CHAPTER FIVE

The gossip sites had a field day.

Catherine discovered this Monday morning when she arrived at Ever After Events to find her assistant receptionist, Melissa, staring at a computer screen with wide eyes.

"You're trending," Melissa announced without preamble. "Like, actually trending. #BlackwellMystery has 47,000 tweets."

Catherine set down her coffee and peered at the screen. Sure enough, T*****r was exploding with speculation about her relationship with Harry. Some tweets were positive ("She looks sweet! Maybe she'll soften him!"), others skeptical ("Gold digger alert—she owns a WEDDING PLANNING business, this is too convenient"), and several downright invasive ("Found her apartment address! Someone should investigate if she's legit or a con artist!").

"That last one is terrifying," Catherine said.

"I reported it. But Catherine—" Melissa turned, her expression caught between excitement and concern. "People are calling the office. Constantly. Reporters want interviews. Three different gossip magazines offered money for 'exclusive details about your relationship.' And we have seven new consultation requests from people who specifically want 'Harry Blackwell's girlfriend' to plan their weddings."

Catherine's stomach dropped. "Seven?"

"High-budget weddings. Like, obscenely high-budget. One woman said money is no object, she just wants to hire you because if you're good enough for Harry Blackwell, you're good enough for her daughter's wedding."

It was grotesque. Also potentially very good for business.

"Tell them we're considering new clients but that I don't discuss my personal life in professional contexts," Catherine decided. "Book consultations for next week. And Melissa? Can you field all media requests? Just say I'm not available for comment on my relationship."

"You're really dating him?" Melissa asked. "Harry Blackwell? The Harry Blackwell who made Forbes' 'Most Ruthless CEOs Under 40' list?"

"I'm really dating him," Catherine lied smoothly.

Melissa grinned. "That's so badass. Marcus must be losing his mind."

Catherine had been trying very hard not to think about Marcus. She'd blocked his number, ignored his emails, and asked Nina to let her know if he showed up at the apartment. But yes, Marcus was almost certainly losing his mind. His new boss's girlfriend was his ex-fiancée. The optics were catastrophic.

Good, Catherine thought viciously.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Harry: *Press is intense. Don't engage directly. I've had my PR team prepare a statement that we're dating privately and request privacy. It won't stop speculation but it establishes boundaries.*

Catherine: *Too late. My office already got seven new client requests specifically because I'm dating you.*

Harry: *Your business is benefiting from the arrangement. That's acceptable. Just don't confirm or deny relationship details to press.*

Catherine: *Noted. Also, your grandmother wants to have lunch with me this week. Without you. Should I be terrified?*

Harry: *Moderately concerned, perhaps. Victoria will interrogate you thoroughly but she already likes you. Just be yourself.*

Catherine laughed at that. Being herself was exactly what had landed her in this mess—impulsive, hurt, reckless. But Harry didn't know the real Catherine. He knew the version playing a role, and that version was apparently convincing enough.

---

The week passed in a blur of wedding consultations (three of the seven new inquiries resulted in actual bookings), media speculation (a tabloid published a completely fabricated story about Catherine being a "small-town girl who caught a billionaire's eye"—she'd lived in Manhattan her entire life), and increasingly elaborate lies (she told Nina's mother that yes, Harry was wonderful, no, they weren't rushing into anything, yes, his grandmother approved).

Friday night, Harry took Catherine to dinner at an exclusive restaurant in Tribeca. It was their first public date since the gala, and cameras were waiting outside.

"Smile," Harry murmured as they approached the entrance, his hand secure on her waist. "Look happy to see me."

Catherine looked up at him and found it wasn't hard to smile. Harry was objectively gorgeous, and the way he focused on her—like she was the only person in the room—made her feel seen in a way Marcus never had.

Inside, they were seated at a private corner table. Harry ordered wine with the casual expertise of someone who'd grown up with wealth. Catherine found herself relaxing as they talked—about her business, about his acquisition, about nothing particularly important.

"Your sister hasn't contacted you?" Harry asked at one point.

"Lily's sent approximately forty texts that I haven't read. My mother called from various numbers until I blocked them all." Catherine's voice was brittle. "They want me to be reasonable. Accommodate the situation."

"That's insane."

"That's my family." Catherine took a long sip of wine. "They've always been like this. Lily's the favorite—pretty, charming, gets away with everything. I'm the responsible one who's supposed to fix problems and not cause drama."

"You're causing plenty of drama now," Harry observed.

"Yeah. It feels good." Catherine laughed, surprising herself. "Is that terrible? That I'm enjoying watching them panic?"

"No. It's human. They hurt you. You're allowed to enjoy their discomfort."

There was something dark in Harry's voice that suggested he understood that particular satisfaction. Catherine wondered who had hurt him enough to teach him that lesson.

