Sophia blinked awake to the shrill buzz of her phone vibrating violently on the nightstand. A groan escaped her lips as she reached for it, not even fully upright before her thumb slid across the screen.
Jazz.
The message was a single link followed by three words:
"Girl. You're viral."
With a sinking stomach, Sophia tapped it.
A paparazzi photo—high res, professionally snapped—filled the screen. The photo, though candid, tells a story: she's leaning into him slightly, lips parted mid-breath, eyes lifted like she's listening—or about to say something dangerous. He's angled close, mouth near her ear, giving the illusion of a secret shared between lovers. The glow from her headlights casts them in dramatic light, like a scene out of an old Hollywood romance.
There's no kiss. No staged smiles. Just tension. Unspoken chemistry. And one well-timed shutter click that caught the spark before it became fire.
The caption? "Sterling's Mystery Woman—New Flame or Scandal Waiting?"
She sat up fully now, sheets pooling around her waist as the panic settled in.
Her texts were a warzone.
Mom: You didn't tell us you were seeing someone!
Aunt Carol: Is this the lawyer? 👀
Dad: He looks like he can afford a dowry, at least.
Jazz again: How the hell does your fake boyfriend look like a Vogue cover and a corporate threat in the same shot?
She read through another tabloid headline:
Who's the Woman Taming Nate Sterling? Late-Night Sighting Suggests More Than Just Business…"
"It's not a red carpet, but billionaire lawyer Nate Sterling looked every bit the leading man last night—caught on camera with a mystery woman in a pose that whispers secrets and screams chemistry. Just business? We're not buying it."
Sophia threw the phone face down and groaned again.
This was why fake dating a billionaire lawyer with cheekbones sharp enough to cut steel was a terrible idea.
She padded barefoot into the kitchen, started the coffee, and mentally scrolled through escape routes. She could call it off. Pretend she got the flu. Leave the country.
Instead, her phone buzzed again.
Nathan Sterling: Driver will pick you up at 10. Don't be late.
No greeting. No emoji. Just pure CEO energy.
She stared at the message like it might spontaneously combust.
No good morning. No "hey, sorry we broke the internet." Just that commanding tone like he was sending her into a boardroom, not dragging her deeper into their ridiculous charade.
With her coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, she typed back:
Sophia Dawson: Wow. Romantic. You always text your fake girlfriends like they're your interns?
Also—congrats on going viral. You and your jawline are trending.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Then finally—
Nathan Sterling: Didn't know you were keeping tabs on my jawline. Should I be flattered or worried?
She rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. Her fingers flew.
Sophia Dawson: You should be grateful I haven't trademarked it. The blogs say I'm "taming" you. It's like Beauty and the Billionaire over here.
His response came fast this time:
Nathan Sterling: Then be ready by 10, Belle. And for the record, I don't regret the photo
She could ghost him. It wasn't too late. She hadn't technically signed anything.
But then she thought about the look on his face last night—right before she walked out. The quiet honesty in his voice. "I don't regret it now."
Ugh. Why did that have to replay in her brain like a rom-com loop?
Jazz called this time. Sophia answered on the second ring.
"You really went and bagged the enemy," Jazz said by way of greeting. "Do we hate him? Because I kind of love the idea of hating him while you fake-love him."
"He is not bagged," Sophia muttered. "And he's not even—ugh, this is a mess. There are pictures, Jazz."
"Yeah. Pictures where you look hot, by the way. If I had your collarbones, I'd also fake-date a hotshot lawyer. What does he smell like? Be honest."
"Expensive disappointment," she grumbled, pouring her coffee.
Jazz cackled. "Girl, you are in it. And don't lie—you're curious where this is going."
Sophia didn't respond.
Because that was the problem.
She was.
Before she could overthink it, she tossed the phone onto her bed and went to get dressed.
If she was going to play the part, she'd at least do it in heels.
By the time 10:00 rolled around, she was dressed—reluctantly stylish in high-waisted trousers and a silk blouse that said I'm not impressed even though her stomach was doing flips.
The black SUV waiting at the curb was sleek, silent, and intimidating.
Just like him.
She exhaled sharply and climbed inside.
Time to negotiate with the devil.
The SUV pulled up to the Sterling & Langston building with the kind of smooth, predatory grace that made Sophia feel like she was arriving at the villain's lair instead of a negotiation with her fake boyfriend.
The driver opened her door wordlessly. She stepped out in her high waisted trousers and a deep emerald silk blouse that matched nothing but her stubbornness. The heels helped—visually, at least. Internally, her stomach was performing Olympic-level flips.
