Fake Couple, True Love

I woke up to the sound of muffled shouting and something heavy being dragged across hardwood floors.

For a blissful second, I thought I'd dreamed the entire nightmare—the forced marriage, the bankruptcy, Jason's infuriating smirk. Then I heard his voice, unmistakable even when garbled by what sounded like duct tape.

"Mmph! Mmmph!"

I bolted upright, my heart hammering. The noise was coming from my guest bedroom.

When I threw open the door, I found a scene so absurd I actually wondered if I was still asleep. Jason Whitman—my brand-new husband, Wall Street golden boy, pain in my ass since elementary school—sat bound to my vintage velvet armchair. His wrists were zip-tied behind him, his ankles secured to the chair legs, and a strip of silver duct tape covered his mouth. His perfectly styled hair stuck up at odd angles, and his designer shirt was wrinkled.

Behind him stood both our mothers, looking far too pleased with themselves.

"Good morning, darling!" My mother chirped, as if she hadn't just delivered a grown man like a FedEx package. "We thought it would be easier if Jason moved in right away. You know, to make things look authentic for the bank."

Mrs. Whitman adjusted her Hermès scarf with a satisfied smile. "We took the liberty of packing his essentials. They're in the hall."

Jason's eyes met mine, blazing with fury and something that might have been humiliation. His muffled protests grew louder.

"You kidnapped him?" I stared at my mother in disbelief.

"Kidnapped is such an ugly word," she said, waving her manicured hand dismissively. "We simply facilitated the transition. He was being difficult about the living arrangements."

Mrs. Whitman nodded. "He kept insisting he'd stay at his penthouse. But the optics, Stephanie—the bank needs to see a united front."

I should have been horrified. I should have immediately freed him. Instead, watching Jason Whitman—who'd spent twenty-five years making my life hell—completely powerless in my guest bedroom sparked something wickedly gleeful inside me.

I pulled out my phone.

"What are you doing?" my mother asked.

Jason's eyes widened as I opened Instagram Live. Within seconds, viewers started flooding in. My followers knew I'd been dragged back to New York for some "family emergency," but I'd been too shell-shocked yesterday to post anything about the forced marriage.

Time to change that.

"Good morning, everyone!" I aimed the camera at Jason's bound form, making sure to get his full humiliation in frame. "So, update on that family crisis—turns out I got married yesterday. And this is my lovely husband, Jason Whitman, who my mother-in-law just delivered to my apartment like a UberEats order."

The comment section exploded. Hearts and shocked emojis cascaded across my screen.

"Mmmmph!" Jason thrashed against his restraints, his face reddening.

I circled him slowly, narrating for my audience. "Notice the premium duct tape—only the best for Wall Street royalty. And those zip ties? Professional grade. Our mothers really committed to this wedding gift."

My mother's face had gone pale. "Stephanie Elizabeth—"

"Shh, Mom. I'm working." I leaned down until I was eye-level with Jason, close enough to see the storm brewing in his gray eyes. "Here's the thing, everyone. My dear husband and I have a bit of a history. He once dyed my white dress green before the spring dance. I retaliated by making his science fair volcano actually explode."

The view count hit fifty thousand.

"So, Jason," I said sweetly, reaching for the corner of the duct tape. "I'll make you a deal. Call me 'sister,' nice and respectful, and I'll untie you. Sound fair?"

His glare could have melted steel. Behind me, Mrs. Whitman made a strangled noise.

I ripped the tape off in one quick motion.

Jason sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw working. For a moment, I thought he might actually curse me out on camera. Then his eyes darted to the phone, to the viewer count that had just broken one hundred thousand, and something shifted in his expression.

"Sister," he growled, the word dripping with sarcasm and barely contained rage. "Would you kindly untie your devoted husband?"

The comments went wild. My phone buzzed so hard it nearly vibrated out of my hand.

"See?" I beamed at the camera. "Marriage is all about compromise."

I ended the stream and tossed my phone onto the bed, suddenly aware that I was standing in my oversized sleep shirt and nothing else, and that Jason's gaze had dropped from my face to my bare legs before snapping back up.

"Get me out of these," he said quietly, and something in his voice made my stomach flip.

Our mothers had already fled, their mission accomplished.

I knelt beside the chair, working at the zip ties with scissors from my nightstand. This close, I could smell his cologne mixed with something sharper—fear? Anger? My hands shook slightly as I cut through the plastic.

"Your revenge game is getting creative, Cole," he muttered as the restraints fell away.

I sat back on my heels, meeting his eyes. "That wasn't revenge. That was self-preservation. Welcome to your new home, husband."

He stood slowly, rubbing his wrists. For a second, we just stared at each other in the morning light filtering through my curtains—two people who'd spent their entire lives as enemies, now legally bound together by parents who'd apparently lost their minds.

"This is going to be a disaster," he said.

I couldn't help but agree.

But three hours later, as both sets of parents marched us through the doors of Manhattan City Hall with the determination of generals leading troops into battle, I realized the disaster was only beginning.