Their food arrived—something elaborate involving scallops and microgreens that Catherine barely tasted. She was too aware of Harry across the table, of the way his eyes tracked her movements, of the strange intimacy developing despite the contractual nature of their arrangement.

"Tell me something true," Catherine said impulsively.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "True?"

"Something real. Not part of our fake relationship story. Just something about you that's true."

Harry considered this, swirling his wine glass. "I hate these restaurants. The pretension, the tiny portions, the performance of wealth. I'd rather order pizza and eat it at my desk while working."

Catherine laughed. "Then why are we here?"

"Because appearances matter. Because people expect Harry Blackwell to take his girlfriend to expensive restaurants, not share pepperoni pizza in a penthouse."

"Next time we'll order pizza," Catherine decided. "In private. Where we don't have to perform."

Something shifted in Harry's expression—surprise, maybe, or something more complicated. "Deal. Your turn. Tell me something true."

Catherine thought about what to reveal. "I don't actually like weddings. I love planning them, love creating perfect moments for other people. But the institution itself? The promise of forever? I stopped believing in that around age sixteen when my father left my mother for his secretary and she spent two years pretending everything was fine."

"That's bleak."

"Yeah. But I'm good at creating illusions. Maybe that's why this arrangement works—I'm already comfortable with the performance."

Harry reached across the table and took her hand. To anyone watching, it looked romantic. But Catherine saw the understanding in his eyes—recognition of a kindred spirit, someone else who'd learned that emotional distance was survival.

They finished dinner and emerged to more camera flashes. Harry's hand stayed on her back as they walked to his car—he'd driven himself tonight, a sleek black Aston Martin that suited him perfectly.

"Want to get that pizza?" Harry asked as they pulled into traffic.

Catherine smiled. "Yes. But your place, not mine. Mine still has too many reminders of Marcus."

"My place it is."

---

Harry's penthouse was exactly what Catherine had expected—soaring ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, minimalist furniture in blacks and grays. Everything was precisely arranged, carefully controlled, revealing nothing personal about the man who lived there.

Harry ordered pizza while Catherine explored, finding surprisingly little to tell her who Harry Blackwell actually was beneath the billionaire CEO exterior. No photos. No art that seemed personally chosen rather than professionally decorated. Just expensive emptiness.

"You live like someone who's about to move out," Catherine observed when Harry ended the pizza call.

"Or like someone who never really moved in." Harry pulled off his tie and tossed his jacket over a chair, looking more human in just his shirt and slacks. "I bought this place five years ago. Never quite made it feel like home."

"Where does feel like home?"

"Victoria's estate, ironically. Or my office." Harry poured them both wine. "Nowhere that's actually mine."

That was sad in a way Catherine recognized—the inability to settle, to claim space as your own. She wondered if it was a consequence of losing his parents young, of learning that permanence was an illusion.

The pizza arrived, and they ate it sitting on Harry's obscenely expensive couch, paper plates balanced on their knees, discussing nothing important. It was surprisingly comfortable, this quiet moment away from performances and cameras.

"You're easy to be with," Harry said eventually. "That's unexpected."

"Because you thought I'd be dramatic? High-maintenance?"

"Because I thought you'd want more than I could give. Emotional availability. Romance. The things women typically expect from relationships."

Catherine laughed. "Harry. I caught my fiancé in bed with my sister. I signed a contract to fake-date you for money and revenge. I'm not looking for emotional availability. I'm looking for exactly what you're offering—controlled, finite, safe."

"Safe," Harry repeated. "That's a word for it."

"What would you call it?"

"Self-preservation. I learned the hard way that emotional investment leads to devastation. Better to keep everything contractual and clear."

"Margot really did a number on you," Catherine said quietly.

Harry's expression shuttered. "She taught me an important lesson. People lie. Especially about love. The only relationships that work are ones where both parties admit what they're actually after—sex, money, social status, whatever. At least then you can't be surprised when it ends."

It was the most cynical thing Catherine had ever heard. Also, after yesterday's betrayals, disturbingly appealing.

"So what happens if one of us accidentally catches feelings?" Catherine asked. "We have that termination clause, but practically speaking—"

"We won't." Harry's voice was certain. "You're too hurt to trust anyone right now. I'm too damaged to let anyone close. We're perfectly suited for this arrangement precisely because we're both emotionally unavailable."

Catherine wanted to argue, but he was right. She couldn't imagine trusting someone enough to be vulnerable again. Couldn't imagine believing promises of forever or letting someone see her completely.

"Six months," she said.

"Six months," Harry agreed. "Then we both walk away exactly as planned."

They finished the pizza in comfortable silence, and Catherine found herself thinking that maybe this was enough—companionship without vulnerability, connection without risk, a relationship where no one got hurt because no one was genuinely invested.

It should have felt empty.

Instead, it felt like relief.