pretend boyfriend

Gina’s POV

I was at a loss when Roland left my hospital room. I hadn’t expected that a simple mistake would turn out to be the miracle I needed. I’d been worried ever since the doctor said my mother couldn’t handle any stressful news.

Moreover, Roland had truly shocked me when he suddenly offered me a job as his personal assistant. It felt like God had opened a new path for me. After all, with a job, I could earn and continue to pay for my mum’s follow-up checkups. Although PR wasn’t my interest, I knew that given my current reputation, it was already a blessing to get this offer.

Now that my uncle had kicked me out of the house, I didn’t know if he would be willing to let Mum return to the mansion. I also wasn’t sure how long I could hide the news of my fallout with my uncle’s family from her. Once she woke up, she would expect them to visit—especially my uncle, since he had always maintained a decent relationship with her. As for his wife, the two Never quite got along, but to keep up appearances, she should visit since my mother had just undergone surgery, though I wasn’t sure they would.

The more I thought about this problem, the more I worried. The last time I went to see my uncle, he had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with us. I thought of various excuses until my head ached, but nothing good came to mind.

In the end, I pushed the thought aside, cleaned up, and went to see my mother after the nurse checked the fractures on my legs.

“Remember not to stress your legs too much,” she advised before asking me to begin the discharge process, as I could now leave the hospital. After thanking her, I decided to check on my mother first.

“Miss Greenwood,” the nurse doing the rounds greeted with a polite smile.

“Good morning, nurse. How’s my mother doing?” I asked.

“Everything looks fine. The doctor just left before you came,” she said.

I nodded and found a spot to sit.

“When will she wake up?” I asked, looking at my mother. Although her face looked a bit pale, she seemed peaceful.

“Maybe by afternoon or late evening,” the nurse replied. It was as I had predicted.

After the nurse left the room, I sat by my mother’s bedside and scrolled through the internet. Prime Entertainment had released an official statement saying there had been a misunderstanding and that they were working to gather evidence, promising to share it before the end of the day.

Their statement was bold, but it managed to calm the situation down. People began speculating about how Prime Entertainment planned to end the issue.

I still had many tags and mentions. Since I released the voice recording yesterday, a few more people had offered to help—but I understood that without solid evidence, I couldn’t truly prove my innocence. I scrolled absentmindedly through my phone, trying to distract myself.

I don’t even know how I ended up there. One minute I was scrolling through my phone, trying to distract myself from the pain in my leg and the weight pressing against my chest, and the next, I was staring at a live stream that made my heart stop.

Emily Greenwood — Live.

She was sitting on a dimly lit stage, her fingers brushing the keys of a white piano. The soft glow around her made her look almost angelic, dressed in a simple cream gown, her hair flowing freely over her shoulders.

And then she began to play.

The first note pierced straight through me—a melody I could never mistake.

It was my song.

The one I wrote during those sleepless nights in the campus studio, when my mother’s hospital bills had doubled and I could barely afford food but had to prepare my final project for graduation. The song that carried every tear, every fear, every silent prayer I whispered into the dark.

But there she was—my cousin—singing it as though it were her soul that had bled to write it.

The chat exploded with comments:

 “Emily Greenwood is truly gifted.”

“Her lyrics always feel so personal—you can tell she’s been through a lot.”

“She deserves every bit of her success. Real talent always shines.”

Each word was a knife twisting inside me.

My throat burned as tears blurred my vision. I bit down hard on my lip, trying to steady my breathing, but the pain refused to stay buried. I wanted to exit the live stream, but I couldn’t move a finger. My gaze was stuck on her face, on the comments flooding the screen.

They were all full of praise—though occasionally, someone would insult me. I had written that song using my violin, but this version was also arranged by me.

I wanted to lash out and curse Ethan. I hated that our paths had ever crossed.

“Why are you crying?” The weak but unmistakable voice of my mother broke through my thoughts.

My hand shook as I quickly turned off the phone and looked at the bed. Her eyes were open, and she was watching me with worry.

“These are tears of joy,” I said, wiping my cheeks quickly. “I’m just happy the doctor said your surgery was successful.” I forced a smile, though it trembled at the corners.

My mother looked at me. I could tell she didn’t believe me—what mother wouldn’t know when their child was in pain?

“You just woke up; I’ll call the doctor,” I said hurriedly, not wanting her to press further—not wanting her to know the truth.

The doctor returned with me shortly after to check on her condition, and I used that time to pull my emotions together.

“Although it has been a few hours, everything is going well,” the doctor said after asking her some questions and checking the readings on the monitor.

I was relieved to hear those words.

By afternoon, the doctor confirmed my mother was stable enough to receive visitors. I was still arranging her fruit tray when a knock came on the door.

“Come in,” I said, expecting it to be a nurse.

But when the door opened, Roland stepped in instead. He was dressed casually, his hair neatly styled, the sharp scent of his cologne cutting through the faint hospital smell. He was holding two bundles of flowers.

For a moment, I just stared. He looked nothing like the man who had bargained with me that morning. There was a calm authority about him now—a polished charm that drew attention without effort.

He walked over to me and gave me a hug, a friendly smile playing on his lips.

“You don’t seem to have missed me, sweetheart,” he commented.

I snapped out of my daze and realized he was already playing the role of my boyfriend.

My face flushed. “I did, I am just surprised to see you—you’re not supposed to be back until two days,” I lied.

Roland paused. “How can I stay away knowing that Aunt was in the hospital? I’ve been worried about you, so I returned earlier.” His voice was smooth, and his gaze on me was doting. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought we were really in love.

He passed me one of the flowers—red roses, a perfect gift for a girlfriend. I collected it and quickly looked away. “Mum is watching,” I muttered as an excuse.

“Do not worry about me,” Mum said with a smile. I felt embarrassed and lowered my head. I heard Roland chuckle. There was something about his laugh that made me look at him, but now his gaze was on Mum.

“Madam, nice to finally meet you. My name is Roland, I am Gina’s boyfriend. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he introduced himself, shaking her hand.

“Have you now?” she chuckled weakly, squeezing his hand. “I was beginning to think I’d never meet you. Three years is a long time to wait,” Mum said.

For a split second, his smile faltered.

It was brief—so brief anyone else might have missed it—but I saw it. Something flickered behind his eyes, sharp and unreadable. Then, just as quickly, he recovered, his lips curving back into an easy smile.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said softly, his tone warm, practiced. “But I’m glad I’m finally here. These are for you,” he added, setting the Gerbera daisies on the side table.

My mother beamed, clearly touched. “You’re a fine young man. I can see why Gina loves you so much.”

Her words hit me harder than I expected. I looked down quickly, pretending to adjust the blanket on her lap, anything to avoid her gaze. My throat tightened with guilt; I hated lying to her, hated that this charade was the only way to protect her fragile heart.

Roland sat on the chair beside the bed, playing his part perfectly—asking about her health, making her laugh, even adjusting her pillow when she shifted uncomfortably. If I hadn’t known the truth, I might have believed him myself.