Pretend to Be Mine

The morning after the gala, I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing nonstop. Notifications flooded the screen-group chats, social-media tags, even random classmates I hadn't spoken to in years.   My stomach dropped as I opened the first link. From Intern to Billionaire's Flame: Who Really Is Elena Ramirez?   Another headline followed: Cinderella or Con Artist?   My hands trembled. Each article dissected my smile, my background-or lack of one. They pulled at scraps of my life like vultures, speculating, judging. Every ping felt like a drumbeat against my ribs. Why is my life suddenly a headline? I scrolled through comment after comment-half admiration, half speculation, all invasive. Even the tiniest detail about my dress or hairstyle was up for debate.   "Elena!" Maya's voice cut through from the kitchen, unusually sharp. "You need to see this."   Heart pounding, I rushed out. Maya sat cross-legged on the counter, scrolling with an expression that was equal parts rage and glee.   "They're writing about you like you're some kind of... scammer," she said, shoving her phone at me.   "I should call the internet police," she muttered, shaking the phone. "Or hire a PR team for you. Or at least a personal bodyguard. Do you have bodyguards yet?"   I groaned.   "But look at this-people on Twitter are already defending you. Hashtag TeamElena is trending."   I sank into a chair, head spinning. "This isn't funny, Maya. They're digging into my life. What if they-"   A knock at the door made us both jump.   Maya peered through the peephole. "Oh my God. It's him."   I barely had time to protest before she swung the door open.   Adrian Harrington filled the frame-impeccably dressed, unreadable expression, the weight of the entire internet buzzing at his back.   His gaze swept over the apartment like a spotlight, calm yet exacting. A shiver ran through me-not fear exactly, more the force of his presence.   Maya planted herself in front of me, fists on hips, daring him to underestimate her sister. Adrian didn't flinch.   "We need to talk," he said, voice clipped.   Maya arched a brow. "You mean you need to spin a story before your board panics."   His gaze flicked over her, unimpressed. "This doesn't concern you."   "Everything that concerns her concerns me," she shot back.   "Stop. Both of you," I cut in, pulse racing. I turned to him. "What do we do?"   He stepped inside, lowering his voice. "We get ahead of it. Dinner. Tonight. In public."   "Dinner?" I blinked.   "A visible, undeniable display. It silences rumors. They'll see us together-comfortable, believable."   "And if I'm not comfortable?" I challenged.   For the first time, his mask cracked, just slightly. His eyes softened. "Then I'll find another way."   The sincerity threw me off balance. I swallowed hard. "Fine. Dinner."   Maya groaned. "God help me, this is going to be a rom-com."   That evening, the restaurant glittered with soft lighting and expensive silence. Adrian's choice, of course-discreet enough for privacy, prestigious enough to attract exactly the kind of attention we needed.   Reporters lingered near the entrance, cameras flashing as we walked in hand in hand. Adrian guided me with quiet authority, every inch of him composed. I tried to mimic his ease, though my nerves hummed like live wires.   Over wine, I whispered, "They're staring."   "Good," he said simply. "Let them."   It was ridiculous-sitting across from him, pretending this was a date, while my heart thudded like it believed it.   Every whisper around us seemed louder than the soft piano notes drifting from the corner. I adjusted my posture constantly, hyper-aware of every blink, every shift of my gown beneath the chandeliers. The urge to shrink into the chair was almost overwhelming.   Halfway through the meal, my phone buzzed. Maya, of course: Smile like you love him. I'm watching on livestream.   I bit back a laugh. Adrian raised a brow. "Something amusing?"   "My sister thinks she's a coach," I murmured.   "Smart girl," he said, surprising me.   His fingers brushed mine when passing the breadbasket, a tiny spark shooting up my arm. I reminded myself it was nothing-yet my heartbeat betrayed me.   His gaze met mine for a moment-calm, assessing, strangely reassuring.   By dessert, I almost forgot we weren't alone-until a flash went off just outside the window. Paparazzi.   Adrian's hand closed over mine, firm, steady, grounding me again. "Stay calm," he murmured.   I did. Barely.   When we finally stepped outside, cameras swarmed, questions flying:   "Elena, are you with him for money?" "Adrian, is this serious?" "Elena, what about your past-who supports your family?"   That last question struck like a dart. My breath caught, panic clawing up my throat.   Adrian's arm slid around my waist, drawing me close. "She's with me," he said, voice low and final. "That's all you need to know."   The crowd buzzed, flashes exploded, and for a moment I leaned into him-too aware of the heat of his body, the solidity of his presence.   Back in the car, silence stretched. The city lights blurred past in neon streaks.   I stared at my reflection in the window, tracing the line of my jaw, the faint curve of a smile I hadn't realized I'd worn all evening. Adrian's hand rested lightly on mine-just enough to remind me I wasn't alone in the chaos.   "You didn't have to say that," I said quietly.   He looked at me, unreadable. "Say what?"   "That I'm with you."   His gaze held mine, steady and unsettling. "But you are."   My pulse stumbled. I turned back to the window, reminding myself it was pretend. All of it.   Except... it hadn't felt pretend when his hand steadied mine, when his arm shielded me from the crowd.   It felt terrifyingly real.   Meanwhile, somewhere else in the city, Clara scrolled through the headlines with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "TeamElena?" she murmured, lips curling. "We'll see how long that lasts." She closed her laptop, already plotting her next move.