What We Pretended To Be

The first lie I ever told about Daniel Rothfield was that I loved him.

At the time, it didn’t feel like much of a lie. More like a convenient sentence. Something simple enough to say out loud without anyone asking too many questions.

I already had a boyfriend.

Daniel needed a girlfriend.

And pretending, at least in theory, sounded easier than surviving our families’ expectations.

That night began with my mother reminding me—three separate times—that the Walker name used to matter in this city.

Not in an angry way. My mother rarely raised her voice. She had perfected that soft, careful tone that made everything sound polite and slightly disappointed at the same time.

The Rothfield Foundation gala was being held in a ballroom so bright it almost hurt to look directly at the chandeliers. Crystal. Marble. Waiters moving through the crowd like they’d rehearsed every step.

Somewhere near the stage, a jazz band played something slow and expensive sounding.

People laughed the way wealthy people do at events like this—measured, just loud enough to show they were enjoying themselves.

Every few minutes someone approached my mother with the same question disguised in slightly different wording.

Is Maria seeing anyone?

Anyone serious?

Anyone suitable?

I escaped to the tall windows lining the far wall, mostly so I could breathe for a second without someone analyzing my relationship status like it was a business investment.

My phone buzzed inside my clutch.

Mother: Darling, where are you? The Rothfields were asking about you earlier.

I stared at the message for a moment and slid the phone back inside the bag without replying.

Across the room, my father was speaking with three men in dark suits. His posture was perfectly relaxed, but the smile on his face had that thin quality I recognized from years of watching him manage investors.

My parents moved through the room like diplomats tonight.

Friendly. Composed.

Quietly reminding people that the Walker family still belonged here.

Even if the numbers in our accounts weren’t quite what they had been a few years ago.

I took a glass of champagne from a passing tray and turned back toward the window.

“Careful.”

The voice came from my right.

Low. Calm. Familiar in a way that made my attention snap sideways before I had time to think about it.

I turned.

And he did too.

For a second neither of us said anything.

Daniel Rothfield looked almost exactly the way I remembered him—and somehow completely different.

The boy I knew had always seemed slightly too serious for the games everyone else played at his parents’ summer parties.

The man standing in front of me now had the same stillness, just sharpened.

Taller. Suit perfectly cut. The kind of quiet composure that made people step out of his way without realizing they were doing it.

But his eyes—

Those hadn’t changed.

And when recognition flickered across his face, quick but unmistakable, something strange settled in my chest.

“Maria Walker,” he said.

Not surprised.

Just… certain.

“Daniel Rothfield.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, like a private acknowledgment that time had done something strange to both of us.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said.

“Your parents are major donors to the foundation,” he replied. “It would have been strange if you weren’t.”

Fair.

I laughed under my breath.

There it was—the version of Daniel Rothfield everyone talked about.

Controlled. Direct. Impossible to read.

Nothing like the boy who used to stand behind me at the swing set during his parents’ garden parties, pushing me higher every time I yelled higher like I was trying to launch myself into the sky.

I could still remember the smell of grass on those afternoons. Sunlight through the trees. My shoes scuffed with dirt.

And the way Daniel rarely joined the other kids. He just watched, quiet and observant, like he was always thinking about something the rest of us hadn’t noticed yet.

Then one year their invitations stopped coming.

My father’s investments had begun unraveling around the same time.

Even at sixteen, I understood enough about adult pride to know those two things weren’t unrelated.

We never spoke again after that.

“You’ve changed,” I said before I could stop myself.

Daniel’s expression barely shifted.

“Most people do.”

His voice wasn’t unfriendly.

But it wasn’t warm either.

Across the room, a ripple of attention moved through the crowd near the entrance.

Someone whispered his name.

Daniel Rothfield.

The most eligible man in the city.

I followed the direction of the whispers and watched a few people subtly adjust their posture as they noticed him standing beside me.

Daniel glanced toward the movement once, uninterested.

Then he looked back at me.

“You look exactly the same,” he said.

That caught me off guard.

“Is that supposed to be flattering?”

“It’s an observation.”

I smiled despite myself.

Something about the exchange loosened the tight feeling that had been sitting in my shoulders all evening.

But when I looked past him again, I noticed my mother watching us.

Not casually.

With focus.

And a few steps behind her, Daniel’s father had turned in our direction too.

Daniel must have noticed at the same time, because something sharpened quietly in his gaze.

“You look like someone who’s about to be interrogated by their family,” he said.

I rubbed my forehead lightly.

“You have no idea.”

“Actually,” he said, glancing across the room at his parents, “I think I do.”

We stood there for a moment without speaking.

Two people who had once spent entire afternoons in the same backyard.

Now standing in the middle of a ballroom full of expectations neither of us seemed particularly interested in meeting.

Then I noticed movement again.

My parents were making their way toward us through the crowd.

Daniel’s parents too.

Slowly. Deliberately.

And judging by the look on my mother’s face, she had already decided something about this situation.

Something involving the two of us.

I took a sip of champagne and looked at Daniel.

“Tell me,” I murmured, “do your parents enjoy arranging your future in public settings?”

A faint shadow of amusement crossed his face.

“Constantly.”

Great.

Because judging by the speed our families were approaching—

This night was about to become much more complicated.