Nate's firm occupied the top three floors of the glass monolith. Of course it did.
By the time the private elevator deposited her in his domain, Sophia had rehearsed three versions of what she might say. All of them died the second she stepped into his office.
It was all sharp lines and soft lighting—minimalist but unapologetically expensive. Nate stood behind his desk, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, fingers braced on the edge like he was deciding whether to fire her or pin her to the wall.
Neither would have surprised her.
"Miss Dawson," he said, tone neutral, but his eyes flickered down her figure in a way that felt neither polite nor professional.
She arched a brow. "Mr. Sterling. I trust you survived the media storm?"
A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. "You made quite the impression."
Sophia walked in, uninvited, and dropped her bag on the nearest leather chair. "I wasn't the one whispering secrets in the dark like a villain in a spy movie."
"You looked like you didn't mind it." He stepped closer. "You still don't."
"Don't test me," she said flatly. "I'm here for one reason."
"I know." He reached into a folder on his desk and pulled out two copies of a contract. "The terms."
Of course he had a literal contract.
She blinked, taking the offered paper. "You typed up a relationship agreement?"
"I have an assistant. He doesn't ask questions."
Sophia scanned the pages. It was detailed. Too detailed.
Clause 2.1: Both parties agree to participate in public events and family functions as a romantic couple.
Clause 3.2: No discussion of real romantic feelings unless agreed upon in advance. Public boundaries include hand-holding, light PDA, and eye contact lasting no longer than ten seconds.
Clause 4.7: If either party is caught breaking the terms (e.g., dating others), the agreement is void.
She looked up, incredulous. "Eye contact limits? Are we actors or robots?"
"I was told prolonged staring might send mixed signals," he said, annoyingly calm. "I figured it was safer."
Sophia folded her arms. "And what do you get out of this again?"
Nate leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. "Family peace. No more blind dates. My mother off my back. You?"
"A fake relationship that distracts from the last guy who cheated on me, and a few weeks without my relatives asking about babies. Great trade-off."
"Glad we agree," he said smoothly. "Unless you've changed your mind."
Sophia held his gaze. Longer than five seconds. On purpose.
"No," she said quietly. "I haven't."
Something shifted in his posture. Just a beat. Then he pushed the contract toward her again, pen ready.
"But I want two changes," she said.
He raised a brow. "I'm listening."
"One, if your mother goes full Cruella and tries to interrogate me, you back me up."
"Done."
"And two…" She hesitated. "If this ever starts to feel like something it's not—we end it. Immediately. No messy blurred lines."
Nate tilted his head, studying her. "You think feelings would be a problem?"
"I think pretending can get complicated."
He didn't smile. Didn't smirk. Just nodded once. "Noted."
Sophia picked up the pen.
As she signed her name, she felt a flicker of something—relief, excitement, dread, she wasn't sure. But it settled in her chest and refused to move.
When he signed after her, he slid the paper back like they'd just sealed a multimillion-dollar merger.
"There," he said. "We're officially in a relationship."
"A fake one," she reminded him.
He smiled—slow, lethal, and far too confident. "For now."
Nate's smile lingered for a second too long, like he was already thinking three moves ahead. It wasn't arrogant, exactly—but it was the kind of look that made her feel like she'd just signed more than a contract.
Sophia cleared her throat and pushed her copy of the agreement into her tote. "Well. That was disturbingly formal for agreeing to lie to everyone we know."
Nate straightened his sleeves. "You'd prefer we pinky-swore in a parking lot?"
She gave him a look. "I'd prefer fewer legal terms and more coffee. I haven't eaten anything except anxiety today."
He glanced at his watch. "It's not even eleven yet. You have meetings?"
"Nope." She adjusted her bag. "Just a long to-do list of things I'll pretend to finish."
He leaned against the desk again, hands in his pockets now. "So you're free."
"Is that lawyer math?"
"It's an invitation."
She blinked. "To what? Debrief over cappuccinos?"
Nate tilted his head like he was pretending to consider it. "If we're going to be a couple—"
"Fake couple," she corrected, already regretting the need to keep saying it out loud.
"Right. If we're going to be a fake couple," he drawled, "we might as well establish some public patterns. Coffee runs. Sidewalks. Casual encounters. Things to soften the image."
"Of you being a cold, emotionally stunted billionaire?"
He didn't flinch. "Exactly."
Sophia narrowed her eyes, hesitating only a beat before muttering, "Fine. But I'm picking the place."
"Of course."
She took a step, then paused again. "And I'm paying."
