Chapter 4: Strings Attached

I woke to the sound of chaos disguised as breakfast. From the kitchen came Maya’s off-key humming, punctuated by spoon clangs that could wake the dead. I groaned and dragged the blanket over my head.

The next second, Maya barged into the room, a piece of toast clenched between her teeth like a victory flag.

“Rise and shine, fake billionaire’s girlfriend!” she announced, words muffled by bread.

“Your prince probably wakes up at five a.m. to do push-ups made of hundred-dollar bills. You’d better start training.”

I flinched as she swung the spatula like a baton, sending a drizzle of jam across the room. The toast in her teeth wobbled dangerously. “Are you auditioning for a kitchen orchestra?” I groaned. “Because it’s terrifying.” I hurled a pillow at her. “Don’t you have school?”

“Please. This is more important. You are living the collective fantasy of half the internet.”

She perched at the edge of the bed, eyes gleaming. “Fake dating a rich, hot man with jawlines sharp enough to cut diamonds? This is literally W*****d come alive.”

I sat up, hair wild, voice gravelly with sleep. “It’s not a dream, Maya. It’s a disaster.

What if he expects—”

My phone buzzed. We both froze.

Maya leaned closer, whispering theatrically, “Oh please let it be him.”

I grabbed the phone. Caller ID: Adrian Harrington.

My stomach flipped. “It’s him.”

Maya grinned wickedly, drumming her fingers against the bedframe. “Answer it. Speaker!”

“No way—” But my traitorous thumb had already swiped green.

“Miss Ramirez,” Adrian’s voice filled the room—low, clipped, far too businesslike for someone who was allegedly my boyfriend. “We need to discuss our arrangement.”

My eyes narrowed. “Good morning to you too, Adrian. Do you usually call all your girlfriends like they’re interns behind on reports?”

There was a pause. Then—was that the faintest exhale of amusement? “I’ll send a car. Be ready in an hour.”

Click. Call ended.

I stared at my phone, outraged. “Did he just hang up on me?”

Maya cackled. “Oh my God, he’s going to make you sign a PowerPoint presentation on how to date him.”

An hour later, I was dressed in my best approximation of sophistication—pink blouse, pressed jeans, nerves stuffed into my tote bag. A sleek black car idled outside, its tinted windows gleaming like a threat. By the time it deposited me at Harrington Tower, I was already irritated enough to bite.

The lobby’s marble floors gleamed, reflecting the afternoon sunlight in dizzying patterns. The scent of fresh leather and polished stone made my chest tighten with a mixture of awe and anxiety. I felt small, almost invisible against the skyscraper’s vastness.

Adrian was waiting, sleeves rolled, posture effortless behind his massive desk. But he wasn’t alone.

Another man lounged beside him, all mischievous eyes and reckless charm.

“Miss Ramirez,” Adrian said, his tone smooth as silk. “This is Marcus Hale, a very good friend of mine.”

Marcus rose, shaking my hand with exaggerated flourish. “We’ve met before. You’re the brave soul willing to fake date this iceberg.”

I blinked, then smiled sweetly. “Do you come with a return policy?”

Marcus threw his head back, laughing. Adrian’s jaw tightened.

“She’s perfect,” Marcus declared. “Keep her.”

Adrian ignored him. “Let’s get to business.” He slid a thick folder across the desk.

“These are the terms—appearances, boundaries, the duration of the arrangement.”

I raised a brow. “You actually made a contract?”

“Of course. Clarity avoids conflict.”

I flipped through pages that read like the world’s most ridiculous employee handbook. “‘No public arguments. Always arrive on time. Dress appropriately.’ Excuse me, are you fake dating me or adopting me?”

I stopped at a paragraph titled “Public Affection Levels: Stepwise Compliance Required.” Wait, do I need a timer for holding hands now? I tapped the paper, mortified. “Next thing you’ll tell me, I have to schedule laughs.”

Marcus leaned over my shoulder, grinning. “This is pure gold.”

“Marcus,” Adrian warned.

“No, no, let her read it all. I want to see how long before she throws the pen at your head.”

I tapped the paper, unimpressed. “I’m not signing this unless I get amendments. Like the freedom to mock your dramatic entrances.”

Adrian arched a brow. “You find my entrances dramatic?”

“Yes. You walk into rooms like you’re auditioning for Batman.”

Marcus nearly toppled from his chair laughing. Adrian looked like he was questioning every decision that had led him here.

When the meeting finally ended, Adrian offered me a ride home. His car was sleek, silent, intimidating. He drove with eyes fixed straight ahead, expression unreadable. Marcus, however, leaned forward from the passenger seat, grinning like this was the best entertainment he’d had in months. “Try not to sign your soul away too quickly, Elena.”

I shot him a look. “My soul is very expensive. Way out of your budget.”

That earned a rare, short laugh from Adrian—though he disguised it with a cough almost immediately.

When we pulled up to my building, I gathered my things, muttering, “Businessmen. You’re all the same.”

“Correction,” Adrian said smoothly, finally glancing my way. “Some of us are worse.”

The door clicked shut behind me, cutting off my retort.

Upstairs, Maya was sprawled on the couch with a bowl of cereal, eyes glued to the TV.

She didn’t even look up before groaning, “Oh no. You already regret this, don’t you?”

I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed beside her. “I don’t regret it yet. But give me time.”

Maya shoved the cereal bowl into my hands. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. This is how all bad teen dramas start.”

Even now, curled up on the couch, I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. The city hummed quietly outside, oblivious to the absurd drama unfolding in one small apartment. I tucked my hair behind my ear, trying to calm the jittering energy coursing through me.

I stared into the swirl of sugary milk, the absurdity of my life pressing down hard.

Billionaires, contracts, impossible rules. I was in deeper than I’d ever intended.

I wondered if I was playing a role I wouldn’t be able to escape.

I stared at the ceiling that night, the contract still weighing on my mind. I thought I was preparing for a role, but a small, insistent thought whispered that pretending might not be enough. And what if I—or he—forgot it was supposed to be an act?