Chapter 2

Kaelia's Pov

“I feel like I’m about to rob a billionaire. Or crash a soap opera. Maybe both,” I confessed with a grimace.

“You kind of are,” Lilyanna said, snapping one last selfie as she fixed my wig. “Tilt your head. Less startled squirrel, more seductive panther.”

It was a comically bad wig, to be honest, but it does the job of hiding my true brown waves, so I wasn't about to complain.

“I don’t know how to be a seductive panther. I have guest service rep energy. At best.” I sighed.

She groaned. “Girl, you’ve helped an A-list actress find her emotional support lizard at two a.m. and once diffused a billionaire tantrum over a broken ice sculpture. You’ll survive one little date.”

“Pretending to be you while actively trying to ruin your blind date is not ‘one little date,’ Lily This is borderline catfishing.”

“It’s saving my influencer career. And my marriage,” she added under her breath, adjusting her diamond-studded clutch.

I froze. “Wait—your what now?”

She waved me off, blowing air through her perfect lips. “Later. We’ll unpack the juicy drama over brunch. Tonight, you’re me. Lilyanna Russo. Fashion icon, I*******m darling, certified bad bitch. Your mission is simple: be a nightmare. Scare him off. Mention Bigfoot. Cry over nothing. Get weird.”

“I can’t believe you’re paying me thirty grand to destroy a blind date.” it was my own turn to groan now.

“More like a business meeting disguised as romance. My parents are trying to marry me off to get a real estate deal. This guy is probably ninety with hair plugs and a yacht named Daddy Issues,” she said with a tiny shrug.

I rolled my eyes but smoothed down the slinky burgundy dress she loaned me anyway. It’s tight in places I usually avoid and glittery in ways I’d never buy. Add in the atrocious blonde wig and stilettos I’ve already tripped in twice, and I’m a full-blown trainwreck on heels.

But somehow, even with all the chaotic dress-up, I kinda looked like Lilyanna and it was somehow unsettling and uncanny. We had the same face structure alright... But still!

Lilyanna grinned. “Perfect. You look just unhinged enough to make him run. Now go—Montgomery Grand rooftop. Table 17. And remember: aliens built the pyramids.”

*****

I am still muttering curses under my breath as I stepped into the elevator. If anyone from the hotel recognizes me, I’m toast. I’ve worked at the Montgomery Grand’s lobby desk for three years. I’m the girl who books your Broadway tickets, finds your lost bracelet, and gets you a reservation at a place with a two-year waitlist. I blend in, professionally. Invisibly.

Not tonight.

The elevator dinged at the top floor, revealing candlelight, soft jazz, and sweeping views of San Francisco. The rooftop restaurant was glowing with rich people's ambiance: crystal wine glasses, waiters in black vests, laughter that sounds expensive.

And then I see him seated at the table that Lilyanna told me he would be at and my feet screeched to a halt.

No.

No.

Freddy Montgomery is not ninety.

He’s thirty-something. Six foot something. Hair like he just rolled out of bed in a Tom Ford ad. A tailored navy suit clings to his broad shoulders, sleeves pushed up just enough to show off a luxury watch and forearms that should be illegal.

He glanced up from his phone.

My blood froze.

My boss.

My terrifying, aloof, untouchable boss.

Freddy Freaking Montgomery.

God, no!

My fight or flight instincts were raging, demanding that I turn immediately and go back home before everything went to shit but I had barely turned when I heard—

“Lilyanna?” he called.

I think my intestines just shriveled up a little right now. Where was Mother Earth when you needed her to open the grounds up?

Because God helped me, I nodded and walked up to him against my better judgment and instincts which were telling me to run in the opposite direction.

I took the seat across from him, nearly missing the chair because these heels were designed by a sadist.

“Sorry I’m late,” I blurted. “There was a UFO sighting over the Embarcadero. Had to wait it out.”

Freddy blinked, clearly thrown off guard.

I doubled down with my attack. “The government says it’s weather balloons. Lies. I have sources,” I continued with an overly sugary tone that deeply contrasted the nerves wrecking my insides.

My hands were practically trembling so I had to shove them down under the table and place them on my lap.

His brow lifted. “Interesting.”

Silence.

Kill me.

“Also,” I added, trying to remember my script, “I’m allergic to oysters, the color orange, and men named Steve. My ex was a Steve. He cried during sex. Often.” That last part was whispered as if I was conveying a secret.

More silence.

And then, Freddy's mouth twitched. “Noted.”

Is he… amused?

I expected a polite excuse and a quick exit... Any human being, not less a man would have by now but instead, he signaled the waiter and ordered a bottle of wine like this was going well.

I began to panic... What the fuck was happening? Wasn't he thrown off? Disgusted even?

“Oh, and I collect haunted dolls,” I pushed forward, unable to drop this yet.

“Do you?” he murmured, swirling his wine. “Any recent acquisitions?”

I nodded seriously and leaned forward. “Madame Beatrice. She whispers Latin at night. My neighbor moved out because of her.”

“I see.”

This man should be calling security. Instead, he’s sipping wine and looking at me like I’m the entertainment which was a kind of off-putting.

I leaned in even more, my eyes narrowing. “Are you into weird girls, Mr. Montgomery?” I asked, finally spitting out the question that had been burning the tip of my tongue.

His eyes narrowed, mirroring mine. “I’m into useful girls.”

Okay, that sounded vaguely threatening. And hot. Which is a problem.

He rested his elbows on the table, folding his hands. “Let’s skip the part where we pretend this is a date. We both know it isn’t.”

My throat goes dry.

“I know who you are,” he added.

Shit. He couldn't have seen through my fake persona... Right?

“Y-you do?” I half-croaked.

He nodded. “Your social media presence is... colorful.”

My God. He thinks I’m actually Lilyanna.

He hasn’t recognized me as Kaelia—the woman who once unclogged a billionaire’s toilet with salad tongs at 3 a.m.

“I’ll be blunt,” he continued. “My father is forcing a merger between Montgomery and Pierce Hotels. He wants me to marry Demi Pierce. The merger comes with strings. Ones I refuse to tie around my neck.”

“And you’re telling me this because…?”

“Because you,” he says, “are perfect.”

“…Come again?”

Okay now, maybe this man has a few loose screws in his head.

He leaned in. “If I show up engaged to someone unpredictable, eccentric, and entirely unsuited for corporate society, the board will panic. They’ll vote to stall the merger. My father will lose leverage. I get time to fix the books.”

I stared at him. “So… you want me to be your human red flag?”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

“That’s insane.”

Why was everyone throwing money in my face today? Do I really look that easy to use or something?

“Twenty million dollars.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“One-year contract. Public appearances. No real intimacy. We sign divorce papers next April. You disappear with twenty million dollars. No questions asked.”

My mouth moved but no sound comes out.

“I heard about the way you handled the pop star tantrum in the penthouse last week. You’re smart. You don’t scare easily. You’re good under pressure. And you don’t look like a woman who backs down from a fight.”

I almost laughed.

If only he knew who I really am.

“Why me?” I whispered.

“Because you’re a wildcard. A chaos grenade in heels. And because you don’t want to be here any more than I do.”

He’s not wrong.

My mom’s medical bills are drowning us. I’ve got a bank account that coughs dust and a dream of building a guest service app that could revolutionize boutique hospitality—if I could ever afford to launch it.

Still. This is crazy. This is a criminally insane level of risky.

He slides a document across the table.

“Look it over,” he said. “Take a few days. Or don’t. But if you do say yes…” He paused, eyes gleaming like he already knows my answer.

“Then what?” I asked.

“Then welcome to hell, Mrs. Montgomery.”