Chapter 3

TESSA

I blinked at her.

Fake dating?

Was she serious?

Sloane looked dead serious. Like she just drafted a ten-point strategy plan in her head and was ready to bulldoze through anything—or anyone—that didn’t cooperate.

“This isn’t a joke,” she said sharply, crossing her arms like some kind of PR principal ready to give me detention for breathing wrong. “We don’t have time for second opinions. We have a crisis. A real one. And Leo’s image is priority.”

I stepped back, heart slamming like it was trying to break out of my chest. “I’m not a celebrity. I’m not even full-time. I write copy for coffee ads and then I report things, I am just a low reporter trying to build her career to the top.”

Sloane rolled her eyes. “And now you’re the girl the world saw fall into Leo Santiago’s lap like a rom-com scene gone viral. Welcome to the big leagues.”

“This is insane,” I whispered, more to myself.

She stepped forward, her stilettos clicking like warning shots. “You want to quit? Go ahead. But your name is already out there. You’ve already got reporters DMing your boss. You think walking away will undo the internet?”

I swallowed. My throat felt dry. My knees wobbled, but I stayed upright. Barely.

Leo hadn’t moved. Still slouched in that damn armchair, still looking calm. Too calm.

“Can you say something?” I snapped, finally losing it. “This is about you. Your image. Your endorsements. Your—whatever. And I’m just… collateral damage?”

He looked at me like I had personally offended logic.

Then he stood.

His full height blocked out the light for a second. I tried not to notice the way his shoulders flexed, or the heat radiating off him, or how his eyes—ugh—looked a little too sincere.

“I’m going to pay you,” Leo said simply. “If that’s what’s going to make you agree.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“This isn’t a romance. It’s a strategy,” he said, tone flat. “You play the part. I cover the costs. You’ll be compensated. You get exposure, PR traction, a verified badge, and a boost to wherever the hell you’re trying to go in your career.”

“Oh, wow.” I let out a disbelieving laugh. “You make it sound so transactional. So heartwarming.”

Sloane snorted. “That’s because it is. You want emotions? Go cry in the supply closet. This is business.”

Leo didn’t flinch. “You can say no.”

“Or,” Sloane cut in, “you can be smart. Because let’s not act like you have a million doors flying open for you right now. The world already thinks you’re the girl. Might as well be the girl.”

I crossed my arms. “You can just bring in someone else. Hire a model. Post a few cozy pics, and boom, story shifts. Everyone forgets me.”

Leo’s jaw flexed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Then find one.”

He shook his head. “If I do that now, it looks calculated. Too clean. Too fast. The public doesn’t buy neat timelines. They’ll think I’m hiding something. Or using someone.”

Sloane smirked. “And the internet loves a messy love story. The kind where the intern gets the player.”

“I’m not trying to get him!” I cried, heat crawling up my neck. “I tripped. I fell. Gravity made the headlines, not me.”

Leo stared at me for a long second. “This could work for both of us.”

“How?”

“You want to write full-time, right? PR. Journalism. You want to move past oat milk.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to. You don’t belong behind a counter,” he said. “You have a voice. This gives you one. People are listening now.”

I didn’t know if I wanted to punch him or quote that back at a future TED Talk.

Then Sloane leaned in. Her voice dipped lower, but her words hit harder.

“Exactly. You know how many girls would kill to be called the popular striker’s girlfriend—even just fake? You’d be invited to events, wear clothes with tags bigger than your rent, and have your face splashed across every gossip page from here to Dubai.”

“Fake dating doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” I muttered.

“It’s not. But it’s temporary,” Leo said. “Just appearances. Photos. Maybe a few interviews.”

“Okay.” I breathed in. “Just fake dating. That’s it.”

“Yes,” Sloane said. “No kissing. No hand-holding unless we schedule it. And for the love of God, don’t develop feelings, I beg you both, this is just business, falling in love would ruin things between the three of us.”

I stared at her. “I’m not twelve.”

“You’d be surprised,” she muttered. “Now, I need a verbal agreement. PR’s already in panic mode.”

I looked at Leo. He looked right back.

Still calm.

Still unreadable.

“This better not ruin my life,” I whispered.

Leo cracked the smallest, cocky smile. “You’re trending. It’s already started.”

I sighed, hating every cell in my body that didn’t immediately run out of this room.

“Okay,” I said. “Just a fake dating. And I need to know how long this madness will last.”

Sloane looked down at her phone. “Three months. Maybe five. Depends on the internet.”

“Of course it does,” I muttered.

She nodded. “Great. We’ll draft the announcement and set up your first public outing. Tomorrow. Something simple. Coffee. Paparazzi will be fed the tip an hour in advance.”

“What?” My voice shot up. “Tomorrow?”

“Welcome to PR, sweetheart,” she said coldly, then turned on her heel and walked toward the door again. “Now let me out before I strangle both of you—”

Click.

We all turned.

The door.

Still locked.

Sloane jiggled the handle like a madwoman. “I told them twenty minutes! What are they doing, building a new door?”

Leo chuckled under his breath.

I leaned against the wall, still stunned, still trying to figure out what version of my life I’d just stepped into.

The screen in the room flashed again.

Another new headline.

“Leo Santiago’s Lap of Love: Who Is The Mystery Intern? See more about her”

And just below it—

A zoomed-in photo.

My face.