Summary

Julian Hale has everything planned. His career, his future, his inheritance. Even his mistakes are calculated. The only thing he doesn’t have is a wife. Which becomes a problem the moment his formidable grandmother decides to hand over her empire while she’s still alive, and insists that whoever inherits it must be capable of commitment. Ellie Bennett is not part of any plan. She’s a struggling theatre actress, chronically broke, stubbornly hopeful, and very bad at saying no to opportunities that sound slightly unhinged. She believes love isn’t a transaction, hates being told what to do, and has never once imagined herself marrying a man who treats life like a contract. So when Julian offers her a deal that involves a legal marriage, a year of cohabitation, and enough money to finally breathe, Ellie agrees for one simple reason. It’s a job. Nothing more. No romance required. No intimacy expected. Just appearances, paperwork, and a promise to keep things professional. But living together has a way of complicating even the clearest agreements. Set between the relentless pace of Toronto and a small Alberta town that remembers Julian long before the suit, Inherited Complications is a slowburn romantic comedy about control and chaos, legacy and choice, and what happens when two people who fundamentally disagree about love are forced to share a life they never intended to want.

Chapter 1: A Plan

Entertainment District, Toronto

Ellie sat in the first row with her bag at her feet and her knees bouncing hard.

The theatre was doing that thing theatres always did during auditions. Too quiet, but not peaceful. Every cough sounded intentional. Every page turn felt judgmental. The stage lights were half-on, which somehow made everything worse, because now she could see the dust floating in the air and she was pretty sure one speck had been staring at her for a full minute.

Fake fiancée.

She mouthed the words again, silently, testing the shape of them. Fake. Fiancée. A woman hired to stand next to a man and convince the world they were in love. Ellie had done her homework. She’d watched at least four movies where people pretended to date and then accidentally caught feelings. She’d read essays about emotional labor in relationships and one truly unhelpful Reddit thread about contractual romance that spiraled into an argument about astrology.

The character wasn’t pretending to love. She was pretending to belong.

Ellie understood that part too well.

She flipped through the audition script, the pages already soft from over-handling. She had highlighted things, underlined others, added notes in the margins that now just said things like confident here? and eye contact!!! and one desperate smiley face that she didn’t remember drawing.

Her fingers wouldn’t stop moving. She twisted her ring, adjusted her braid, tapped her foot, untapped it, crossed her legs, uncrossed them. Her brain kept hopping ahead to the moment she’d forget everything and combust quietly onstage.

She reread the opening line for the tenth time.

I know this is unconventional, but I’m very good at pretending.

That was promising. That was honest. That was dangerously close to home.

“Elena Bennett,” the stage manager called.

Ellie flinched, then popped to her feet too fast. Her bag tipped over. Lip balm rolled out. She stared at it for a beat, then kicked it gently back into the bag and hurried backstage.

She pressed her back against the wall and whispered, “Okay. Okay. You are charming. You are stable. You are a woman someone would logically hire to fake love.”

She pointed at her own reflection in a dark mirror panel. “You have range. You have depth. You once cried convincingly in a Starbucks bathroom. This is nothing.”

She inhaled. Exhaled. Smiled too wide. Reset the smile.

Then she walked out.

The lights hit her immediately. The director sat three rows back, arms crossed, face set in that neutral, assessing expression that meant nothing and somehow everything. Her scene partner, a man she vaguely recognized from commercials, stood opposite her, already in position. He smiled politely. Safe. Prepared. Annoyingly calm.

Ellie opened her mouth.

“I know this is unconventional,” she began, voice steady, “but I’m very good at pretending.”

Good. Nailed it. She took a step closer, feeling the rhythm settle in her chest.

“I can remember birthdays, favorite foods, the exact face someone makes when they’re lying to themselves.” She lifted her chin. “I can sell sincerity.”

Then her mind went blank.

Completely empty. A white, echoing void where words should have lived.

Oh no.

Her heart kicked into her ribs. Her palms went damp. The silence stretched. The director tilted his head a fraction, already losing patience. Her scene partner blinked, confused but polite, waiting for his cue.

Say something. Any version of something.

Ellie laughed, sharp and a little breathless. “Sorry,” she said, staying in character because panic had apparently decided to be professional. “That wasn’t part of the pitch. I just realized I don’t know your coffee order yet, and that feels irresponsible for a fiancée.”

Her scene partner startled. He hesitated, then recovered fast. “I, uh. Black. Usually.”

“Of course you do,” Ellie said, nodding seriously. “Strong opinions. Minimal joy.”

A ripple of something moved through the room. Not laughter, exactly, but attention.

She kept going because stopping felt worse.

“You hired me because your family expects perfection,” she said, circling him slowly now, instincts taking over. “And I look convincing standing next to you. I know when to touch your arm and when to stay quiet. I know when to smile and when to squeeze your hand under the table so you don’t explode at dinner.”

Her brain was sprinting. Her body followed.

“But you should know,” she added, softer, meeting his eyes, “I don’t fake everything. Some things slip through. That’s the risk.”

Silence again.

Ellie glanced past him, straight at the director.

He was not smiling. His pen hovered over his notebook, unmoving. His face said he was measuring the cost of this improvisation against the inconvenience of stopping her.

Which was not great.

She finished the scene anyway, landing on the final line with a hopeful lift in her voice, then stood there, pulse roaring in her ears, wondering if she’d just talked herself out of a role in under three minutes.

The director cleared his throat. “Thank you, Elena.”

Ellie smiled, nodded, and walked offstage with her dignity mostly intact and her brain already replaying every second at double speed.

Back in the wings, she leaned against the wall again and whispered, “Okay. That was either brave or career sabotage. Possibly both.”

She picked up her bag, retrieved the escaped lip balm, and swiped it on with determination.

Fake fiancée, she thought.

She might have overcommitted.

---

Pearson Airport, Toronto

Julian sat inside Pearson Airport with his carry-on precisely aligned with the arm of the chair and his phone pressed to his ear, staring at a departures board that was already three minutes behind schedule.

“Let me stop you there,” he said calmly. “You don’t get to describe this as a strategic delay when the revised numbers were late because you didn’t review them.”

A pause. Someone was explaining. Julian waited, because patience in small doses was sometimes useful.

“No,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “I am not being difficult. I am pointing out that if the assumptions don’t hold under basic scrutiny, they won’t magically improve in front of the board.”

Another pause. Longer. Defensive.

Julian leaned back, crossed his ankle over his knee. “If you want me to advocate for this, give me something that doesn’t collapse the moment it’s questioned. Otherwise stop reframing accountability as temperament.”

Silence. Then a clipped agreement.

“Good,” Julian said. “Send the corrected model within the hour. And don’t sanitize the language.”

He ended the call before anyone could thank him.

Julian exhaled, once, then immediately dialed another number.

Sebastian Cruz answered on the second ring. “Good morning to you too, corporate executioner.”

“I have to go to Willowridge for a couple of days,” Julian said.

A beat. “Problems?”

Julian checked his watch out of habit. “I’m not sure. The old woman wants me there. Cancel my meetings for the next two days. Anything urgent, flag it to me and—”

Seb cut in smoothly. “And report any stupidity the board manages while you’re gone. I know.”

Julian watched a child sprint past dragging a stuffed bear by one ear. “You’re irritating.”

“You pay me for foresight and restraint. The flair is free.” Seb said then added, “You’re seeing them again,”

Julian opened his inbox and began triaging emails. “Tragic.”

“Want me to arrange pickup at the airport?”

“Someone’s picking me up,” Julian said. “But send me a rental tomorrow.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all.”

“Bring me something back from Alberta. CIAO.”

The line went dead.

Julian lowered his phone and frowned at the screen. Alberta. Beef. Oil. Weather. Whatever.

As his boarding group was announced, the memory surfaced, uninvited but clear. The message from Margaret the night before. Short. Precise. Delivered well past dinner, because she enjoyed timing as much as impact.

All of you need to be in Willowridge in the next two days. No excuses.

No explanation. No softening. Just an order wrapped in inevitability.

Julian hadn’t responded. He hadn’t needed to. Summons from Margaret Hale were not requests, and they never arrived without collateral damage. The rest of the family would be there. His half-siblings, already bristling at the assumption that he was favored, as if favoritism looked anything other than relentless expectation and public correction.

He could make an appearance. He could hear her out. He could leave.

Julian stood, adjusted his jacket, and stepped into line.

Two days. Minimal exposure. Controlled exit.

That sounds like a plan.

Chapter 2: Surprise Inheritance

The drive into Willowridge took four hours and far too much time to think.

Julian spent most of it recalibrating expectations. The driver Margaret sent was young, polite, and entirely unfamiliar, which already irritated him.

They drove past the edge of town, past roads that still remembered his teenage years better than they remembered his name, and then Hale Manor rose up exactly where it always had. Same slope. Same deliberate distance from everyone else. The house did not believe in subtlety.

Julian stepped inside and immediately cataloged the changes. Some new staff. Younger faces. Better posture. Margaret had refreshed the ecosystem without touching the structure.

“Julian.”

Margaret Hale approached him with arms already open, regal as ever. She hugged him before he could brace himself.

“I thought you’d never come,” she said.

“You’ll never leave me alone if I don’t,” Julian replied, removing his jacket and handing it to a servant without breaking stride. “What’s this meeting about?”

Margaret smiled.

It was not a warm smile. It was the smile she wore when she had decided something and was waiting for the world to catch up.

“You’ll know later,” she said lightly. “Why don’t you rest first? Your old room is ready.”

Julian glanced around the foyer. “I’m not planning on staying long.”

“You never did,” Margaret said, already turning away. Then, almost casually, “Maybe the next time you’ll be here is at my funeral.”

Julian snorted. “Please. A bad weed is hard to kill. You’ll probably outlive me.”

Margaret stopped walking.

She turned back to him, still smiling. “Don’t flatter yourself, Julian. If you go first, it’ll be because you exhausted yourself trying to prove you deserved to.”

That landed.

Julian paused, hand still on his cuff, and looked at her properly. She held his gaze, victorious and unrepentant, then patted his arm.

“Now go,” she said sweetly. “You look tired.”

Julian exhaled through his nose and headed for the stairs.

Four hours on the road, and she still managed to beat him in under thirty seconds.

---

Julian decided the dinner had gone exactly as expected, which was to say it had gone poorly in predictable, well-documented ways.

He sat through it anyway, posture immaculate, expression neutral, because endurance was a skill and he had learned it young.

Being the oldest grandchild meant nothing in this family. Being illegitimate meant everything. The hierarchy was clear even if no one acknowledged it out loud. His younger brother, Marcus talked over him with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned his seat at the table. One of his sisters, Veronica rotated between polite dismissal and pointed curiosity, the kind designed to expose weaknesses rather than understand answers. Their mother, Vivienne watched Julian with narrowed eyes, as if he were a line item she had never approved but had been forced to carry on the balance sheet.

Earlier, before dinner, he had barely made it down the stairs before a body collided with his torso.

“Julian!”

He looked down just in time to catch his youngest sister, Lucy, who was nineteen and still entirely incapable of subtlety. She wrapped her arms around him with zero regard for tailoring or personal space.

“You came,” she said, beaming, as if this were a personal favor instead of a summons.

“I was instructed,” he replied, steadying her. “There’s a difference.”

