Accidental OBSESSION

ARABELLA’S POV

An Invitation to Humiliation

The invitation was beautiful.

Cream-colored paper. Gold lettering. A delicate floral border. A small wax seal bearing the initials of two people I would happily watch get struck by lightning.

I stared at it for a full thirty seconds before laughing.

Not because anything was funny.

Sometimes, when life becomes sufficiently ridiculous, laughter is the only dignified response left.

My younger sister was getting married.

To my ex-boyfriend.

And apparently, they wanted me there to celebrate.

“You’re laughing,” Olivia observed from the other side of my kitchen island.

I glanced up.

My best friend was holding a half-eaten croissant in one hand and the wedding invitation in the other. Her expression suggested she was considering committing a crime.

“I’m trying to decide whether this is an invitation or a declaration of war.”

“Definitely war.”

She dropped the invitation onto the counter.

“Actually, no. It’s worse. It’s psychological terrorism.”

I laughed again, this time genuinely.

Olivia looked pleased with herself.

Then her expression changed as she picked up the envelope and examined it.

“They actually addressed this to you?”

“Unless there’s another Arabella Hayes living in this apartment, yes.”

“Your sister has some serious audacity.”

“She’s always had plenty of that.”

I turned away and reached for my coffee.

Outside my apartment window, Bellacourt was waking beneath a pale November sky.

Bellacourt was the kind of city where people wore designer coats to buy groceries, where expensive restaurants had waiting lists longer than university admissions, and where even the smallest coffee shop somehow managed to look like it belonged in a luxury magazine.

It was beautiful, wealthy, and ridiculously obsessed with appearances.

My family fit right in.

Unfortunately, I had never been particularly good at pretending.

“Are you going?” Olivia asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Excellent.”

I took a sip of coffee.

Then I looked at the invitation again.

Vanessa Hayes and Christopher Reed.

The names looked wrong together.

They had looked wrong six months ago when I first discovered the truth.

They looked even worse now.

Christopher and I had been together for three years.

Three years of birthdays, holidays, promises, arguments, reconciliations, and conversations about the future.

I had met him at a charity auction hosted by one of my father’s business associates. He had been charming, confident, and annoyingly handsome.

He remembered my birthday without needing reminders. He brought flowers when I was having difficult days. He called me beautiful when I was wearing oversized shirts and had absolutely no interest in looking presentable.

At some point, I had mistaken his attention for love.

I had even defended him when my friends questioned why he never seemed particularly interested in meeting my family.

I thought he was simply private.

I was an idiot.

A very committed one.

The affair began with little things.

Late-night phone calls.

Unexpected business trips.

A sudden obsession with keeping his phone face down.

Then there was Vanessa.

My baby sister.

The girl I had defended at school when other children made fun of her. The girl whose university fees I had helped pay when our father refused to support her chosen course.

The girl who once cried in my arms because her first boyfriend had broken her heart.

I had never imagined she would become the person who broke mine.

The discovery happened on an ordinary Thursday evening.

I had gone to Christopher’s penthouse to surprise him.

Instead, I found my sister wearing his shirt.

His bedroom door was open.

Her shoes were scattered across the floor.

And Christopher was standing behind her, looking at me as though I had interrupted him during an inconvenient business meeting.

I remembered the silence.

I remembered Vanessa’s pathetic attempt to cover herself.

I remembered asking one question.

“How long?”

Christopher hadn’t answered immediately.

Vanessa had started crying.

And somehow, within fifteen minutes, I was the one being accused of ruining everything.

According to Christopher, our relationship had been falling apart because I was emotionally unavailable.

According to Vanessa, she had fallen in love with him accidentally.

Accidentally?.. I asked.

As though sleeping with your sister’s boyfriend was something that happened because you tripped over a rug.

And then came the final insult.

Christopher told our family that I had been controlling, suspicious, and impossible to love.

He claimed Vanessa had only become involved with him because I had neglected him.

My father advised me to forgive them.

My mother cried about the embarrassment the scandal would bring.

And Vanessa?

She told everyone she hoped I would eventually find someone who made me happy.

I had never wanted to slap anyone so badly in my entire life.

Six months later, she was marrying him.

And I was invited.

How thoughtful.

“Arabella.”

Olivia’s voice pulled me back to the present.

I blinked.

“What?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Staring into space like you’re planning a murder.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Can you at least let me finish my breakfast before you do something illegal?”