That earned a laugh. "Not a chance."
"You invited me."
"You signed a relationship contract," he said coolly. "This falls under shared PR obligations."
"I swear to God, if you quote a clause, I'm leaving."
He gave her the most infuriatingly nonchalant look. "Clause 1.3: Regular joint outings may be scheduled at the discretion of either party."
She stared.
He smiled.
And somehow, that was how she ended up walking down a cobblestone-lined street with Nate Sterling at her side like they were on some effortless first date instead of… whatever the hell this was.
The coffee shop she picked was small and tucked between two overpriced boutiques. Indie music played softly over speakers, and mismatched chairs filled the window-lit space. The barista looked up from the counter, froze slightly at the sight of Nate, and then tried to act casual as if New York's most eligible emotionally unavailable bachelor wasn't about to order a flat white.
"You've been here before?" Nate asked, scanning the menu like it offended him.
Sophia peeled off her coat. "Yup. Best chai latte in town. Also, the owner doesn't tolerate tech bros who bring laptops and ruin the vibe, so you're already on thin ice."
Nate glanced at the espresso machine like it might attack him. "Noted."
When they got to the counter, Sophia ordered confidently.
"Large iced chai, extra cinnamon. And—" she gave Nate a sideways glance "—he'll have whatever makes him seem less like he eats mergers for breakfast.
The barista snorted before he could help it. Nate didn't blink.
"I'll take a cortado," he said evenly. "And one of those lemon poppyseed muffins."
Sophia arched a brow. "Wow. A muffin? How human of you."
He turned to her as the barista rang them up. "Don't let it go to your head."
"I'm just impressed. That was dangerously close to a normal person order."
"Next thing you know, I'll start using emojis."
Sophia coughed out a laugh, then caught herself. The moment felt… easy. Too easy. And she wasn't here for easy. This was fake. A business deal. A contract with firm boundaries and an expiration date. She couldn't afford to forget that.
They found a table near the window. Nate shrugged off his coat and folded it neatly over the back of the chair, like even his outerwear refused to wrinkle. Sophia, on the other hand, tossed hers onto the spare chair and curled her legs beneath her like she was trying to erase the distance between them.
"So," she said, watching the people outside hustle by in their tailored coats and over-accessorized dogs. "Now that we've locked ourselves into this delightful lie, how exactly do you want to play it?"
Nate sipped his cortado. "Convincingly."
"You're going to have to be more specific."
"We'll coordinate schedules. Appear together at key events. Occasional outings like this. Family functions when necessary. Keep communication consistent. Public affection—moderate but strategic."
She squinted. "Did you just say public affection like you were describing a marketing campaign?"
He didn't even flinch. "I was."
"Oh my God, you are a robot."
Nate leaned forward slightly, voice low. "You're the one who wanted realism. We can't afford to get sloppy."
Sophia toyed with the cardboard sleeve on her cup. "Right. Wouldn't want to embarrass the great Nate Sterling."
His gaze flicked to hers. "This isn't just about me."
Something in his tone made her look up. Sharper. Tighter.
"You're not just some girl I picked out of a line-up," he added quietly. "Your ex is a snake, and you deserve better than him or the whispers that come with him. This gives you power back."
She blinked. The world felt off-balance for a second. Not because of what he said—but how he said it. Like he'd actually meant it.
Her fingers tightened around the cup. "You're good at this."
"At what?"
"Pretending you care."
Nate didn't smile. "Who says I'm pretending?"
The words hung there—weighty and out of place, like a secret that slipped through the cracks. And just as quickly, he pulled back, retreating into that polished, unreadable mask.
Sophia cleared her throat. "So. Logistics."
Nate nodded. "I'll send over a calendar. We'll map out appearances. Family dinners first—yours, then mine."
Her eyes widened. "Wait, we're doing both?"
"You think I'd let you suffer alone?"
"I thought you might," she muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.
He glanced down at his muffin, then offered her the top half.
She blinked. "Is this… a truce offering?"
"It's the best part."
She hesitated, then took it, brushing his fingers lightly in the exchange. A current sparked in her wrist, quick and annoying. She looked away fast.
"Fine," she mumbled, biting into it. "You win this round."
"I always do."
Sophia rolled her eyes. "You're exhausting."
"You're intrigued."
"God, your confidence is criminal."
He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable except for the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "And yet here you are. Sharing my muffin."
She didn't respond.
Didn't have to.
Because somehow—despite the contract, despite the fake smiles, despite every voice in her head screaming don't trust this—she didn't hate being here.
And that scared her more than anything.