She grinned anyway. Lucy always did. She had her mother’s eyes but none of her sharpness. She was observant without being cruel, which already set her apart.

He reached into his coat pocket and handed her a small box. Inside was a silver necklace, simple and understated.

Her gasp was immediate. “You remembered.”

“I am not known for forgetting,” he said.

She hugged him again, tighter this time, then whispered, “Sit near me at dinner.”

He had not, in fact, sat near her at dinner. That had not been an accident.

“So what is it you do again?” Vivienne asked halfway through the main course, her tone conversational enough to be insulting.

Julian set his fork down. He appreciated timing, even in ambushes.

“I get rid of people and companies that are no longer convenient.”

The table went quiet in stages. Marcus blinked. Veronica paused mid-chew.

She chuckled. “You make it sound like you’re a hired hitman.”

Julian lifted his glass, took a measured sip of wine. “Who knows?”

That did it.

Discomfort spread quickly, the way it always did when someone said the quiet part without softening it first. His stepmother pursed her lips. His brother shifted. His sister gave him a look that translated to please do not continue.

They did not ask follow-up questions.

Instead, they pivoted to safer territory. Resorts. Villas. A vineyard Margaret had apparently paid for last summer. A ski trip that had been described as spontaneous but had required staff coordination and private transport.

Julian listened, because listening was informative. It told him exactly how they saw her. A benefactor. A wallet. A background presence who existed to fund their leisure and applaud their proximity to her name.

Margaret said nothing.

She ate, drank, observed. Her gaze moved from face to face with unsettling precision. She did not interrupt. She did not rescue him. She never did.

That was how Julian knew something was coming.

---

Later, they were summoned to her office.

Cousins had arrived in the interim, expanding the audience and amplifying the noise. People filled the room in clusters, talking over one another, jockeying for position. Julian chose the wall at the back, leaning against it with his arms crossed, opting out of whatever performance this was shaping up to be.

He had no interest in participating in a circus he had not designed.

From where he stood, he could see the power dynamics clearly. Who stood closest to the desk. Who laughed too loudly. Who avoided eye contact. Lucy hovered near him for a moment, then drifted toward the sofa, shooting him a look that said don’t disappear.

He did not reassure her. He stayed where he was.

Margaret sat behind her desk, hands folded, expression unreadable. She had been quiet all evening. That silence carried weight.

Julian waited.

Whatever she had planned would reveal itself soon enough.

---

“You heard me,” Margaret said, calm and unyielding, when one of her daughters-in-law hesitated. “I don’t want anyone fighting over my estate. If you wish to bicker and claw for my money, I want to watch.”

Julian leaned back in his chair and scoffed under his breath.

Very Margaret. She could set the room on fire, observe the flames with academic interest, and critique everyone’s reaction time.

Her lawyer cleared his throat and opened the folder. The shift in the room was immediate. This was no longer a performance. This was execution.

Margaret spoke plainly. She was old. She intended to stay in Hale Manor. She would die there, on her terms. Until then, she was distributing her assets so she could enjoy the efficiency of it.

Every property came with conditions. No selling for ten years after her death. Employees stayed unless they violated policy or law. After ten years, no restrictions. She would be indisposed by then, possibly enjoying hell, possibly running it.

Anyone who violated her terms would lose their inheritance without warning.

Julian approved of the structure. Predictable rules. Clean penalties. No emotional bargaining.

People left quickly once they heard what they were receiving. Properties, cash, investments. Gratitude followed them out the door. Nobody questioned her. Nobody tried to negotiate. This family had learned early that Margaret Hale did not bluff.

Soon, only James’s family remained. Vivienne and her children. Julian sat among them, detached, observant, already done with the exercise.

Both of Margaret’s sons were long dead. She had outlived them through spite, discipline, and an impressive disregard for medical timelines.

The lawyer turned to his half siblings. “You will jointly receive the Aspen residence, liquid assets as outlined, and controlling interest in Northland Fresh Markets.”

Julian noted the name. Regional supermarket chain. Reliable margins. Not glamorous, but useful. A sensible inheritance for people who wanted the appearance of authority without the inconvenience of scrutiny.

Marcus glanced at Julian with open disdain. “I don’t know why you’re here. You haven’t gotten anything yet.”

Julian shrugged. “I already get paid.”

He meant it. He did not need Margaret’s money. He had built his own life on contracts, numbers, and accountability. He had learned early not to wait for generosity from people who treated bloodlines as credentials.

He ignored the looks that followed. Ignored Lucy’s worried glance. This was not his contest.

Vivienne spoke again. “And Hale Manor?”

“I will donate it to Willowridge,” Margaret said, uninterested in dissent. “The town can do whatever it wants with it.”

There was visible discomfort. Julian almost smiled.

“And HaleCare Group?” she pressed. “What happens to HaleCare Group?”

Julian kept his expression neutral and said nothing.

HaleCare was not just an asset. It was Margaret’s life’s work. Hospitals, long-term care facilities, rehabilitation centers, family clinics across Canada. Conservative, trusted, profitable. Built slowly. Guarded fiercely.

Margaret waved her hand. “Oh. HaleCare is for Julian.”

She said it as if the matter had been settled decades ago.

The room went still.

Julian straightened out of habit, then stopped himself.

He did not feel triumph. He did not feel vindication. He felt a flicker of something quieter and far older. Recognition, maybe. Or acknowledgment.

Margaret had taken him in when his mother left and his father had decided the word bastard was a verdict. She had fed him, taught him, corrected him, and never once pretended affection came without expectation.

That had been enough.

He met her eyes across the room. She raised a brow, daring him to object.

Julian exhaled slowly.

Apparently, in her mind, she had simply formalized what had already been true.

---

For exactly three seconds, no one reacted.

Then the room combusted.

Vivienne pressed a hand to her chest as if the word HaleCare had physically struck her. “Margaret,” she said, breath shallow, eyes wide. “You can’t be serious.”

Marcus went red immediately, the color creeping up his neck in a way Julian recognized from boardrooms right before someone made a bad argument. “That’s insane,” he snapped. “He’s barely family.”

Veronica laughed too loudly, suggested concern for Margaret’s mental acuity rather than her judgment.

“Is this some sort of joke?” Veronica asked. “Grandmother, you’re tired. Maybe you shouldn’t be making decisions right now.”

Julian stayed where he was, hands folded neatly in his lap, observing the breakdown with professional interest. It had all the structure of a hostile takeover, except nobody here had prepared talking points.

Across the room, Lucy caught his eye.

She smiled. Small. Warm. Apologetic. Then mouthed, You deserved it.

Julian held her gaze for a beat and said nothing. Engaging with the kid while her family was sharpening metaphorical knives would be strategically unwise. He gave her a nod instead, which she seemed to understand.

Margaret, meanwhile, looked delighted.

She waited until the volume peaked, then lifted one finger.

The room quieted out of habit.

“I am not senile,” Margaret said pleasantly. “I am old, not stupid. If I were senile, I’d have given everything to charity and left you all guessing.”

His brother opened his mouth again.

Margaret cut him off. “If you raise your voice in my house, I will assume you are unwell and have you escorted out for rest.”

Silence.

Julian leaned back slightly. Front-row seats. Excellent acoustics.

Vivienne turned sharply toward him, eyes blazing. “Don’t tell me you fully intend to take it. You don’t deserve it.”

Julian smiled, calm and measured. “Oh, I do. I was expecting it anyway.”

He did not elaborate. There was no return on investment in honesty here.

That was the breaking point.

Chairs scraped. Voices flared. Marcus muttered something about favoritism. Veronica swore under her breath. His stepmother stalked out first, dignity abandoned in the doorway. The rest followed, leaving behind the echo of outrage and a conspicuously untouched tea service.

The room settled.

Julian looked at Margaret, who was still sitting serenely at the head of the table, entirely unbothered.

“So,” he said, exhaling through his nose, “what the fuck was that?”

Margaret chuckled, reaching for her teacup.

Chapter 3: Be Careful What You Wish For

Ellie arrived home exhausted. She smiled anyway, automatically, because Ethan, Hannah, and Maisie were all at the dinner table and they all looked up at the same time, which felt suspiciously coordinated.

“So?” Ethan said. “How did it go?”

Ellie dropped her bag by the door and shrugged, “I got the fiancée’s roommate part.”

Hannah clapped immediately. “Isn’t that closer to the lead role?”

Ellie slid into the chair next to Maisie and rested her elbow on the table. “I have three lines.”

Hannah did not lose momentum. “That’s still something.” She gestured proudly toward the cake on the counter. “I made a cake for you.”

It said Congratulations Ellie in slightly slanted icing, the letters doing their best.

Ellie stared at it, throat tightening in that annoying way that showed up when she wasn’t expecting feelings. “You keep making these cakes,” she said carefully, “and I keep not getting cast as anything important.”

Hannah was already slicing. “Nonsense. You’ll get there. Also, I just need an excuse to bake because your brother loves my cakes.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Ethan said, chewing.

Maisie looked at Ellie thoughtfully. “Last play you were a moving flower.”

Ellie nodded. “I know, babe. Thank you for remembering that trauma.”

Maisie swung her feet, unfazed. “At least you’re a human this time.”

Ellie pressed a hand to her chest. “Wow. Huge confidence boost.”

She glanced at Ethan, who was eating quietly, eyes glazed in the way of a man outnumbered and resigned to crumbs and chaos.

Later, after Maisie was tucked in and Ethan and Hannah were on the couch watching a movie, Ellie hovered at the edge of the living room, nerves buzzing.

“Hey,” she said. “Can I tell you something?”

Ethan paused the movie. Hannah straightened, already alert.

Ellie sat down, inhaled, and immediately lost control of the situation.

“So the roommate part is unpaid,” she said quickly, words tripping over each other. “Which is fine. Not fine, but fine. It’s good for my portfolio and technically a speaking role, which matters, and I’m also waiting to hear back about a full-time production assistant thing, except I haven’t heard back yet, and I’m going to start applying for real jobs, like actual grown-up ones, I swear I’m serious this time, except no one wants me if I can’t commit fully and I don’t know if I’m ready to give up theatre entirely, which sounds dramatic but it’s my life, and anyway what I’m saying is I don’t have money for house expenses right now and I understand if that’s a problem and I can move out if you want and I won’t be mad and I get it and I’m sorry and—”

In the middle of it, Hannah stood up, walked to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and pressed it into Ellie’s hand.

Ellie stopped just long enough to drink half of it, then continued.

“And I promise I’m trying and I’m not being irresponsible on purpose and I hate that this keeps happening and—”

She finally ran out of air.

Hannah nodded slowly. “That was a lot. Also, the fact that you said all of that without taking a breath was impressive.”

Ellie took another swig. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Ethan looked at her, calm and steady. “You’re not living here for free.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

Hannah nodded. “You watch Maisie so we can go on date nights. You help with school events. You make visual aids. You show up dressed as princesses without complaint. We can relax because you’re here.”

“We should be the ones paying you,” Ethan added.

Ellie waved her hand immediately. “Oh no. Unpaid is fine. I’m good. I really am.”

Hannah smiled. “We like you here, Ellie.”

Ellie swallowed. “You’re the best sister-in-law I’ve ever had.”

“Hey,” Ethan said. “You only have one sister-in-law.”

Hannah laughed. “You need more beer.”

Ellie held up her bottle. “Yes please.”

