Renting the Alpha_ A Thanksgiving Deception

The wine tasted like betrayal.

I stared at my phone, the family group chat notification blinking mockingly at me. Chad's message sat there like a slap across the face: "Looking forward to bringing Sophia to Sunday dinner. She's excited to meet everyone."

Sophia. My cousin Sophia. The same Sophia who used to braid my hair during family gatherings, who I'd shared secrets with under grandmother's old oak tree. Now she was the woman warming Chad's bed, wearing the future I'd planned for myself.

The red wine burned down my throat as I scrolled through the responses. Heart emojis from my aunts. "Can't wait to meet her!" from my mother. Each message felt like another nail in the coffin of my dignity.

Three years. Three years I'd wasted on Chad Morrison, thinking we were building something real. Planning our future, talking about kids, about the house we'd buy together. All while he was apparently sampling the family tree behind my back.

My fingers trembled as I opened another bottle. The apartment felt suffocating, filled with memories of him. His coffee mug still sat in the sink. His jacket hung on the back of the chair. Even his stupid protein powder cluttered my counter.

"Pathetic," I muttered, raising the glass to my lips again. "Absolutely pathetic."

But what stung more than the cheating was the humiliation. Everyone would be there Sunday. My entire extended family, watching as Chad paraded his new girlfriend—my own cousin—around like some kind of trophy. They'd all know. They'd all see what a fool I'd been.

The wine made everything fuzzy around the edges, but the anger remained sharp and clear. I needed to do something. I couldn't just show up alone, looking like the discarded ex-girlfriend while they played happy couple.

That's when I saw it—a post on the local community board about someone needing a date for a wedding. The comments were full of jokes about "rent-a-boyfriend" services. A wild idea began forming in my alcohol-soaked brain.

My laptop screen blurred as I navigated to the classifieds section. My fingers moved without conscious thought, typing out words that sober Maya would never dare:

"URGENT: Need fake boyfriend for family dinner this Sunday. $500 for 4 hours. Requirements: Must be convincing, good-looking, and able to handle confrontational situations. Bonus points if you can throw a punch. Serious inquiries only."

I hit post before I could second-guess myself.

The wine bottle was nearly empty now, and my head spun as I slumped back against the couch cushions. What had I just done? Hired muscle for a family dinner? My grandmother would roll over in her grave.

But the thought of Chad's smug face, of Sophia clinging to his arm while my family fawned over them, made my stomach churn with something stronger than wine. I wanted to wipe that satisfied smirk right off his face. I wanted him to see what he'd lost, what he'd thrown away for a cheap imitation.

My phone buzzed. Already? I squinted at the screen, expecting some creepy message or obvious scam. Instead, I found a simple response:

"Available Sunday. When and where?"

No questions about the money. No demands for photos or personal details. Just direct, to-the-point efficiency. Something about the brevity made me sit up straighter, though the room still tilted slightly.

I clicked on the profile. Silas Kane. No photo, minimal information. Either he was a serial killer or he was exactly the kind of person who could pull this off without making it weird.

"Morrison Estate, Beacon Hill. 2 PM sharp," I typed back, my fingers clumsy on the screen. "Family dinner. Need you to play devoted boyfriend. Can you handle that?"

The response came back almost immediately: "I can handle whatever you need."

Something in those words sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the wine. There was a confidence there, an edge that suggested this Silas Kane wasn't someone you'd want to cross.

Perfect.

I closed the laptop and reached for my wine glass, only to find it empty. The bottle sat accusingly on the coffee table, evidence of my spectacular decision-making skills. Tomorrow, sober Maya would probably panic about what she'd done. She'd worry about safety, about bringing a stranger into family drama, about the sheer insanity of the whole plan.

But tonight, drunk Maya felt something she hadn't experienced in months: hope. Hope that Sunday wouldn't be a complete disaster. Hope that she wouldn't have to face Chad and Sophia's nauseating happiness alone.

My phone buzzed again. A text from my sister: "Mom's so excited about meeting Chad's new girlfriend! This is going to be such a fun dinner!"

I laughed, a sound somewhere between hysteria and genuine amusement. Fun didn't begin to cover what Sunday was going to be.

The room spun gently as I made my way to the bedroom, leaving the empty bottle and the weight of my decision on the coffee table. In less than forty-eight hours, I'd be walking into my family home with a complete stranger on my arm, ready to face down my cheating ex and traitorous cousin.

What could possibly go wrong?

As I collapsed onto my bed, still fully clothed, one last coherent thought flickered through my wine-soaked brain: I really hoped Silas Kane was as good at throwing punches as his profile suggested. Something told me we were going to need every advantage we could get.