I smiled faintly.

Olivia came around the counter and rested both hands on my shoulders.

“Listen to me. You don’t have to go. You don’t owe those people anything.”

“I know.”

I picked it up the invitation.

For a moment, I considered doing exactly that.

It would be easy.

I could ignore the wedding, block their numbers, and spend the day watching terrible television while eating an unreasonable amount of chocolate.

But something about the invitation bothered me.

Not the wedding itself.

Not even the fact that my sister was marrying the man who had promised to marry me.

It was the confidence.

The sheer certainty that I would remain the pathetic, heartbroken ex-girlfriend while they celebrated their perfect love story.

I could almost hear Vanessa’s voice.

Poor Arabella. I hope she doesn’t come alone.

I smiled.

Olivia narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“That smile.”

“What smile?”

“That dangerous little smile you make when you’ve decided to do something expensive.”

I placed the invitation carefully on the counter.

“I’m going.”

Olivia stared at me.

Then she slowly put down her croissant.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m attending the wedding.”

“Have you suffered a head injury?”

“No.”

“Do you need medical attention?”

“Olivia.”

“Because I know a very good psychiatrist.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I’m going to that wedding, and I’m going to look absolutely incredible.”

“That part I support.”

“And I’m not going alone.”

Olivia went silent.

Then she looked at me.

Then at the invitation.

Then back at me.

“Arabella Hayes, what exactly are you planning?”

I reached for my phone.

“I’m getting a fiancé.”

She stared.

I stared back.

Then she burst out laughing.

Not a polite laugh.

Not even a normal laugh.

She bent forward, clutching her stomach.

“You’re getting a WHAT?”

“A fiancé.”

“From where? A supermarket?”

“Very funny.”

“Will he come with a receipt? Because I would like to know the return policy.”

I threw a napkin at her.

She caught it.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

“You’re going to hire a man to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

“Fiancé.”

“That distinction makes this significantly more insane.”

I shrugged.

“Christopher thinks he’s won. Vanessa thinks she’s replaced me. My family thinks I’m sitting at home crying into my pillow.”

“And?”

“And I’d like to give them something else to discuss.”

Olivia studied my face.

For a few seconds, her amusement faded.

“Arabella, you don’t need to prove anything to them.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

I looked down at the invitation.

Because I was tired.

Tired of being the woman everyone pitied.

Tired of being the only person expected to behave maturely after being betrayed.

Tired of swallowing humiliation because the people responsible happened to share my surname.

“I just want one evening where they don’t get to make me feel small.”

Olivia’s expression softened.

She reached across the counter and squeezed my hand.

“Then let’s make it an unforgettable evening.”

I smiled.

“That’s the spirit.”

She picked up her croissant again.

“Now, about this imaginary billionaire. Does he have to be handsome?”

I looked at her.

“Obviously.”

“Rich?”

“Preferably.”

“Alive?”

“Olivia!”

“I’m just establishing the requirements.”

By noon, I had discovered that hiring someone to pose as a romantic partner was apparently easier than finding a decent apartment in Bellacourt.

A quick search led me to several private companionship agencies.

Most looked suspicious.

One had a website that appeared to have been designed by someone who hated computers.

Another advertised men with descriptions such as mysterious gentleman with excellent conversational skills.

I closed that one immediately.

Eventually, I found an agency with a polished website, professional photographs, and an impressive list of services.

The Elite Companion Group.

Their clients apparently included business executives, celebrities, and wealthy individuals who required professional social companions.

I stared at the contact number.

Then I called.

A woman answered after two rings.

“Good afternoon. Elite Companion Group. How may I assist you?”

“Hello. I’d like to enquire about hiring someone for an event.”

“Certainly, madam. What kind of event?”

“A wedding.”

“Of course. Would you require a companion for the entire evening?”

“Yes.”

“And what sort of arrangement are you interested in?”

I hesitated.

This was the part where I could still hang up and pretend I had never considered any of this.

Instead, I took a breath.

“I need someone to pretend to be my fiancé.”

There was a brief silence.

Then the woman replied professionally.

“Certainly. We offer event companionship and role-based social arrangements. Do you have any particular preferences?”

“Yes.”

I sat straighter.

“He needs to be handsome.”

“Certainly.”

“Well-dressed.”

“Of course.”

“Intelligent enough to hold a conversation.”

“Naturally.”

“And preferably someone who doesn’t look like he was assembled from leftover furniture.”