---

Ellie lay on her stomach with her laptop propped on a pillow, screen dimmed to the lowest setting, finger hovering over the trackpad as if the house were a sleeping animal she might startle.

Auditions. Always auditions.

She scrolled.

Woman #2.

Pass. She refused to be numbered emotionally tonight.

Distraught Girlfriend.

Too vague. That role always came with crying and no backstory, which felt rude.

Barista with a Secret.

She paused. Whispered the lines in her head. Slight shoulder slump. Defensive humor. A backstory involving student loans. She nodded once and bookmarked it.

Villain’s Assistant.

Absolutely not.

She clicked through casting calls, quietly slipping into characters without moving her mouth. She adjusted her posture, softened her gaze, imagined where her hands would go. All internal. No noise. No drama. She was very good at pretending silently.

Then she made the mistake of checking her bank account.

Three digits.

Not even exciting three digits. Boring, disappointing three digits.

“Great, Elena,” she muttered. “Very adult of you.”

A knock landed softly on her door.

Ellie froze, then sighed and got up. She opened it to find Ethan standing there in an old T-shirt, hair doing whatever it wanted, concern already queued up on his face.

“Hey,” he said. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” she said, because technically she had been awake and spiraling.

He didn’t ask more questions. He just held out his hand.

Cash. Not folded neatly. Just a stack, warm from his pocket, shoved directly into her palm.

Her brain stalled.

“Ethan, I’m fine,” she said automatically, because that was the script.

“Take that,” he said. “I’ll kick you out if you don’t.”

She blinked. Her throat tightened before she could stop it. The tears came fast, traitors, always eager.

Ethan reached out and patted her head, gentle but solid. “Good,” he said. “You can cry on cue.”

She laughed through it and smacked his arm. “You’re awful.”

“I know.” He then stepped back. “Good night.”

Then he closed the door like this was nothing. Like he hadn’t just handed her oxygen and walked away.

Ellie stood there for a moment, cash still clenched in her hand, chest buzzing with gratitude and something dangerously close to relief.

She wiped her face, sniffed once, and looked at the money.

Tomorrow, she’d audition. Tonight, she’d sleep without counting coins in her head.

Okay, she thought.

I’ll make this count.

---

Ellie started the day optimistic in the way only the deeply delusional could manage.

Four auditions. That felt promising. Ambitious. A sign from the universe that today might finally stop being rude to her.

The first audition was for Woman Who Delivers Bad News Gracefully. Ellie walked in, smiled, and immediately clocked the casting assistant’s tension. Tight shoulders. Too much caffeine. A clipboard being gripped like a floatation device.

She read the lines softly, carefully. Empathetic but not meek. She even landed the pause where the character realized she was about to ruin someone’s day.

The director nodded. Not encouraging. Not discouraging either. The nod of a man who would forget her name by lunch.

“Thank you,” he said.

Ellie left knowing she would never hear from them again.

Audition two was Quirky Best Friend. The description alone raised her blood pressure.

She went louder here. Faster. Jokes landed. Someone laughed. Real laughter, not polite theatre air. She felt it click into place for half a second, that familiar spark where her body relaxed and her brain stopped narrating.

Then another actress went in after her.

Ellie saw her through the cracked door. Taller. Calmer. Effortlessly charming.

Ellie waited in the hall long enough to know.

She left before her name could be called again.

Audition three was experimental. Black box. Folding chairs. Everyone dressed in black and looking already disappointed in her existence.

The role was Grieving Sister. Ellie had notes for this one. She kept it quiet. Honest. She thought about nights she had lain awake convincing herself she was fine.

The silence afterward stretched.

The director thanked her gently, which was worse than indifference.

She smiled anyway and told herself gentle could still mean something.

It did not.

By the fourth audition, Ellie was exhausted.

This one was for a regional tour. Supporting role. Real pay. Health benefits mentioned in the breakdown, which felt aspirational.

She read well. Not perfect, but alive. The director leaned forward. The casting assistant scribbled something fast.

For a dangerous moment, Ellie let herself imagine it. A rehearsal schedule. A paycheck that didn’t disappear immediately. Telling Ethan and Hannah with a grin that stuck.

The director smiled apologetically. “You were great. Truly. We went with someone with more experience and a stronger portfolio.”

Ellie nodded. Of course they did. That sentence had followed her across half of Toronto.

She walked out into the evening air, feet aching, bag heavy with sides that no longer mattered.

On her way home, she paused on the sidewalk and looked up.

A streak of light cut across the sky, quick and ridiculous and entirely unearned.

A falling star.

Ellie snorted softly.

“Okay,” she said under her breath. “One major role. Or a rich husband. Honestly, I’m flexible.”

Ellie adjusted her bag and kept walking, already planning tomorrow.

Chapter 4: Caught Up in a Lie

Breakfast at Hale Manor unfolded in deliberate silence.

Margaret read the paper. Julian drank his coffee and replayed the previous night with the detached focus he usually reserved for post-deal analysis.

HaleCare Group.

He still hadn’t planned for it. Hadn’t forecasted it. Hadn’t even fantasized about it in a fit of ambition. It had been dropped into his lap without warning, which offended him on a philosophical level.

But once surprise wore off, logic had taken over.

HaleCare was Margaret’s favorite child. Hospitals, long-term care facilities, rehab centers, family clinics. Conservative branding. Deep trust. A system built to last. If it went to any of his siblings, it would be carved up, streamlined into oblivion, and congratulated for efficiency while quietly failing the people it served.

Lucy was the only acceptable alternative. Lucy was also still young and in school and not remotely ready to inherit a national healthcare network.

So Julian had already decided, somewhere between midnight and his second glass of water, that he would take it. Protect it. Keep it intact. Hand it to Lucy when the time came, or share it with her. There was no scenario where he let HaleCare circle the drain out of family resentment.

Margaret folded her paper.

“So,” she said, casually detonating the morning, “we haven’t discussed the conditions yet.”

“I heard them,” Julian replied. “No selling. No replacing employees for ten years. That’s fair.”

“That’s for them,” Margaret said. “I have additional conditions for you. This is HaleCare, after all.”

Julian lifted his mug. Oh, excellent. A sequel.

“This is a family-oriented business,” Margaret continued. “And you, my grandson, do not project family-oriented vibes. I learned the word vibes through Lucy, by the way.”

Julian opened his mouth.

“You are intimidating,” she went on. “You are exacting. You are arrogant. You have the emotional warmth of a well-organized filing cabinet. People do not stay because they are afraid.”

“That hasn’t been my experience,” Julian said mildly.

“HaleCare employees are not hedge fund analysts,” Margaret replied. “They leave when leadership becomes unbearable.”

Julian exhaled slowly. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I want to know if you can commit,” Margaret said. “To people. To stability. To something that does not optimize every relationship until it bleeds.”

He did not respond. Engaging would only encourage her.

Margaret smiled sweetly. “Otherwise, I can have your brother run HaleCare temporarily. While you work on your personality.”

Julian choked on his coffee. “Absolutely not.”

“Then convince me,” she said. “Have you been in a committed relationship since your ex-wife?”

Here it was.

Julian hesitated for half a second too long. He understood what she was asking, and more importantly, why. She wanted proof that people chose him. Not because of money. Not because of obligation. Because they wanted to stay. Because if he drove HaleCare the way he drove everything else, people would leave, and she did not have time to correct that mistake from the grave.

He also understood that explaining his actual emotional stance would take an hour and yield zero benefits.

So he lied.

“Yes,” he said. “Two years.”

Margaret lowered the paper. “How come I haven’t met her?”

“I’m busy.”

“Girlfriend?”

Julian felt the lie gain momentum. He did not enjoy this. “Fiancée.”

That one surprised even him.

Margaret’s eyes sharpened. “Any plans of getting married while I’m still alive?”

He shut it down immediately. “She wants something intimate. No spectacle. We planned a court wedding when our schedules align.”

Margaret smiled. Satisfied. Dangerous. “Very romantic. I want to meet her after the wedding. I want to see if she can help you run the empire.”

Julian stared at his coffee, calculating escape routes.

“She matters because you matter,” Margaret continued. “If she can tolerate you, that tells me everything I need to know.”

“This is manipulation,” Julian said.

“Yes,” Margaret agreed cheerfully. “And effective.”

Julian sighed.

He now had a healthcare empire, a fabricated fiancée, and a personality review scheduled by a woman who refused to die.

This was going exceptionally well.

---

By the time Julian got back to Toronto, his tolerance for chaos had been fully depleted.

His apartment felt reassuringly controlled. Clean lines. Neutral colors. Furniture arranged with intention. He had barely set his bag down when the doorbell rang, exactly three minutes after Seb texted I’m outside.

Seb let himself in and immediately collapsed onto the couch, stretching out.

“So,” Seb said, already grinning. “Tell me everything.”

Julian poured himself a drink and began narrating the weekend. The will. The half siblings. The collective meltdown. Margaret’s performance art masquerading as estate planning.

Seb lost it halfway through.

“Too bad I didn’t see your stepmother’s face,” Seb said, laughing so hard he had to clutch a pillow. “I would’ve paid money.”

Julian took a measured sip. “It was expensive grief.”

Seb wiped his eyes. “Worth it.”

“And,” Julian added, setting the glass down, “it looks like I’m getting married soon.”

Seb froze.

Then he sat straight up. “I’m sorry, what?”

Julian didn’t elaborate.

Seb stared at him. “You proposed to someone and didn’t tell me?”

“No.”

“Did someone propose to you?”

“No.”

Seb squinted. “Was it Sidney?”

Julian frowned. “Who’s Sidney?”

Seb gasped theatrically. “You don’t remember Sidney? Campbell’s charity gala. Blonde. Dramatic. The one I had to escort out of your office because she was making a scene about you ‘leading her on.’”

Julian searched his memory. Blank. “Then she was irrelevant.”

“That tracks,” Seb said. “What about Stacy? Or Charlotte?”

“No.”

Seb leaned back. “Julian Hale. Engaged to a woman he cannot identify. Incredible.”

Julian waved him off. “Margaret set conditions. She wants to see if I can commit to someone.”

Seb smiled slowly. “Oh, you’re committed. Just not to another human being.”

Julian ignored him. “I thought lying would somehow convince her. The old woman is manipulative.”

“You learned from the best,” Seb said cheerfully.

“And now,” Julian continued, “she wants to meet this fictional fiancée once she becomes my fictional wife. I don’t see how this doesn’t implode spectacularly.”

Seb tilted his head. “But you didn’t want HaleCare, right?”

“I still don’t,” Julian said. “But I need to have it until Lucy is ready. If it’s left to her siblings, Lucy ends up with nothing before she even turns thirty.”

Seb considered that. “That is unfortunately accurate.”

“So,” Seb said, eyes lighting up, “what’s the plan?”

Julian exhaled. “I don’t know yet. I just need to find someone willing to play my wife and then adapt depending on Margaret’s next round of conditions.”

Seb snapped his fingers. “I have an idea.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. “I hate it when you have ideas.”

Seb’s grin widened.

---

“Absolutely the fuck not,” Julian said.

He didn’t shout. He articulated. There was a difference.

“Calm down,” Seb replied, entirely too relaxed, sprawled across the couch with one ankle propped on Julian’s coffee table. “You need someone on short notice, and we need someone who can commit to the part and be professional about it.”

Julian was already pacing. Three steps to the window, turn, four back to the bar cart. Seb hadn’t moved an inch.

