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 his tie, the subtle gleam of his watch, the cool detachment in those storm-gray eyes that flicked toward me like I was something he might buy, assess, then discard.

“Miss Quinn.” His voice was deep, smooth, the kind of tone that could sell lies as easily as stock options. “You’re late.”

I stared at him. “Actually, you’re forty-five minutes late. I’ve been here the whole time.”

One dark brow lifted. “Then we’re both punctual in our own way.”

I wanted to hate him immediately. It would’ve made everything easier. But there was something frustratingly magnetic about him — a dangerous kind of charm that whispered don’t look away.

I clicked my recorder on. “Let’s start, shall we? I’m here to talk about your company’s recent acquisition of Danton Hotels, and the allegations that—”

“I’m not doing the interview,” he said simply, sliding into the seat across from me.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He folded his hands, utterly calm. “Something’s come up. But I do have a… proposal for you.”

I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what he could do with his proposal, but the look in his eyes stopped me. It wasn’t amusement this time — it was calculation.

“This isn’t a pickup attempt, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, reading my expression. “It’s business. Purely business.”

“Well, that’s disappointing,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

His mouth curved just slightly — not quite a smile, but close. “You’re bold. I like that.”

“I’m busy. Get to the point.”

He leaned back, eyes assessing. “You’ve heard the rumors about me, Miss Quinn?”

“Which ones? There’s a whole buffet.”

“The engagement one.”

Ah. That. The tabloids had been circling him for weeks, claiming his fiancée — some European socialite with a name I couldn’t pronounce — had fled to Monaco with his best friend. I’d almost written about it but decided to keep my dignity.

“So, it’s true,” I said.

He didn’t answer. Just reached into a folder and slid a glossy contract toward me. “I need a fiancée. Temporarily. Someone convincing. You’re… interesting.”

For a moment, I thought he was joking. “You want me to pretend to be engaged to you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s—” I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s insane.”

“It’s practical.” His tone didn’t waver. “The board is old-fashioned. They equate stability with morality. If they think I’m engaged, it buys me leverage during the merger. Without it, I lose votes — and possibly the company.”

I stared at him. “So, you’re blackmailing me with boredom. Great strategy.”

He didn’t blink. “I’ll pay you. One million dollars. Six months. All expenses covered. You’ll have to live in my penthouse for the illusion to hold.”

I actually choked. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

He said it so calmly it was almost chilling.

“Why me?” I asked finally. “You could hire a model, an actress, literally anyone else.”

“Because anyone else would leak it,” he said. “You’re a journalist. You know discretion. You hate me — which means you won’t fall for me. That makes you perfect.”

That last part hit like a spark I didn’t want to acknowledge. “Oh, trust me,” I said, forcing a smile, “there’s no risk of that.”

He stood, towering over me. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

“It’s not settled!” I stood too, glaring up at him. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“You will,” he said quietly. “You need the money. Student loans, your sister’s medical bills… it’s all public record, Miss Quinn. You should really tighten your privacy settings.”

I froze. “You looked into me?”

“I research my investments,” he said simply. “You’re not an easy sell, but you’re the best option I’ve got.”

My heart was hammering. I hated him for being right. My sister’s hospital bills had been piling up for months, and my editor had just cut my hours. One million dollars wasn’t just money. It was freedom.

Still—“I don’t sell myself.”

He smiled faintly. “You’d be selling a story, not yourself. You already do that, don’t you?”

The arrogance in his voice should’ve made me walk out. But instead, I found myself saying, “If I even considered this, I’d have conditions.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“I don’t live with you.”

“That defeats the purpose.”

“I don’t share a bed with you.”

“Tempting as that sounds, agreed.”

“And if I decide you’re unbearable, I walk.”

His eyes gleamed. “I’m always unbearable. You’ll have to learn tolerance.”

The man was impossible. Infuriating. And yet… fascinating in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

“I’ll think about it,” I said finally.

He checked his watch. “You have until tomorrow. After that, I’ll find someone else.”

As I gathered my things, he added softly, “Just remember, Miss Quinn — opportunities like this don’t come twice.”

By the time I got home that night, my brain was still spinning.

My apartment smelled faintly of burnt coffee and desperation — the two constants in my life. I kicked off my shoes, dropped onto the couch, and stared at the contract I’d stupidly taken with me.

Six months. One million dollars. A penthouse. A fake engagement to a man who probably thought empathy was a tax bracket.

It was insane. Utterly insane.

And yet, as I stared at the figures, I couldn’t help picturing my sister’s hospital room, the way her face lit up every time I visited.

Money didn’t buy happiness, but it bought medicine. It bought peace.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Alexander Cole: Still thinking?

I typed back before I could stop myself.

Harper: Still refusing.

Three dots. Then:

Alexander: Ten minutes into the conversation and you already started negotiating. You’ll be excellent at pretending to love me.

I threw my phone down, half furious, half laughing. He was impossible. But the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.