Another pause.

“Madam?”

“Sorry. That last part wasn’t necessary.”

I heard the woman suppress a laugh.

“May I ask whether you have a preferred age range?”

“Between twenty-eight and thirty-five.”

“And would you like to review potential profiles before making a selection?”

“Yes, please.”

“Very well. We will send you a shortlist shortly. May I also have the event date and location?”

I supplied the details.

After confirming the booking requirements, she assured me that someone would contact me with suitable candidates.

I thanked her and ended the call.

Olivia was watching me.

“What?”

“You actually did it.”

“I did.”

“You’re officially insane.”

“Thank you.”

She shook her head.

“I hope you know that if this man turns out to be a serial killer, I’m not helping you bury the body.”

“You’re a terrible friend.”

“I’m an honest friend.”

My phone vibrated.

An email.

I opened it.

THE ELITE COMPANION GROUP

Dear Miss Hayes,

Thank you for contacting our agency. We have received your request and are reviewing available arrangements for your upcoming event.

We will be in touch shortly.

I exhaled.

It was happening.

I was actually going to attend my sister’s wedding with a man I had hired to pretend to love me.

A small, reasonable part of my brain suggested that I should reconsider.

Unfortunately, that part had been unemployed since Christopher cheated.

At 6:47 p.m., another email arrived.

This time, it contained a list of potential companions.

I opened the attachment.

The first man looked like he had stepped out of a toothpaste commercial.

The second looked suspiciously like someone who sold expensive watches to married women.

The third was handsome, but his smile was so polished that I suspected he practised it in front of a mirror.

I scrolled.

And scrolled.

And then stopped.

There was a final profile.

CLIENT CODE: A-001

The photograph showed a man with dark hair, an angular jaw, and an expression that seemed almost offended by the existence of the camera.

He wore a black suit.

No smile.

No obvious attempt to look charming.

His eyes were a striking shade of light grey.

I stared at the photograph.

Well.

That was inconvenient.

Because the man was ridiculously attractive.

I read the short description beneath it.

Male, thirty-one. Excellent social etiquette. Fluent in several European languages. Experienced in high-profile corporate and private events. Discreet. Reserved. Exceptional professional references.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Olivia.”

She appeared beside me with a bowl of popcorn.

“What?”

“Look.”

She leaned over my shoulder.

Then she stopped chewing.

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

“Arabella.”

“What?”

“That man looks expensive.”

I laughed.

“He looks like he charges extra for breathing.”

Olivia nodded thoughtfully.

“I would pay.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m helping your future marriage.”

I clicked the profile.

There was no full name, only the client code.

I found that strange, but the agency had assured me that identities were protected until a booking was confirmed.

I looked at the photograph again.

Something about his expression made me curious.

He didn’t look like a man who would enjoy pretending to be in love with a stranger.

Which, unfortunately, was precisely why I liked him.

I selected his profile.

A confirmation window appeared.

Would you like to request this companion?

I clicked YES.

For a moment, I felt ridiculously triumphant.

Then my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Miss Hayes. This is the Elite Companion Group calling to confirm your selection.”

“Yes. I chose the gentleman with client code A-001.”

There was a slight pause.

“Excellent choice.”

I smiled.

“Thank you.”

“We will proceed with the arrangement and contact you with further details.”

“Perfect.”

“One final question, Miss Hayes.”

“Yes?”

“Will you require the companion to arrive at your residence before the event, or would you prefer to meet at the venue?”

I glanced at Olivia.

“Before the event, please. I’d rather meet him privately.”

“Certainly. We’ll arrange that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Hayes. Have a pleasant evening.”

The call ended.

Olivia dropped onto the sofa.

“So, when does your fake fiancé arrive?”

I checked the booking confirmation.

“Three days before the wedding.”

She grinned.

“Excellent. We have three days to turn you into the kind of woman who makes an entire ballroom question its existence.”

I laughed.

But when I looked back at the photograph on my screen, my smile slowly faded.

The man’s eyes were unsettlingly intense.

Even through a photograph, he seemed impossible to ignore.

I shook my head and closed the attachment.

He was a stranger.

A handsome stranger, certainly.

But still a stranger.

Three days.

One wedding.

One fake engagement.

How complicated could it possibly become?

I had absolutely no idea.

And somewhere across Bellacourt, the man whose photograph I had just selected was about to discover that his name had been used to arrange a meeting he had never agreed to.