“It won’t work,” Julian said.

“Why not?”

“Because Margaret will run a background check,” Julian replied. “She will know if I married an actress.”

“Then we get someone unknown,” Seb said, already scrolling on his tablet, fingers moving far too cheerfully.

Julian stopped pacing. “You seem delighted.”

“Oh, absolutely. Unless you have better ideas, I’m fully committed to this train wreck.”

Julian stared at the wall and assessed the situation.

This was getting ridiculous. He did not want a wife. He did not want a relationship. He wanted one weekend. A performance. A controlled environment with a defined end date. The shortest marriage in recorded history, ideally dissolving without paperwork or emotional fallout.

Any random woman would treat this as an opportunity. Expectations would follow. Feelings, leverage, entitlement. He could already hear the conversations he did not want to have.

Someone professional would be cleaner. Someone who understood roles, boundaries, and the value of not improvising their way into his life.

“So?” Seb prompted.

Julian closed his eyes briefly. “Make the casting call.”

He did not enjoy the way Seb’s face lit up.

“Awesomeeee,” Seb said, dragging the word out. Then, as if the universe hadn’t done enough already, “You’ll need to attend the casting.”

“I do not have time for—”

“We want someone who won’t be intimidated by you or attracted to you,” Seb interrupted. “So far, your only option is me. Do you want me?”

Seb fluttered his eyelashes.

Julian looked at him flatly. “No.”

“Right,” Seb said, unbothered. “I’m too pretty for you. Anyway, we can only measure intimidation and attraction levels if you’re present. Agree?”

Julian exhaled slowly, the way one did before signing documents they would later regret.

He briefly considered handing HaleCare back, apologizing to Lucy, and pretending this entire week had been a stress-induced hallucination.

Instead, he rubbed his face and muttered, “Fuck this.”

Seb grinned.

Chapter 5: Casting Call

Ellie was backstage with a headset slipping off one ear, a clipboard pressed to her chest, and the quiet fury of someone who absolutely knew how this scene should be blocked.

“Five steps too far,” she muttered as the lead actress drifted downstage again. “You’re smothering the light. You’re emotionally suffocating the light.”

She shifted a prop chair an inch to the left, because apparently that was her life now. Adjusting furniture for people who did not appreciate furniture.

Production assistant duties were a glamorous cocktail of wrangling cables, reminding grown adults where to stand, and pretending she wasn’t mentally rewriting the entire show while handing out water bottles.

The lead actress missed her cue. Again.

Ellie sighed under her breath. “If I were doing this, I’d just pause. Breathe. Let the silence work for you. But sure, panic-walk into the monologue.”

She caught herself and smiled tightly. Not bitter. Just observant. Extremely observant. With opinions.

When the curtain finally came down and the audience filtered out, Ellie sank onto a folding chair backstage and pulled out her phone. Ritual time. Casting calls. Digital rejection roulette.

She scrolled. Ignored the unpaid workshop. Ignored the background role that required her to bring her own shoes. Then she stopped.

CONFIDENTIAL CASTING CALL

Actress wanted. Unknown. Few projects. No lead roles.

Ellie blinked. Rude, but accurate.

Must be comfortable improvising without a fixed script. Pleasing personality. Must be single and not in any form of relationship.

She stared at the screen.

“That feels illegal,” she whispered.

Her brain immediately sprinted. Organ harvesting? Possible. Mail-order bride situation? Unpleasant but statistically alive. Sex cult? A classic. Some billionaire’s deeply unexamined fantasy involving commitment clauses and mood lighting? Honestly the most likely.

She frowned. She had never been in a relationship. Which already felt embarrassing enough without adding potential trafficking to the list. She did not want her first romantic experience to involve a nondisclosure agreement and a locked gate.

Ellie hovered her thumb over the button.

Reckless? Probably.

Stupid? Definitely.

She tapped apply.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Email received.

Audition tomorrow morning. Wear your best outfit.

Ellie looked up from her phone and scanned the backstage chaos. Black jeans. Scuffed sneakers. A hoodie with paint stains that might have been intentional at some point.

Her best outfit was a theoretical concept.

She sighed, already opening her messages.

Hannah would have something. Hannah always had something.

---

The next morning arrived far too early and aggressively cheerful.

Julian sat at the long table inside a studio Seb had insisted on renting, phone angled discreetly under the edge as he answered emails that actually mattered. Quarterly projections did not pause because he had agreed to conduct what was essentially a socially sanctioned nightmare.

Seb, meanwhile, looked delighted. Relaxed. Thriving.

Julian did not look up when the first woman walked in. He skimmed a message from an associate, flagged two action items, and archived a calendar invite without mercy.

Seb nudged his knee.

Julian muttered, “Anyone who appears interested in me gets filtered out.”

Seb blinked. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m entirely serious,” Julian said quietly. “It’s not vanity. It’s risk mitigation.”

Seb crossed his arms. “You’ve claimed you’ve been together for two years. There has to be chemistry.”

“Chemistry is not interest,” Julian replied. “Chemistry is controlled familiarity. Interest is a liability.”

Seb stared at him. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” Julian said, still typing, “highly effective.”

“Focus,” Seb snapped.

Julian sighed and finally looked up.

Seb clapped his hands. “Alright, everyone. Let’s begin.”

They filed in. One by one.

Julian assessed without warmth. Too eager. Too polished. Too aware of his presence. He hated the way it felt, watching strangers attempt to calibrate themselves around him. It looked predatory, which was unfortunate, because it was not. This was logistics. This was crisis management.

Seb did the filtering.

It was merciless.

“No,” Seb said brightly to the first candidate. “You smiled at him before I introduced you. That’s a red flag.”

“What?” the woman protested. “That’s absurd.”

Seb tilted his head. “So is this situation, sweetheart. We adapt.”

Another candidate tried to ask questions.

“What exactly are you looking for?”

Seb beamed. “Someone who can stand next to him without wanting to climb him or flee. It’s a narrow demographic.”

“I don’t understand the criteria,” someone else said, offended.

Seb clasped his hands. “You don’t have to. You just have to fail it.”

Julian watched the reactions with detached interest. Appalled. Confused. Slightly insulted. One woman looked at him as if he’d orchestrated this personally.

He had not. He would have structured it better.

Then he noticed her.

Braided red hair. Casual dress that suggested comfort over calculation. She stood slightly apart, looking up at the ceiling and muttering under her breath. Hands moving subtly, as if counting beats or practicing lines.

She wasn’t watching him.

That alone was unusual.

Then she yawned.

Fully. Open-mouthed. No apology. No attempt to disguise it.

Julian raised an eyebrow.

Absolutely not. Zero class. He was not introducing that to Margaret Hale. His grandmother would dismantle her within minutes and possibly enjoy it.

Seb, unfortunately, was laser-focused and in a mood that suggested interference would be met with consequences.

Julian leaned back, returned to his phone, and made a mental note.

He would make the final call anyway.

---

Ellie was nervous in the way that lived in her fingers.

They kept moving without permission. Twisting her ring. Smoothing her dress. Tugging her braid forward, then back again. She stood in line with the others while the very pretty man with fleeked eyebrows who introduced himself as Seb filtered people out with the confidence of someone who absolutely enjoyed this.

One smile too eager. Gone. One question asked too early. Gone.

Ellie watched women disappear from the line without ever stepping forward and felt her chest tighten.

She did not want to be filtered out without even opening her mouth. That felt rude. To her. To her future.

So she stared everywhere except the second man at the table who was clearly judging them. The man barely looked up, head tilted toward his phone, posture sharp and expensive. She clocked the power dynamic instantly. Seb ran the room. The other man decided everything.

Ellie muttered under her breath, rapid and low, running lines that didn’t belong to any script. Apologies. Confessions. Meet-cutes. Fake arguments. Anything that might come in handy. Her hands moved as she spoke, tiny gestures she didn’t notice until someone beside her glanced over.

This mattered. A lot.

The casting call had been weirdly specific. Unknown actress. Few projects. No lead roles. Single. Able to improvise. That was not a stretch. That was her résumé screaming for attention. This was the first time a breakdown hadn’t asked her to pretend she was something shinier or safer or less herself.

This could be it. The thing she’d been waiting for. The one that made all the almosts make sense.

And then suddenly there were only five of them left.

Ellie blinked and looked around.

Five.

Seb had chosen them entirely on vibes.

Cool. Casual. Terrifying.

She cleared her throat, realized she didn’t need to, then stood a little straighter anyway. Shoulders back. Feet planted. Present. She could do present.

“So,” Seb said, clapping his hands and grinning at them, “next round is to test how good you are at improvising.”

Ellie felt something steady settle in her chest.

Okay. Good. This part she knew.

She lifted her chin, fingers finally still.

She could do this.

Chapter 6: Expected Rejection

Julian studied the remaining five with the same discipline he applied to underperforming portfolios.

Neutral. Observant. Clinical.

He ranked them automatically.

Number one stood too straight. Overcorrecting posture, chin lifted, shoulders pulled back as if she expected applause for endurance. Polished. Alert. She had the look of someone who took direction well and would ask clarifying questions in advance. Promising. Possibly exhausting.

Number two kept her hands folded neatly in front of her, weight balanced, gaze steady. Calm. Measured. She tracked Seb when he spoke instead of Julian, which suggested she understood who actually ran the room. Good instincts. Strong contender.

Number three shifted her weight too often. Not nervous, just impatient. She had presence but not control over it. Might improvise her way into trouble. Middle of the pack.

Number four leaned back slightly, arms loose, posture relaxed to the point of casual. Comfortable in her own skin, but perhaps too aware of it. She smiled at the right moments and nodded when appropriate. She would charm Margaret. She might also ask questions later. Dangerous.

And then there was number five.

Earlier, she’d looked half-asleep. Now she was different.

More focused. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. She took a slow breath and scanned the room, measuring the others. Preparing. There was intent there now. Still unpolished. Still lacking refinement. Margaret would dismantle her in under ten minutes.

Julian ranked her last. Easily. She would be the first to go.

Seb clapped his hands, delighted. “Alright, my beautiful chaos agents. Here’s how this works. I’ll give you a scenario, and you give us a monologue. Convince us. Lie with conviction. Make us believe you’d survive the family group chat.”

The first woman stepped forward.

Scenario one involved fake dating a man whose parents insisted on weekly dinners and passive-aggressive compliments.

Her monologue was earnest. Too earnest. She spoke about compromise and mutual respect, voice trembling with sincerity. Julian felt the familiar itch behind his eyes. This was not a therapy session.

The second woman was given a scenario involving a sudden engagement announcement at a holiday party.

She smiled brightly and launched into a speech about love conquering expectations. She dropped into a soft, breathy tone halfway through, apparently under the impression that intimacy equaled persuasion. Julian stared at the table. Secondhand embarrassment was a physical sensation.

The third scenario involved an overbearing mother-in-law and a husband who made unilateral decisions.

The actress leaned into righteous indignation, pacing dramatically and announcing boundaries with performative confidence. When she referred to the husband as “a lovable tyrant,” Julian raised an eyebrow despite himself. Bold choice. Incorrect, but bold.

The fourth monologue centered on managing appearances while privately resenting the arrangement.

She was funny. Sharp. Self-aware. She landed the beats cleanly and finished with a controlled smile. Julian adjusted her ranking upward without thinking.

