Page 5 of The Love Clause

"So you lied, and now you need to hire a fake fiancée to cover your ass." I translate, watching him wince at my crude summary. "Why me? There must be a hundred polished, sophisticated women in your social circle who'd jump at the chance."

"Because I need someone who won't be recognized. Someone with no connection to my professional or social circles." He straightens his already perfectly straight tie. "And I need absolute discretion."

"How much?" Mandy calls from the kitchen. "Cut to the chase, Wall Street."

Elliot looks pained at her interruption but answers, "Fifty thousand dollars."

I choke on air. "Excuse me?"

"Fifty thousand dollars for three days of your time. All expenses paid, of course. Wardrobe, transportation, everything." His tone is matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather instead of a sum that would solve literally every financial problem I have.

"Take it!" Mandy stage-whispers.

"This is insane," I say, more to myself than him. "You're insane."

"Probably," he admits, and for a brief moment, a flicker of something almost human crosses his face. "But I'm also desperate. The Harrison account represents thirty percent of our firm's annual billing. If I lose it because of this...indiscretion, I can kiss partnership goodbye."

I study him, trying to figure out if this is an elaborate prank. "What exactly would this involve? Because I'm not?—"

"Nothing inappropriate," he cuts in quickly. "You would need to convincingly play the role of my fiancée. We would share accommodations, attend couple's activities, dine with Mr. Harrison and the other guests. Basic public displays of affection might be necessary for authenticity, but nothing...excessive."

"And you think I can pull this off? Looking like this?" I gesture to my very un-lawyer-like appearance.

His eyes scan me from head to toe, a clinical assessment. "With the right wardrobe and some coaching, yes. You're..." He seems to search for an appropriate word. "Expressive. That could work in our favor."

"Wow, flattered," I deadpan.

"The retreat begins Friday afternoon. We would need to leave by noon." He pulls a business card from his inner pocket and places it precisely on our coffee table, which is actually just a large wooden cable spool Mandy found on the street. "My direct number is on the back. I need your answer by tomorrow morning."

I pick up the card, turning it over in my fingers. The paper is so thick and textured it probably cost more than my phone. "This is crazy."

"Perhaps." He straightens, adjusting his suit jacket. "But it's also fifty thousand dollars."

The number echoes in my head, conjuring images of paid rent, cleared debt, maybe even a proper studio space where I could finally focus on my art without constant financial panic.

"I'll think about it," I say, which is a lie because I'm already mentally calculating how long fifty grand would last if I budgeted carefully.

"Very well." He moves toward the door with the stiff grace of someone who's never been comfortable in someone else's space. "I'll await your call."

After he leaves, Mandy and I stare at each other in silence for a full minute before she says, "If you don't do this, I will literally never forgive you."

"It's insane," I repeat, but I'm already imagining what it would be like to not check my bank balance in terror every morning.

"It's fifty thousand dollars for pretending to like some hot lawyer for a weekend," Mandy counters. "People have done way worse for way less."

She's right, and we both know it. The eviction notice stares at me from the fridge. My student loan statements glare from the pile of mail. My phone pings with another rejection for a freelance art job.

I look down at Barney, who tilts his head as if asking what the problem is. "What do you think, buddy? Should I get engaged to a stranger for cash?"

He wags his tail enthusiastically, which I choose to interpret as canine financial advice.

"Fine," I say to no one in particular. "I'll do it."

I text Elliot Carrington's number before I can talk myself out of it: "I'm in. But if this turns out to be a weird sex thing or a cult, I'm keeping the money AND writing a bestselling memoir about it."

His response comes seconds later: "It's neither. Details tomorrow. Thank you, Ms. Palmer."

Just like that, I've agreed to be a stranger's fake fiancée for a weekend. My life has finally become the kind of bizarre that even New York can't normalize.

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