Falling For My Fake Fiancee

Harper's POV If smugness were a cologne, Alexander Cole would be drowning in it. I could smell it before he even walked into the interview room — sharp, expensive, and probably custom-made by some Parisian perfumer who whispered affirmations to it every morning. I checked my recorder for the third time, fighting the urge to roll my eyes as his assistant, a tall woman with a perfect bun and a headset that screamed I don’t sleep, announced, “Mr. Cole will see you now.” Good. Because I’d been waiting forty-five minutes, and I was one lukewarm cappuccino away from writing a headline titled “Billionaire CEO Can’t Tell Time.” When the door opened, I wasn’t prepared for the actual sight of him. Alexander Cole wasn’t just handsome — he was the kind of man who made the air shift when he entered a room. Tall, lean, tailored within an inch of his life. His dark hair was slightly too long, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Everything about him screamed control: the precision of hi

Harper The first thing I noticed was silence. Not the kind that comes from peace, but the thick, expensive kind — the kind that fills places too big for one person. I blinked at the high ceiling above me, at the faint morning light filtering through the curtains of the guest suite in Alexander Cole’s penthouse. For a few blissful seconds, I forgot where I was. Then the memories came rushing back — the flashing cameras, the fake smiles, the weight of his hand on my waist as the world watched us play the perfect couple. I groaned and buried my face in the pillow. What had I gotten myself into? I was supposed to be writing exposés, not acting out fairytales for billionaires with image problems. But one look at my phone — twenty unread messages, three missed calls from my editor, and a dozen notifications from gossip sites — reminded me that this was no longer a secret arrangement. Alexander Cole and his new fiancée, journalist Harper Quinn, steal the spotlight at last nig

Harper I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Sitting in the sleek, intimidating lobby of Cole Enterprises, I tried to focus on my notes for the press interview. But all I could hear was Alexander’s voice behind me, low and insistent: “Don’t let them get under your skin.” “I can handle a simple interview,” I muttered. He glanced at me, gray eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you sure?” I raised an eyebrow. “Are you?” He didn’t answer. He never did when he was irritated, but the tension radiating off him was impossible to ignore. I’d thought this arrangement would be simple: play the part, get the money, survive six months. Easy. I was rapidly discovering that pretending to be Alexander Cole’s fiancée was anything but easy. The press room was chaos: cameras, lights, reporters pushing microphones forward, all eager to capture the newest power couple in Manhattan. My stomach twisted into knots, but I reminded myself to breathe. Alexander arrived a few minutes later, look

Harper I couldn’t breathe. Not in the literal sense — though my chest did feel tight — but because every fiber of me was aware of Alexander Cole standing inches away, his presence overwhelming, his eyes claiming mine in a way that was impossible to ignore. We hadn’t kissed. Not yet. But the closeness, the quiet heat between us, was almost unbearable. I tried to focus on the reason I was here — pretending, surviving, getting the money — but his voice, low and rough, made that impossible. “You’re avoiding me,” he said softly, leaning closer. I forced a laugh. “I am not.” “Your body disagrees,” he murmured, tilting his head, studying me. I opened my mouth to reply, but no words came. He was right. My body did betray me — the heat that had nothing to do with the spring air, the quickened pulse that had nothing to do with exertion. “Harper…” His voice was velvet and steel all at once. “Why do you fight me?” “Because I can,” I whispered, more to convince myself than hi

Harper I wasn’t sure why my stomach was twisting into knots, but I had a sinking suspicion it had everything to do with the lobby of Alexander’s company building. And then I saw her. Vivienne. She was standing by the elevators like she owned the place—impossibly poised, perfectly dressed, hair shining under the lobby lights, eyes sharp as a blade. And she was looking at Alexander. I froze. My chest tightened, my mind scrambling for an excuse to disappear without making it obvious. Alexander stiffened next to me. I could feel the change in his posture before he spoke. “I should have known.” Vivienne’s eyes flicked to me. That slow, assessing glance made me feel like she was trying to dissect me with a single look. “And who do we have here?” she asked, voice light but dripping with subtle accusation. “I see Alexander has… a companion now.” I forced my lips into a smile. “Harper Quinn,” I said, holding out my hand. “I work with Alexander.” She raised an eyebrow, her l