Seb glanced at Julian, eyebrows lifting. Clear frontrunner.

Julian met his gaze and gave a minimal nod.

This was working. Mostly.

Seb leaned in and whispered, “We still have the red-haired girl.”

Julian sighed.

He already knew how this would end.

---

“Okay, hit me,” she said.

Julian noted the phrasing. Not I’m ready. Not go ahead. Hit me. Casual. Unbothered. Incorrect tone for a woman about to embarrass herself.

Seb, delighted, leaned forward. “Alright. You met this man two hours ago. But you need to convince his grandmother that you’ve known him for years and that you’ve been in a relationship for two.”

Julian folded his hands and waited for the collapse.

She cleared her throat. Took a breath. Then she turned slightly, angling her body toward Seb as if he were someone formidable, someone whose approval carried weight. Julian clocked that immediately. Good instinct. Wrong target, but adaptable.

She smiled. Not sweet. Familiar.

“Oh, trust me,” she said, waving a hand. “I didn’t want him at first.”

Julian frowned.

“I mean, I’d heard things,” she continued, nodding seriously. “Very intense. Very serious. Very much the kind of man who schedules emotions between meetings. So when we met, I thought, absolutely not.”

Seb made a noise. Julian stayed still.

“But,” she went on, warming up now, “he kept asking questions. Not the résumé ones. Real ones. What I liked. What annoyed me. Why I hated mornings but loved late-night grocery runs. He remembered things. Annoyingly specific things. And he showed up. Every time.”

She glanced briefly at Julian, then looked back at Seb. “He didn’t try to impress me. He tried to understand me. Which was worse.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. He did not do grocery runs.

“He has this reputation,” she added, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “but with me, he was…patient. He listened. He learned. He even apologized once.”

Julian almost laughed. Almost.

“And two years later,” she said, shrugging lightly, “here we are. Still arguing about takeout. Still choosing each other. Still together. Because when someone works that hard to earn you, you don’t walk away.”

She finished with a small smile, warm and unassuming, as if this were obvious.

Silence followed.

Julian stared at her.

That was not accurate. None of it. The details were wrong. The man she described did not exist. And yet, the delivery had been unsettlingly effective. She had spoken as if she were correcting a narrative, not inventing one. As if Julian were a known quantity she’d simply learned how to live with.

Seb blinked. Slowly turned to Julian.

Julian did not look away from her.

He did not like her. He still ranked her last. She lacked polish. She lacked restraint. She would horrify Margaret in at least three distinct ways.

But she had done something the others had not.

She had made the lie feel lived in.

That was a problem.

---

Ellie watched Seb and the other man lean toward each other and murmur in low voices, heads close, expressions serious in that annoying, gatekeeper way. She had no idea what play this was supposed to be for. No title. No hint. No context.

And with a familiar, sinking certainty, she knew she wasn’t getting picked.

She could tell by the other man’s face. The one sitting stiffly at the table, posture screaming control issues. He hadn’t looked at her once after her turn. Not really. He’d nodded, sure, but in the same way people nodded at safety instructions on planes. She’d been doing this long enough to recognize rejection before it bothered sending flowers.

Rejection had a smell. A posture. A rhythm. She clocked it early now. It saved time.

Seb finally straightened and clapped his hands lightly. “Okay. Last question.”

Everyone snapped to attention.

“What do you think of him?” Seb asked, gesturing to the man beside him.

Oh. That kind of audition.

The woman to Ellie’s left went first. She smiled brightly, eyes shining with ambition. “He seems very confident. Strong leadership energy. Decisive.”

Ellie mentally added read: rich.

The next woman nodded enthusiastically. “Intelligent. Grounded. Someone you’d feel safe with.”

Safe. Interesting choice for a man who hadn’t smiled once.

Another chimed in, voice soft. “He has a commanding presence. Very impressive.”

Ellie watched the compliments stack up, each one shinier and emptier than the last. They were throwing adjectives at him like confetti and hoping one would stick to their résumé.

Her turn came too fast.

Ellie swallowed. Her mouth went dry, then immediately decided dryness was a personal attack and overcorrected.

She could lie. She could posture. She could perform admiration the way everyone else was doing.

But honestly? She was tired. And she was already out.

“I think,” Ellie said, then stopped because everyone was looking at her and wow that was a lot of eyeballs. “I think this audition is for your play. Or maybe your movie. Or you’re the director. Or the lead actor. Or something important enough that everyone’s scared of you.”

Seb snorted.

Ellie turned her attention fully to the man now, because if she was going down, she might as well make eye contact with the firing squad.

“You look bored,” she continued, conversational. “I counted. You checked your phone six times under the table. Seven, actually, if we’re counting the one where you pretended not to.”

His brows knit together.

“And I don’t think you were very interested in me,” she added, shrugging. “Which is fine. Truly. I’m not judging you. I just noticed it more when it was my turn.”

Seb is trying so hard not to laugh, his shoulders shaking.

“You kind of have this aura,” Ellie went on, warming up despite herself, “of someone who’s used to being the final word. You decide, everyone adjusts. You don’t ask, you inform. It’s very…efficient. Also mildly terrifying.”

Silence. Delicious, stunned silence.

“And I don’t know what you’re actually looking for,” she finished, glancing around at the other women, “but I think I can speak for everyone when I say maybe next time give us some idea what the role is? Because going in blind makes people do weird things, like whispering compliments they don’t mean.”

Seb laughed outright.

The other man just stared at her, dumbfounded.

Ellie exhaled, relief washing over her. No self-preservation. Zero. But at least she’d gone down honest.

“Well,” she said lightly, “thank you for the mystery trauma.”

---

“That was…inspiring,” Seb said, clearly shopping for a word and finding nothing suitable. “Please wait outside while we deliberate.”

Ellie nodded. Smiled. Did the polite actor thing where you pretend your soul isn’t already packing its bags.

She stepped into the hallway.

Then she kept walking.

Waiting outside meant standing near a potted plant pretending hope still existed. She did not have the emotional budget for that. Her brain had already moved on to damage control.

Okay. Conversation number one. Ethan.

Hey, remember how you said this could be the one? Turns out I trauma-dumped on a rich man and his stylish friend. Love you.

Conversation number two. Hannah.

I might borrow that blue dress again. Also do you think kindergarten is hiring emotionally unstable assistants?

She pushed through the building doors and stepped into daylight, already rehearsing the speech where she announced she was taking a break from theatre. Or quitting entirely. Or pivoting into something respectable. Voice acting for cartoons. Theme park mascot. Anything where no one asked her to summarize her worth in under three minutes.

She pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over Ethan’s name.

It was fine. This was fine. She’d survived worse. She once cried in an audition because the room was too quiet. She once thanked a casting director for rejecting her.

This was just another no.

Ellie squared her shoulders and kept walking, already narrating her graceful exit from the industry in her head.

She did not look back.

---

The door closed after the last applicant and Julian immediately exhaled.

Seb flopped into the chair across from him, legs crossed, chin propped on his hand. “Okay. Let’s be adults about this.”

“We were adults until five minutes ago,” Julian said. “Now we’re negotiating chaos.”

Seb grinned. “I want the redhead.”

Julian didn’t hesitate. “The blonde.”

“Of course you do.”

“She understands structure. She follows direction. She didn’t improvise her way into a personal manifesto.”

Seb tilted his head. “You’re allergic to unpredictability.”

“I’m intolerant of avoidable risk,” Julian corrected.

Seb leaned forward. “Let me ask you something. Why do you dislike the redhead so much?”

Julian considered. He did not objectify. He evaluated. “She’s unpolished. She yawned.”

Seb paused. “That’s it?”

“Imagine her doing that in front of Margaret.”

Seb rolled his eyes. “We can teach her. You have two months. If she’s a good actress, she can get into character.”

Julian frowned. Two months was not nothing. It was also not a miracle.

“But,” Seb continued, eyes lighting up, “do you know why I like her the most?”

Julian already regretted asking. “What.”

“She hates you.”

Julian stilled.

Seb smiled sweetly. “You don’t want emotional complications. You don’t want admiration. You don’t want longing looks or expectations. You want someone who won’t collapse into the role.”

Julian stared at the table. He disliked how correct that sounded.

“She won’t romanticize you,” Seb went on. “She’ll argue. Push back. Treat this as a job. That’s exactly what you need.”

Julian hated when Seb was right. It disrupted the internal hierarchy.

“Fine,” Julian said finally. “Call her in. If this doesn’t work, this is on you.”

Seb was on his feet immediately. “If it works, I want a Kelly.”

Julian frowned. “What’s a Kelly?”

“A bag,” Seb said, already halfway to the door. “Don’t Google it. It ruins the fantasy.”

Julian watched him leave, posture dramatic as always.

Seb returned seconds later. “She’s gone. But I have her number.”

Julian leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.

Time was not on their side. Margaret was patient, but not indulgent.

Could she pull it off?

Julian didn’t like gambling.

Which made this deeply inconvenient.

Chapter 7: Marriage Proposal

Ellie sat on a bench in Trinity Bellwoods with a coffee she absolutely did not deserve.

It was good coffee too. Offensively good. Ethan had handed her the cash last nig8ht without comment, the same way he had done a thousand times since their parents died one week apart and he’d quietly become her second parent at twenty-five. Ellie had been fifteen and feral and grieving and convinced she was fine.

She was still convinced she was fine. Mostly.

She took a careful sip and mentally added the cost to the invisible ledger in her head. Coffee. Groceries. Rent. Emotional support. Lifetime debt to Ethan Bennett, payable never.

She sighed and tipped her head back, staring at the sky through the trees.

Theatre had always been the dream. Not fame. Not money. Just the part where she got to be someone else for a few hours. Someone braver. Someone loved. Someone who had their life together or at least a dramatic reason for not having it together. It was safe. You stepped into another life and stepped out again before it could ruin you.

And now she was twenty-seven, broke, borrowing money for coffee, and wondering how many years she could keep calling this a phase.

She’d tried regular jobs. Administrative stuff. Retail. Anything that required remembering procedures in the right order. Her brain did not respect order. Her brain respected vibes. That was not a marketable skill outside of theatre.

Maybe babysitting again. She was good with kids. Kids didn’t mind if you improvised.

Her phone rang.

Unknown number.

Ellie squinted at it. Great. Another scammer who thought she had savings.

She answered. “If this is a scam, it’s your lucky day. I’m broke.”

There was a laugh on the other end. Warm. Confident. Annoyingly attractive even through audio.

“I’m guessing I’m speaking to Elena Bennett.”

She blinked. Sat up straighter. “Who’s this?”

“Seb. Sebastian Cruz. We met earlier. I’m not easy to miss.”

Ellie closed her eyes and replayed the audition. Beautiful black man with flair. Fashion sense. Authority. Yes. That one. And the other man. The quiet one. The one she had absolutely roasted.

“Oh,” she said. “Uh…Why?”

“You left early,” Seb said. “I’m calling to let you know you’re accepted, and we’d like to meet sooner than later.”

Her brain stalled.

Then immediately rebooted at full volume.

“Are you serious right now,” Ellie said, words tumbling out. “This is not a drug-induced dream? I’m not on drugs. Just to be clear. But for real? You’re serious.”

“For real,” Seb said. “I’ll send you the address. We’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. Ciao.”

The call ended.

Ellie stared at her phone.

Then she screamed.

