บททั้งหมดของ Pretend to Be Mine: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

I rubbed my temples and stared at the glowing spreadsheets on my laptop screen. The numbers swam in front of my eyes, columns blurring together like waves. The office around me was nearly silent now—just the low hum of computers and the shuffle of the night security guard making his rounds. Most interns had left hours ago, but I was still here, clinging to perfection like it was oxygen. My boss hadn’t demanded I stay late. No one was watching me except the shadows stretching long across the glass walls. But mediocrity wasn’t an option. Not here, not at Harrington Enterprises, where excellence was the air everyone breathed—or suffocated without.My phone buzzed against the desk, vibrating insistently until I reached for it. Maya.“Don’t tell me you’re still at that office,” she said, laughter spilling through the line. “Elena, it’s Friday night.”“I’ll leave soon,” I promised, leaning back in my chair and pressing the bridge of my nose. “I just want this model finished before Monday.”

I clutched my phone with both hands like it might slip away if I loosened my grip. What had I just agreed to? The words still felt unreal in my mouth: a fake relationship with Adrian Harrington. I’d left his office an hour ago, my mind reeling, and now I paced our tiny living room, wearing a path into the threadbare rug.My footsteps echoed faintly against the apartment walls. Each pace made my stomach flutter like a trapped bird. My chest tightened, a cocktail of fear, thrill, and something I didn’t want to name.There was only one person I trusted with something this ridiculous.“Maya!” I called, my voice high and urgent. “Come here. Now.”A muffled giggle floated from behind Maya’s bedroom door. “Emergency, or did you finally decide to organize your closet?”“This is serious!” I snapped, pacing faster.Seconds later, Maya appeared in the doorway, T-shirt slipping off one shoulder, braid messy, a pen still tucked behind her ear. She looked like chaos in human form—and entirely too a

The invitation arrives in an envelope thick enough to pay rent. Gilded letters spell out: The Harrington Foundation Charity Gala.I stare at it on the kitchen table while Maya twirls the envelope like it’s a wand.“A gala,” she says reverently. “That’s code for free champagne and judgmental rich people.”“It’s code for humiliation,” I mutter. “I don’t belong in rooms like that.”“Correction,” Maya says, pointing with the envelope. “You pretend to belong. That’s the deal, right? Fake it till you make it.”I groan. “You make it sound easy.”“Because it is. Walk in there with Adrian, head high, pretend you own three yachts.Smile at cameras like you have nothing to hide. Piece of cake.”“Piece of humiliation cake,” I correct.By Saturday night, I’m zipped into a navy gown borrowed from the Harrington wardrobe team—fabric that shimmers like starlight under our apartment’s weak bulb.Even Maya is speechless for a full ten seconds before whispering, “You look like you were born to ruin bill

I stared at my reflection, adjusting my blazer for the third time. Each brush of my hair felt like an audition I hadn’t rehearsed for. I straightened, took a deep breath, and whispered, “You’ve survived worse.” But the knot in my stomach disagreed.The office felt different after the gala. Whispers rippled through the hallways like smoke—too quiet to confront, too loud to ignore. I carried a stack of reports to my desk, chin lifted, pretending I didn’t hear. Gold digger. Social climber. Cinderella act. The words slithered beneath the surface.Footsteps echoed a beat too loudly behind me. A coworker paused by the printer, eyebrows raised in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Heat rose up my cheeks. I turned back to my screen, pretending the buzzing notifications didn’t exist. Every article, every whisper felt like a mirror showing me in fragments I didn’t recognize. I had always fought for myself and for Maya, but now the fight was public, and I wondered if I could hold my identity to

By Tuesday morning, the city felt like it was breathing down my neck.My phone buzzed itself off the nightstand before sunrise—notifications, headlines, messages from numbers I didn’t recognize. One alert screamed across the screen: ELENA RAMIREZ—THE MYSTERY GIRL WHO SNARED HARRINGTON. Beneath it was a grainy photo of me leaving Adrian’s building the night before the gala. Someone had been following me far longer than I’d realized.Maya slid a mug of coffee toward me as I sat at the counter, still in yesterday’s sweater. “You’ve officially gone viral,” she said, trying to sound casual. “There’s an entire thread dissecting your lipstick choice.”I wrapped both hands around the mug, hoping for warmth that wouldn’t come. “They’re hunting for cracks,” I murmured.“Then don’t give them any,” Maya replied, eyes fierce. “Stand taller. Make them choke on their own gossip.”Easy for her to say. My stomach twisted as another notification chimed—new article, new photo, new strangers analyzing eve