Chapter 4: The Fake Smile

Adrian

My heart stopped the moment Mason leaned in.

I'd known this was coming. Had prepared myself, rehearsed it in my head during the sleepless nights before today. 

Told myself it was just a formality, just part of the performance. But actually standing here, his hands still holding mine, his body close enough I could feel the heat radiating off him.

knowing I was about to kiss this stranger who was now legally my husband…

It felt unreal. Surreal. Like I was watching someone else's life from a distance, like this was happening to someone else and I was just a spectator in my own body.

Mason moved slowly. Deliberately. Giving me time to pull away if I wanted to.

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

This was the performance. The first act of the lie we'd be living for the next two years. Pulling away wasn't an option…not when everything rested on this moment. My visa. My future. My safety. My life.

His lips met mine.

They were cool. Controlled. Professional.

There was no heat, no hesitation, no spark of anything real. Just a careful press of mouth against mouth that lasted maybe three seconds. 

Barely long enough to qualify as a kiss, yet long enough to seal my fate forever.

When he pulled back, his expression was carefully neutral. Like he'd just signed a document instead of kissing someone. Like this meant nothing at all.

I felt nothing except relief.

Relief that the first legal hurdle was cleared. Relief that I hadn't flinched or frozen or done something that would make the clerk suspicious.

And somewhere deep inside me, buried in a place I refused to examine, there was a faint ache. A quiet grief for the wedding kiss I'd always imagined when I let myself imagine these things. 

The one filled with nervous laughter and trembling excitement and promises whispered against warm lips. The kind of kiss that came from wanting someone, from choosing them, from building something real together.

But this one meant survival. And maybe that had to be enough.

"Congratulations," the clerk said flatly, already stacking paperwork like we were just another number in her endless queue. 

"Your marriage certificate will be mailed within ten business days."

Just like that, it was done.

Seven minutes from start to finish.

I was married.

Sara and Jen hugged us both, whispering encouragement in my ear. You've got this. You're so brave. Call us if you need anything, and I felt my throat close up with emotion I couldn't name.

Mason shook their hands with genuine warmth, thanked them for coming, and then they were gone, their footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving an echoing silence behind.

And suddenly, it was just the two of us.

My husband.

A stranger.

"Now what?" I asked. My voice sounded hollow even to me, like it was coming from somewhere far away.

Mason checked his watch, a reflex, I was starting to realize, something he did when he needed to feel in control.

"Now we build evidence. We have three hours of good light left. Grab your jacket we're going sightseeing."

<<<<<<<< 

The Golden Gate Bridge was obscenely beautiful in the afternoon sun.

I stood at the viewpoint, watching tourists snap selfies and couples kiss against the backdrop of orange steel and impossible blue water. 

Everyone looked so happy. So real. Laughing and touching and existing in their lives without pretending, without performing every gesture.

And I felt like a fraud standing among them, wearing a role that didn't belong to me.

"Come here," Mason said, and his hand on my lower back guided me into position.

He handed his phone to a passing tourist, a middle-aged woman with a fanny pack and a camera around her neck and pulled me close. 

His arm wrapped around my waist, firm but not possessive, his body warm against my side.

I leaned into him, trying to make it look natural, hoping it looked like affection instead of the awkward compliance it was.

"Smile," the tourist said cheerfully, already lifting the phone. "You two make a beautiful couple!"

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

I forced my lips upward, stretching muscles that didn't want to cooperate, making my face do something that probably resembled happiness from a distance.

The camera clicked.

"Oh, that's lovely!" The woman handed the phone back, beaming at us. 

"Newlyweds?"

"Just married this morning," Mason said smoothly, and his smile looked so genuine I almost believed it myself.

"Congratulations! I hope you have a wonderful life together."

A wonderful life together. The words echoed in my head as she walked away, painfully naive, painfully kind.

We repeated the process at Fisherman's Wharf, at Lombard Street, at Coit Tower. At every tourist trap that screamed newlywed celebration. Mason had a checklist on his phone, we needed fifty photos across different locations, seasons, and moods to build a convincing timeline.

Today we'd knock out twenty-five. The rest would come later, staged across months like a fabricated love story.

"Put your hand on my chest," Mason instructed at our eighth stop, positioning me against a railing with the bay stretching endless behind us. "Like you're being playful. Candid."

I did as I was told. Pressed my palm flat against his shirt and felt his heartbeat beneath it…steady, controlled, unhurried. 

Mason's hand came up to cover mine for the photo, his fingers warm and sure, and to anyone watching it probably looked tender. Intimate. Real.

Like we were in love.

The camera clicked.

He stepped back immediately, already reviewing the shot on his phone like a professional photographer evaluating composition and lighting.

"Good. That one works. Next location."

We barely talked during the photo marathon. There was nothing to say. 

Mason directed me with clinical efficiency, his voice calm and professional.

Tilt your head. Lean in closer. Smile bigger. Look at me like you're in love.

That last instruction felt impossible. I didn't know how to manufacture love on command, didn't know what it looked like when it was real versus performed. 

I thought of movies I'd watched, books I'd read, couples I'd seen on the subway or in coffee shops, and tried to mimic something believable.

I hoped the camera couldn't see the emptiness behind my eyes.

By the time the sun started dipping toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that should have been romantic, my face ached from fake smiling.

My shoulders hurt from holding unnatural poses. My chest felt heavy, bruised from pretending at happiness I didn't feel.

We left the Golden Gate Bridge and Mason pulled up to a bank downtown. "We need to open a joint account."

We walked inside the Bank. The bank officer was aggressively perky, a young woman with perfect makeup and a blazer that looked uncomfortably stiff. 

She congratulated us on our marriage with practiced enthusiasm and offered us a "newlywed special" checking account like she was doing us a huge favor.

Mason handled the paperwork with the same practiced ease he brought to everything else, depositing five thousand dollars without hesitation. I watched him sign forms and initial boxes, and then it was my turn.

I added two thousand dollars from my dwindling savings, watching the numbers in my account shrink with a dull sense of panic. 

That was almost everything I had left after paying Mason's f*e. Rent was due in two weeks. I had no idea how I was going to make the quarterly payments and still eat.

"You'll want to use this for shared expenses," the officer chirped, sliding the paperwork across the desk. "Bills, groceries, date nights! It's so wonderful when couples merge their finances. Really shows commitment."

I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

Date nights. Commitment. Love.

All of it was just another prop in the performance.

We left the bank with a joint account, debit cards being mailed to Mason's address, and another piece of evidence for the paper trail we were constructing. 

Evidence of emotional and financial entanglement. Evidence of a life being built together.

Evidence of a lie that had already become terrifyingly real.

Mason drove us back to his apartment in silence. The radio played something soft and jazzy that I couldn't focus on. 

My wedding ring caught the streetlights as we passed, glinting gold and foreign on my finger.

I was married.

To a man I barely knew.

And tomorrow, I'd wake up in his apartment and start learning how to lie convincingly enough to save my life.