A full, unfiltered shriek that sent pigeons scattering and made three people in the park turn to look at her as if she’d snapped.

She laughed, clapped a hand over her mouth, then laughed harder.

Accepted.

She grabbed her coffee, nearly spilled it, and paced in a tight circle, whisper-shouting to herself. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

Everyone was staring.

Ellie did not care.

She was in.

---

This had been a mistake.

That was Ellie’s first coherent thought as she sat inside a private office in Toronto, hands folded in her lap, Seb on one side of the desk and the other man on the other. The Serious One. The one who looked as if joy was an optional add-on he’d declined.

She glanced around the room. Clean. Quiet. Expensive in a way that suggested no one here had ever worried about rent. Was this what working in an office felt like? Sitting all day? Thinking in straight lines? She felt itchy just imagining it.

“So,” Seb said brightly, breaking the silence, “we need you to sign an NDA first.”

The Serious One spoke next. “It states you will not discuss anything we talk about today with anyone outside this room.”

Ellie nodded. Cool. Standard. Mildly ominous.

She signed without reading.

The Serious One raised an eyebrow. “Do you usually sign documents without reading them?”

Ellie smiled. “I’m broke as hell. Unless you’re harvesting my soul, it doesn’t matter.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying her.

Seb clapped once. “Now that’s done. His name is Julian Hale.”

“Hi,” Ellie said.

Julian did not react. At all. Not a nod. Not a smile. Not a blink that acknowledged her existence. Wow. Committed to the bit already.

“And,” Seb continued cheerfully, “you’ll be playing his wife.”

Ellie’s brain stalled.

Wife.

As in not a play. Not a role with a curtain call. Real life pretending. Did that happen? Was this a thing people with money did for fun? Was she being recruited into some billionaire roleplay fantasy? Was this safe? Was she about to be locked in a penthouse and fed grapes?

Before she could spiral further, Seb added, “You’ll be paid ten thousand dollars for a weekend stint.”

Okay. Never mind. I’m in.

Her entire nervous system recalibrated.

“So,” Ellie said carefully, “just to be clear. I act as your wife for a weekend. Ten thousand dollars. In cash?”

“Correct,” Seb said. “Outfits will be provided. You get to keep them.”

“Cool,” Ellie said immediately. “I can do it.

Julian finally spoke. “We need to act as though we’ve been together for two years. Seb will send you details about me that you’ll need to memorize.”

Crap.

“And,” Julian continued, “we need to behave as an actual couple.”

Ellie nodded, even as her brain scrambled. Actual couple. What did that mean? Ethan and Hannah came to mind. Comfortable. Quiet. Supportive. They argued about groceries, not power dynamics.

“Do you have any questions, Miss Bennett?” Julian asked.

“Ellie,” she corrected. Then paused. “There’s no requirement for us to be intimate, right?”

“No,” Julian said.

“Good,” Ellie said quickly. “Not that I was hoping for that. Just clarifying.”

“I assume you can manage holding hands,” Julian went on, “a kiss on the cheek—”

“Oh yeah. Totally,” Ellie said. “Basic human contact. I’ve seen it.”

“You also need to be classy, calm, agreeable, and presentable,” Julian added.

Ellie stared at him.

The audacity.

“Seb will take you shopping,” Julian continued. “We don’t have much time. You’ll need to get into character within two months. Can you do that?”

Ellie looked at him flatly. “I’m a theatre actress. All I do is get into character.”

“Good.”

Silence settled.

Then Julian said, “One last thing.”

Ellie’s stomach dipped. “Okay?”

“Marry me.”

“What?” Ellie yelped.

She stared at him, brain short-circuiting, thoughts colliding. Marriage. Legal? Fake legal? What kind of week involved vows? She had not budgeted emotional bandwidth for this.

“WHAT?!” she repeated, just to be sure the universe heard her clearly.

---

“Fake marriage,” Ellie said quickly, hands already moving, “or actual marriage with vows and crying bridesmaids because I am telling you right now I do not have any friends.”

Seb beamed. “It’s a real marriage, hun.”

Her brain slammed into a wall.

“Why?” she demanded, volume rising despite herself.

Julian answered, calm and infuriating. “We will be dealing with a very clever eighty-year-old woman. She will have the marriage checked.”

Ellie’s thoughts sprinted.

“Oh my God,” she said, words tumbling out. “This is an inheritance thing. This is absolutely an inheritance thing. You’re doing a rich people chess move and I am a pawn with lots of debt.”

Seb looked thrilled. “You are about to marry the heir of HaleCare Group.”

Her world tilted.

HaleCare. Hospitals. Clinics. The kind of name that appeared on buildings and brochures and not in the same sentence as her unpaid parking tickets. She looked at Julian again. The serious face. The controlled posture. Of course he was that man.

Okay. Breathe. She was spiraling.

This was not a real marriage in the way marriages were real. This was legal paperwork and pretending and boundaries. It was a job with rings. It was absurd but contained. A weekend. A stunt. A performance.

She had never been in a relationship. Not even a bad one. Her first marriage being contractual felt aggressive, but also weirdly on brand.

She could pay Ethan back. Half of it, at least. He would yell at her, but in that tired, worried way that meant he loved her.

“Are you in, Ellie?” Seb asked, eyes sparkling.

She stared at them. At the room. At the ceiling that had probably never heard a bad decision echo this loudly.

“Am I in?” Ellie repeated, then nodded decisively. “I’ll sign that marriage license and prenup in blood.”

Seb clapped.

Julian closed his eyes for half a second.

Ellie smiled, heart pounding, already questioning her life choices and somehow committing anyway.

Chapter 8: The Man She Married

A month later, Julian found himself inside a courthouse wearing a polo shirt.

Not a suit. Not even a blazer. A polo shirt.

This alone suggested his life had taken a turn he had not approved.

Ellie stood beside him in a green T-shirt, ripped pants, and sneakers that had clearly survived multiple eras. He did not want to imagine which ones. He kept his eyes level and focused on the officiant, who looked faintly confused but committed to finishing his sentence.

Seb was their only witness. Seb had leaned fully into the role. He dabbed at imaginary tears, clutched a small bouquet he had brought for Ellie, and whispered, “I’m so proud,” with theatrical sincerity.

Julian refused to acknowledge him.

The ceremony took under five minutes. Efficient. Blessedly short. Julian signed the marriage certificate without hesitation, the pen moving smoothly over his name. Ellie signed next, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. He noticed it. He chose not to comment.

He slid the ring onto her finger. He had told her beforehand she could pawn it, keep it, or use it as a paperweight. Her name was engraved inside anyway. She accepted it without ceremony, examined it briefly, and nodded once, as if cataloguing inventory.

The officiant smiled. “You may kiss the bride.”

Julian looked at the officiant.

Then at Ellie.

Ellie looked back at him, expression neutral, curious, as if waiting to see how this absurdity resolved.

Julian cleared his throat. “We’re done here.”

He turned and walked out.

Ellie followed. Seb followed, beaming.

Outside, Julian assessed the situation with reluctant objectivity. Ellie had cleaned up more than he expected. She stood straighter. Spoke less. Tried. Occasionally, her feral instincts slipped through in small ways. The unfiltered expressions. The lack of reverence for the moment. But overall, it would do.

Would it hold in front of Margaret? Unclear.

Could he replace her? Yes. Easily.

But Ellie had shown no interest in him whatsoever. She had asked no questions beyond the basics Seb provided. She had not negotiated her fee. She seemed genuinely pleased with the clothes Seb had bought her and nothing else.

Disinterest simplified things.

They could walk away clean. No expectations. No emotional debris.

As they headed toward the car, Julian told her, “We’ll divorce after we return from Red Deer.”

Ellie nodded. No dramatics. No objections. No questions.

It made the arrangement easier.

And, somehow, more suspicious.

---

Julian Hale was, and Ellie was being generous, a ledger dressed up as a man.

From the moment she accepted the job, they met once a week for what he called calibration and what she privately referred to as personality review with no personality. She had yet to see him smile. Not once. Not even a twitch. It was as if his smile was a controlled asset, released only during market crashes or solar eclipses.

Which was fine. She was not attracted to him anyway.

Julian was objectively attractive. She could acknowledge that the way one acknowledged a well-designed chair. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Expensive haircut. Expensive everything. But she had seen attractive men before and none of them had altered her life trajectory. Attraction, as a concept, remained theoretical to her. At twenty-seven, she had never had a crush, never daydreamed about someone, never felt that flutter people wrote songs about. Maybe that was odd. Maybe it was a blessing. She barely managed herself. Adding another human into the equation sounded exhausting.

Julian’s problem was not his face. It was his presence.

He dominated rooms without trying. Very particular. Very controlled. A man who looked as though he corrected spreadsheets for fun. He dressed well, carried himself well, and radiated the kind of authority that made people straighten unconsciously.

She did not like him.

Which, unfortunately, made poking him extremely enjoyable.

Ellie tried being normal at first. Pleasant. Cooperative. Agreeable. That earned her glares. Sharp ones. Warning glares. The kind that said stop talking before I stop you. Naturally, that became a challenge.

She could slip into the demure-wife act easily, but watching him visibly restrain irritation when she asked unnecessary questions or tilted her head innocently was far more entertaining. She considered it research.

And also for a man inheriting a healthcare empire, Julian Hale was astonishingly cheap.

Ellie was broke. Chronically. Creatively. But she was not cheap.

During one calibration meeting, Seb had asked if she wanted pizza. She said yes because pizza was joy. The delivery driver arrived while Seb stepped out to grab something, and Julian proceeded to argue with the driver over an eight-dollar delivery fee.

Eight dollars.

Ellie watched, stunned, as a man in a Tom Ford suit debated pricing with someone who was just trying to get through their shift. She ended up paying for it herself, mostly out of secondhand embarrassment.

---

She learned bits about Julian through Seb. Oldest son of James. Or John. One of those. Illegitimate. Private equity managing director, which meant nothing to her except that it involved phones and disappointment. Thirty-six. Married once. Divorced four years ago.

That was it. The full emotional brochure.

She tried suggesting they come up with a story about how they met. Julian looked at her as if she had spilled juice on something expensive and irreplaceable. The topic did not come up again.

The clothes, on the other hand, were the one upside.

Seb took her shopping and told her to consider it an investment in the role. Ellie told Ethan and Hannah an elaborate lie that the clothes were incentives for a theatre production, which she felt guilty about but she planned to give them her earnings once the money came through.

They also asked where the show was.

“Red Deer,” she said.

Safe. Far away.

Ellie adjusted her borrowed blazer in the mirror later and sighed.

She had married a spreadsheet.

And somehow, this was her job now.

---

Ellie was running late.

Ethan pulled up to the airport curb and turned to her with the same expression he’d worn since she was fifteen and convinced she was invincible. The man had aged ten years in one month back then and never recovered.

“Do you need allowance money?” he asked.

Bless him.

“I’m good,” Ellie said quickly. “I have daily allowance.”

She did not specify that the allowance came with a marriage contract.

Ethan handed her a slip of paper. “Local police number in Red Deer. If anything happens, call them. Or me.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” Ellie said.

“I don’t care.”

She smiled despite herself. “I’ll be okay. I’ll send updates. And when I get paid, I’ll treat you and Hannah to a nice dinner. And I’ll pay you back. Partially. With interest. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Just take care of yourself,” Ethan said. “Let me know when you’re back so I can pick you up.”

