borrowed apron felt stiff against Alayna's neck, the strings digging into the small of her back. Her own uniform was in the wash, stained with coffee from her morning shift. This one smelled faintly of bleach and someone else's sweat. Her palms were damp as she tied the knot. She hated these gigs. Hated the cloying scent of money and perfume that clung to the air in places like the Northwood Country Club. But her roommate, Phoebe, had come down with the flu, and Alayna needed the cash. "Heath, let's go." Brendan, the catering manager, shoved a heavy silver tray into her hands. The crystal flutes clinked, a sound like tiny, nervous bells. "VIP suite. And don't drop anything this time." She tightened her grip, the ornate edge of the tray biting into her flesh. "Yes, Brendan." The hallway was a sea of noise and expensive fabrics. Her worn-out heels, a size too small, sank into the plush crimson carpet with every step. One of them caught on a seam, and she pitched forward, the champagne sloshing dangerously. She froze, her heart slamming against her ribs, every muscle tensed to keep the tray level. She managed to right herself, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The VIP suite door, a heavy slab of dark oak, was slightly ajar. From inside, a wave of cigar smoke and deep, rumbling laughter washed over her. One laugh, in particular, made her stop. It was a sound she knew as well as her own heartbeat. A low, easy chuckle that always started in his chest. A sound she'd fallen asleep to on the phone more times than she could count. Caiden. Her fingers tightened on the tray. It was impossible. Caiden was supposed to be across town, studying for his midterms at the university library. He'd texted her a picture of his textbook an hour ago, and last night, he'd sent his usual goodnight message before she fell asleep. She leaned forward, her body moving before her mind could object. She peered through the crack in the door. The smoke was thick, but through the haze, she saw him. He was sitting on a tufted leather sofa, his back partially to her. But it was him. The line of his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his dark hair. Except everything was wrong. He wasn't wearing his usual faded jeans and worn-out university hoodie. He was in a suit. A dark, impeccably tailored suit that probably cost more than her entire semester's tuition. A Patek Philippe watch, the kind she'd only seen in magazines, glinted on his wrist as he lifted a glass of amber liquid. Her breath caught in her throat. The air refused to enter her lungs. This wasn't the Caiden who ate ramen with her on the floor of her tiny Queens apartment. This wasn't the boy who worried about making rent. "So, Ellis," a voice drawled from a nearby armchair. "Has the little charity case from Queens figured it out yet?" Alayna's blood went cold. Ellis. Caiden took a slow sip of his drink. He turned his head slightly, and she saw his profile. The smug, confident smile on his face was one she'd never seen before. It was cruel. "Not a clue," Caiden said, his voice smooth as silk. "She still thinks I'm struggling to pay for my textbooks." The men around him erupted in laughter. "Two years, man," another one said, shaking his head. "That's a long time to play poor." "It's a game," Caiden said, shrugging. He swirled the liquid in his glass. "A little poverty role-play. Keeps things interesting." The world tilted. The tray in Alayna's hands dipped sideways. One of the champagne flutes slid off, but instead of shattering on a hard floor, it landed on the thick wool carpet with a soft, muffled thud. It rolled silently under a table, unnoticed. No one in the room heard a thing. A strangled sob tried to claw its way up her throat. She bit down on her lower lip, hard. The sharp, coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. The pain was an anchor in the dizzying storm that had become her reality. "It's the perfect distraction," Caiden continued, his voice dripping with condescension. "Especially now that Averie's back. A little grit to appreciate the glamour, you know?" The name hit her like a physical blow. Averie Weaver. His high school girlfriend. The one he'd told her was "ancient history." Alayna's nails dug into her palms, the half-moon indents breaking the skin. The sting was sharp, real. It kept the tears from falling. It kept her from screaming. She had to get out. She bent down, her movements stiff and robotic, and retrieved the fallen glass. A shard had chipped off, and it sliced her finger as she picked it up. She didn't flinch. The pain was nothing compared to the gaping wound in her chest. Footsteps echoed in the hall behind her. She couldn't be found here. She couldn't let them see her. She scrambled back, melting into the shadows of the corridor just as a couple walked past, laughing. Her back hit the cool wall, and she slid down until she was crouched on the floor, the heavy tray still in her hands. She gasped for air, her lungs burning. Two years. A game. A joke. "There you are!" Brendan's voice was a whip crack. He loomed over her. "What are you doing skulking in the hallway? I knew I shouldn't have trusted Phoebe's flakey friend." He snatched the tray from her. "You're off beverage duty. Go to the back. You're on mascot duty for the rest of the night. As punishment." Mascot duty. The word barely registered. Her mind was a maelstrom of Caiden's voice, his laugh, the word game. She was shoved toward the staff area, her legs moving on their own. Someone pointed her to a large, lumpy heap in the corner. It was a turkey costume. The club's ridiculous mascot. She pulled the hot, musty costume over her uniform. The inside smelled of stale sweat and cheap disinfectant. The oversized head was the last piece. She slid it on, and her world narrowed to the small, mesh-covered eyeholes. Breathing became a conscious effort. She caught her reflection in a polished serving dome. A ridiculous, cartoonish turkey stared back at her. A clown. A fool. That's what she was. A fist of pure, cold hatred clenched in her gut. He wouldn't get away with this. He wouldn't take her love, her time, her heart, and discard it like trash. "Pool area," Brendan barked through the head's opening. "Hand out balloons. And try not to scare the children." She trudged out into the humid evening air, the heavy costume weighing her down. The sounds of the party were muffled, distant. Inside her head, the conversation from the VIP room played on a loop, each word another twist of the knife. She saw the door to the VIP terrace open. Caiden stepped out, laughing. On his arm was a woman in a stunning red dress, her blonde hair catching the light. Averie Weaver. Alayna froze. The bulky costume made it impossible to turn and run. She was a statue, a ridiculous lawn ornament. Caiden's eyes swept over the pool area, passing right over the turkey mascot without a flicker of recognition. She was an object. A piece of the scenery. The lack of acknowledgment hurt more than any insult could. He didn't see her. He never had. Averie wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. "I missed you," she murmured, loud enough for Alayna to hear. "I missed you more," Caiden whispered back, his voice thick with an emotion he had never once shown Alayna. He lowered his head and kissed her. It wasn't a quick peck. It was a deep, possessive kiss, his hand tangled in Averie's hair. It was the kind of kiss Alayna had dreamed of, had begged for, and had never received. Her heart didn't just break. It atomized. It turned to dust and blew away in the space between her ribs. The air in the turkey head was gone. She couldn't breathe. Her legs trembled, threatening to give out. A chorus of whistles and cheers erupted from the terrace. "Finally!" someone shouted. "The king and queen are back together!" Inside the suffocating darkness of the turkey head, a single, hot tear escaped her eye and traced a path through her makeup, stinging like acid.