Then he patted her head. Quick. Final. Non-negotiable.

Ellie grabbed her bag and bolted.

She sprinted through the airport, heart pounding, shoes slapping against the floor, and spotted Julian immediately. He was standing near the check-in area, posture rigid, checking his watch.

Once.

Then again.

Twice in two minutes. The man treated time like a personal employee.

“You’re late,” he said as soon as she reached him.

“Traffic,” Ellie replied, breathless.

His eyes dropped to her outfit. Jeans. Sneakers. A hoodie she trusted with her life.

“Why are you wearing that?” he asked. “Where are the clothes Seb bought for you?”

Ellie blinked. “This is airport clothing.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“This is fine,” she said, gesturing at herself. “I’m sitting. I’m carrying things. I might spill something. I can change when we arrive.”

Julian closed his eyes for half a second. The sigh that followed suggested she had single-handedly disrupted his five-year plan.

“Where’s Seb?” Ellie asked, trying to recover.

“He won’t be joining.”

“Does Seb ever take a vacation?”

Julian did not answer. He grabbed his suitcase and walked off as if airports bent around him out of respect.

Ellie followed, muttering under her breath. Control issues. Expensive control issues.

At the check-in counter, Julian stopped and extended his hand.

Just held it out there.

Ellie blinked at it.

Was this a test? A power move? A weirdly formal greeting? Did rich people do this?

She hesitated, then gently placed her hand in his.

It was warm. Solid. Annoyingly human.

“What are you doing?” Julian said, staring at their joined hands.

“What?” Ellie asked.

“Why are you holding my hand?”

“Why are you offering your hand?”

“I need your passport…or ID.”

Ellie yanked her hand back so fast she nearly slapped herself. “Oh.”

She handed over her driver’s license, cheeks warm. Great start. Truly elegant behavior from a married woman.

Julian sighed, that long-suffering sound of a man burdened by everyone else’s existence, and handed the documents to the airline staff. Ellie leaned in because it was her first time and also because she was nosy.

The boarding passes printed.

Ellie saw Julian’s first.

First class.

Her brain exploded into fireworks. First class meant space. First class meant snacks, legroom, silence, and possibly blankets.

Then she looked at hers.

Economy.

WHAT?

Julian was already walking away.

“There must be a mistake,” Ellie said, jogging after him.

“I don’t make mistakes,” Julian replied.

“I’m in economy,” she said, waving the boarding pass.

“Yes,” he said. “And?”

“Why are you in first class?” she demanded.

“Because I want to,” he said, increasing his pace.

Ellie hustled to keep up. “Have you ever considered that I might also want to be in first class?”

“No.”

She watched him disappear behind the first-class lounge door, calm and unbothered, while she stood there holding her economy boarding pass and her dignity in separate hands.

Ellie crossed her arms.

Oh. Okay.

So this was the man she married.

Chapter 9: More Lies

Julian stood outside the women’s restroom at Edmonton International Airport and checked his watch.

They had to be in Willowridge by dinner. Margaret did not tolerate delays, excuses, or people who treated time as a suggestion. Ellie had said she would be quick. That word, Julian had learned, meant nothing measurable.

He scanned the terminal, already mapping the fastest exit routes and calculating how much buffer time he had left to absorb whatever chaos she was currently generating behind that door. He had agreed to this. Technically. Voluntarily was a stretch.

The restroom door opened.

Ellie stepped out wearing the dress Seb had insisted on. Simple, fitted, the kind of understated elegance that tried very hard not to be flashy. Soft fabric, clean lines, neutral tone. Her red hair was twisted into a messy bun that looked accidental but clearly was not. Loose strands framed her face, giving the impression of effort without submission.

Julian assessed her from head to toe.

Good enough.

She caught his look and smiled. “Do you like it, husband?”

He did not answer. He started walking.

As she fell into step beside him, he noted the subtle shift. She held herself differently now. Straighter. Quieter. Less feral. This was the version he’d been trying to extract during calibration sessions. It was not perfect, but it was functional.

“Will your grandmother like me?” Ellie asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Julian said, scanning the arrivals area for Margaret’s driver.

“Should I curtsy?”

“No.”

“Should I bow?”

“No.”

“Should I—”

“Elena,” he said, stopping just enough for his tone to land. “Please stick to the warm, agreeable, classy wife we discussed.”

She smiled, unbothered. “You mean the warm, agreeable, classy wife you left in economy?”

A passing couple slowed.

The woman glanced at Ellie, then at Julian, then raised an eyebrow at Julian. The man looked at Julian the way men did when deciding whether to intervene in domestic injustice.

Julian kept walking.

Inside his head, the regret bloomed fully formed.

I am so regretting this.

He imagined telling Margaret he no longer wants HaleCare and she can do whatever she pleased, and retreating to a life where his biggest problem was market volatility and not an actress with opinions.

Ellie hummed beside him, perfectly at ease.

This was going to be a long dinner.

---

They arrived in the late afternoon, when the sun softened everything and made even responsibility look gentle. The town unfolded quietly outside the car window. Streets that curved instead of rushed. Houses that looked lived in. Trees in full autumn drama, showing off yellows and oranges as if someone had adjusted the saturation just for fun.

There was a church with twin spires that looked important but not intimidating. A main street with cafés and people sitting outside as if they had nowhere else they needed to be. Mountains looming in the distance.

Toronto would never.

Willowridge felt like a place where people remembered birthdays and waved at strangers and somehow still respected boundaries. Ellie felt suspicious and charmed in equal measure.

“You grew up here?” she asked, glancing at Julian.

He was busy texting, thumbs moving with the focus of a man handling national security. “Yeah.”

That was it. No nostalgia. No commentary. Just yeah.

Ellie watched the scenery instead. She imagined being a teenager here. Riding bikes. Sneaking out. Falling in love for the first time under a sky. The thought surprised her. She shook it off.

The car slowed.

Then it turned.

Then it passed through a gate.

Ellie’s spine straightened instinctively. Her brain paused. The driver stopped, and Ellie looked up.

The manor rose in front of them, stone and solid and deeply unconcerned with modern humility. Towers. Windows that implied expectations. A presence that said legacy without raising its voice.

The car door opened. Ellie stepped out carefully, back protesting after hours of travel, legs stiff, brain lagging a half second behind her.

She looked up again.

“Hooooly shit,” she whispered.

Julian snapped his head toward her. “Watch it.”

Ellie clamped her mouth shut, eyes still glued to the building.

Right.

Classy wife.

She adjusted her posture, smoothed her dress, and tried to pretend her entire life hadn’t just been recalibrated by a house.

---

Ellie was staring at the house, not appreciating it, just staring at it. Neck craned back, mouth slightly open, posture abandoned entirely.

Julian waited.

Five seconds. Ten. A full minute passed.

He sighed and nudged her chin upward with two fingers, just enough to close her mouth. “You’re going to attract wildlife.”

Ellie startled, cleared her throat, and immediately stood straighter. Shoulders back. Chin level. The transformation was almost aggressive.

Julian extended his hand.

Ellie glanced at it, nodded once, then placed his driver’s license neatly into his palm.

He stared at it.

“Are you kidding me?” Julian said, patience thinning in real time. “I want your hand, not your ID. We’re meeting my grandmother. Act like a couple.”

“Oh. Right,” Ellie said quickly.

Julian watched as she squared her shoulders, inhaled, and did that thing. The theatre thing. One hand lifted briefly in front of her face, fingers flexing as if adjusting something invisible. Her expression softened, posture recalibrated, eyes settling into something calmer, warmer, more composed.

It was unsettling.

Also, he had to admit, fascinating.

In the span of a breath, Ellie Bennett disappeared.

Ellie Hale emerged.

She slipped her hand into his with quiet confidence and began walking toward the manor at a measured pace, head high, presence contained. No gawking. No commentary. No feral commentary threatening to escape.

Julian tightened his grip slightly, more out of reflex than intent.

If she could do this on command, then maybe this would work.

Or this would be a disaster with excellent timing.

---

The inside of Hale Manor opened up in clean, deliberate lines. High ceilings, stone floors polished but not flashy. Framed portraits placed with intention, all restrained elegance, no desperation to impress. Everything matched. Everything belonged. The kind of place where nothing was accidental.

A servant approached to take their coats. Ellie smiled politely and shook her head. “Thank you, I’m fine. I’ll keep it on.”

Calm and classy. Calm and classy. Calm and classy.

She repeated it like a mantra as they stood in the receiving area, her hand resting in Julian’s. Her eyes, however, had zero chill. Staircase. Chandelier. She tried to look like a woman who had always existed in spaces like this and not someone who once slept on a couch for three months.

Julian leaned in. “Remember. Calm and classy. Don’t act stupid.”

Ellie’s eyebrow lifted, slow and controlled.

Oh. He was doing that thing again.

That thing where he spoke down to her because control was his comfort language. When in reality, he needed her far more than she needed him.

Ellie’s default setting was yes. Yes was easy. No required explanations and emotional labor she did not always have. But she had limits.

He’d judged her clothes. Left her in economy.

She didn’t even mind economy. Free flight. Great deal. She’d take a middle seat and be grateful. What she minded was the way he’d done it. The assumption. The dismissal. The unspoken this is where you belong.

And now don’t act stupid, as if she hadn’t been working her ass off to get into character.

Ellie might not be book-smart, but she was not stupid.

Fine. Revenge then.

Calm and classy revenge.

An older woman entered the room. Silver hair styled perfectly. Upright posture. Sharp eyes softened by humor. Ellie’s immediate thought arrived fully formed.

I want to be her when I get old.

“Grandmother,” Julian said.

Oh shit.

“This is my wife. Ellie. Ellie, this is my grandmother, Margaret Hale.”

Ellie smiled automatically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hale.”

Margaret waved a hand. “Please, call me Margaret. I’m so glad you’ve come. Julian tells me you’re always very busy.”

Julian’s hand tightened around Ellie’s. Not affectionate. A warning.

Ellie felt it immediately. She smiled wider.

Something in Margaret’s gaze told Ellie this woman knew things. And was enjoying knowing them.

“How was the flight?” Margaret asked.

Ellie answered honestly. “Perfect,” she said warmly. “Considering I was seated in economy.”

Julian shot her a look.

Margaret turned to him. “Do you fly economy now?”

Ellie kept her face serene while her thoughts celebrated quietly.

Oh wow. Oh no. Oh this is delicious.

Julian’s expression shifted, just enough. Not anger. Not annoyance. Calculation under pressure.

Ellie squeezed his hand gently, still smiling.

Calm and Classy.

She was nailing it.

---

Julian had exactly half a second to decide whether to lie.

Margaret’s question hung in the air, sharp and polite. “Do you fly economy now?”

He could say the airline was fully booked. He could say Seb handled logistics. He could say anything that sounded mildly plausible and appropriately boring. Margaret loved boring explanations when they were efficient.

He opened his mouth.

Ellie beat him to it.

“Oh no,” she said brightly. “He was in first class. God forbid you’ll ever find Julian Hale in economy.”

Julian closed his mouth.

Slowly.

Margaret turned to him again. That look. The one that had survived boardrooms, funerals, and men who thought they were smarter than her. “And you left your new wife in economy?”

“I don’t mind, really,” Ellie added helpfully.

Elena, please shut up.

That was not a thought. That was a plea.

Margaret didn’t look away from him. She waited. Patient. Expectant. The silence stretched just long enough to be punitive.

“She said she wanted to fly economy,” Julian said finally.

Margaret raised an eyebrow. “And you left her?”

“I needed to work.”

Margaret waved a hand, dismissing the explanation and possibly him as a person. “Enough.”

Julian exhaled through his nose and looked at Ellie.

She was smiling. Sweetly. Warmly. The picture of a cooperative, pleasant wife. Margaret’s ideal audience.

This woman. Day one. Already freelancing.

He briefly considered firing her. The thought lasted exactly as long as it took to remember he was legally married to her and standing in his grandmother’s foyer.

Margaret turned her attention back to Ellie. “And what is it you do, sweetie?”

Of course. Classic Margaret. Job titles first. Souls later.

Julian watched Ellie carefully, already bracing for whatever came next.

---

They had not talked about this. Not once. Julian had spent their calibration sessions talking about himself, his grandmother, his expectations, his schedules, his standards. Ellie had attempted, gently, to insert information about her own existence, but he treated that the way one treated spam emails.

She opened her mouth.

“She’s a musician,” Julian said smoothly.

Ellie’s soul left her body and hovered near the chandelier.

Musician.

Why would you pick musician?

There were a million safer lies. Consultant. Freelancer. Something vague with no tools. Musicians required instruments. This house absolutely had instruments. This house probably had a grand piano judging her silently from another room.

Ellie turned her head slowly.

Julian met her eyes.

The look he gave her translated very clearly to: You started this.

Oh. So we are playing this game.

Ellie smiled. Her face stayed pleasant. Her insides screamed.

Musician. Okay. Fine. Sure. Why not. What kind of musician. There are strings. Brass. Percussion. Things with reeds. Things that required years of muscle memory she did not possess.

“What do you play?” Margaret asked.

Ellie did not hesitate. Panic rewarded decisiveness.

“Piano,” she said calmly.

Inside, she was on fire.

Piano. Why piano? Because it was the only instrument she could convincingly mime. Because it sat down. Because it involved posture and pretending to understand sheet music.

Margaret clapped her hands, delighted. “Wonderful. We’ll talk about it later. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the family before dinner.”

Later.

Later meant future Ellie’s problem.

Ellie nodded, smiling sweetly, already planning how to fake her own death before anyone asked her to touch a keyboard.

Chapter 10: Water Run

Ellie waited exactly three seconds after the door shut before snapping.

“Are you serious?” she hissed. “Musician? Where did that even come from? Are you trying to humiliate me?”

She took in the room as she spoke and immediately hated it. Too neat. Too symmetrical. The bed looked untouched by joy. The desk looked allergic to clutter. This was absolutely Julian’s room. It radiated control issues.

“If you are,” she added, lowering her voice only because someone outside could hear, “you can find your own fake wife because I’m going home.”

“You asked for it,” Julian said evenly. “You made the economy thing a big deal.”

Ellie stared at him.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “So now you’re punishing me by embarrassing me in front of your entire family?”

“What was I supposed to say?” he shot back. “I didn’t know anything about you.”

She laughed once, sharp and breathless. “Because everything was about you.”

She paced, hands flying now, energy buzzing. “I’m supposed to be your wife. Your partner. You never learned anything about me. Not one thing. You didn’t ask. You didn’t care. You just assumed I’d adapt.”

She stopped in front of him. “This is a partnership. Fake, yes. But still a partnership. Don’t blame me if this play pretend goes sideways when you refuse to learn your scene partner’s name.”

She could feel it now. The tremor under her ribs. Not fear. Not insecurity.

Anger.

Ellie took a breath, forcing herself to stay steady. Calm. Classy. Even when calling out a man who thought collaboration meant compliance.

“This only works,” she said, quieter now, “if you stop treating me like a prop.”

Julian paused and breathed through his nose.

It was a controlled breath. Deliberate. The kind he used before telling board members something they would not enjoy hearing. As much as he disliked admitting it, she had a point. An inconvenient, well-articulated point delivered with far too much emotion and not nearly enough structure.

“We’ll leave after dinner,” he said, tone even. “Once we get back to Toronto, I’ll give you your money, process the divorce, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“I sure hope not,” Ellie replied.

Julian stared at the wall just past her shoulder.

They were not compatible. Not temperamentally. Not operationally. One of them was going to kill the other, and it would likely be ruled an accident caused by prolonged exposure. He had intended to make this quick. Tolerable. This was already veering off plan.

This is not working as much as he wanted it to.

A voice called them for dinner from down the hall.

Ellie closed her eyes briefly. “I need a minute.”

Julian turned toward the doorway. “We’re coming,” he called back, then waited.

He watched her closely. The shift happened again. Shoulders relaxed. Breathing evened out. Her expression softened, the sharp edges tucked away. The actress thing. Efficient, if unsettling.

She opened her eyes and met his gaze.

Julian offered his arm.

Dinner first. Damage control later.

---

Dinner confirmed immediately, that this was not Julian’s family. This was a hostile acquisition.

Ellie felt it the second she sat down. The looks. The pauses. The way conversation slowed just enough whenever she spoke, as if everyone was waiting for her to trip over a fork. She smiled anyway, posture straight, hands folded, calm and classy hanging on by a thread.

Vivienne, the stepmother, watched her with the precision of someone waiting for a stain to appear on white fabric. Not hostile. Not warm. Just alert. Ellie clocked it instantly. This woman wanted proof. Of what, Ellie wasn’t sure. Possibly that she did not belong here.

Marcus, the brother, was worse.

He looked at her too long. The kind of look Ethan had warned her about since she was sixteen. The kind that made her skin itch. His earlier questions when Julian had stepped away had been framed as interest but landed somewhere inappropriate.

Veronica didn’t bother hiding her disdain. Every comment came wrapped in sweetness and delivered with a blade. Passive-aggressive remarks about outfits, timing, accents. Ellie disliked her immediately and without guilt.

She understood, suddenly, exactly why Margaret preferred Julian. He may be boring, but he was responsible. These people were reckless with cruelty.

Lucy, though.

Lucy sat quietly, shoulders tight, eyes darting. Ellie noticed how she relaxed only when Julian spoke to her directly. How her smile became real then. Ellie liked her instantly. The youngest always knew. They saw the fractures first.

“So,” Veronica said brightly, cutting into the conversation, “how did you and Julian meet? A party? One of those charity galas where you linger around hoping you can grab some rich man to marry?”

Lucy hissed, “Veronica.”

“What?” Veronica said. “I’m just asking.”

Margaret glanced at her granddaughter, unimpressed but amused. Ellie caught it. Margaret chose where to spend her energy. This was entertainment to her. Not malice, just observation.

Ellie took a breath. “Julian and I share a common friend.”

Marcus snorted. “Really? Julian doesn’t have friends.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. Ellie saw it. She looked at him, waiting.

“How we met is none of your business,” Julian said coolly.

Veronica scoffed. “I knew it. She’s that kind of girl.”

Silence.

Ellie realized then that Julian was not going to step in further. He’d drawn his line and stopped. Fine. She could work with that.

She cleared her throat. “Julian and I met through a friend,” she said evenly. “He asked if I could attend a party with him. I was free that day, so I said why not.”

All eyes turned to her.

She didn’t wait for permission.

“So I went to this party,” Ellie continued, “and I saw him. And my first thought was, wow, this man is incredibly stiff.”

Margaret laughed. A real laugh.

Ellie leaned into it.

“Our friend introduced us. I didn’t like him at first. He was boring to be around. Painfully so. But he kept finding excuses to spend time with me. Very persistent. Eventually I gave him a chance.”

She rested her hand lightly on Julian’s arm. “Best decision I ever made. He must have really liked me. Didn’t you, husband?”

Julian looked at her. Smiled. Ellie knew the smile was fake. Practiced. Boardroom-approved.

“Yes,” he said. “You got me.”

Ellie shrugged. “And the rest is history. I made him work for it. Assuming you know anything about work.”

She smiled sweetly.

Veronica’s face stiffened. Vivienne’s smile disappeared entirely. Margaret looked delighted. Julian shot Ellie a look that could have meant pride or regret or both.

Ellie smiled and took a sip of water.

Inside, she wanted to photosynthesize and never speak again.

---

The rest of the night passed without incident, which Julian counted as a success.

He replayed Ellie’s monologue once, against his will. He disliked sudden speeches without briefing notes or warning. They disrupted flow. They created variables. And yet, it had worked. After that performance, his family had backed off as if she’d installed an invisible perimeter.

Effective. Annoying. Useful.

They filtered out one by one, excuses thin and exits quick, until it was just Julian, Ellie, and Margaret left in the dining room. Silence settled. A manageable one.

Julian straightened. “We should leave. When would you like to discuss your conditions for HaleCare?”

Margaret beamed, pleased in the way that usually preceded inconvenience. “Why don’t we discuss it tomorrow over breakfast? You can spend the night here. Much more comfortable than some hotel.”

“We’re fine with the hotel,” Julian said immediately.

“I insist,” Margaret replied. “Ellie must be tired.”

Julian glanced at Ellie.

She smiled. Polite. Agreeable. Trapped.

Margaret turned her gaze fully on Ellie, daring her to object. Julian recognized the look. It had ended negotiations, rebellions, and at least one attempted resignation in the past.

“Well,” Ellie said, smile fixed, voice pleasant in the way of someone surrendering with dignity, “how can we say no?”

Margaret clapped her hands once. “Perfect. Julian’s room upstairs is ready.”

Julian closed his eyes for half a second.

Of course it was.

---

Ellie stood at the foot of the bed regretting all her life choices that led her to this moment.

There was one bed.

Not two twins pushed together. Not a bed and a couch. Just one enormous bed sitting in the middle of Julian’s bedroom, dressed in expensive sheets.

“Oh,” she said. Then, louder, “Uh, where am I supposed to sleep?”

“Wherever you want,” Julian replied casually, already pulling his shirt over his head.

Ellie immediately looked at the bed. Not at him. Definitely not at him. The bed had suddenly become very interesting.

“There’s only one bed,” she said, stating the obvious because her brain had stalled.

“I can see that,” Julian said.

“Don’t you have a spare room or a dungeon?”

“And let Margaret notice we aren’t sleeping together?” he asked. “The bed is big enough for both of us.”

Ellie stared at it again.

Her love life had officially gone off the rails. First, she got married to a man she barely knew. Now she was expected to sleep in the same bed as him. Ethan would disown her. Maybe not disown. But there would be a very long lecture. Possibly a ban from seeing Maisie. Definitely disappointment.

“Why don’t you sleep on the floor?” Ellie suggested.

Julian looked at her as if she’d grown three heads. “My back would hurt.”

“I am not sleeping on a cold floor either,” Ellie said, crossing her arms. She’d grown up broke, not feral.

Julian sighed and left the room.

Ellie exhaled, shoulders slumping. Okay. Maybe he was getting another room. Maybe he was calling Margaret. Maybe this problem would solve itself.

He came back a few minutes later carrying four extra pillows and dropped them squarely in the middle of the bed.

“This is a Wyoming king-size bed,” he said.

“What does that even mean?” Ellie asked.

“It means there’s enough space for both of us without touching,” Julian said. “This is a barrier. You can put your luggage in the middle if that helps.”

“Oh, I will,” Ellie said immediately. “And don’t think about doing anything funny. My brother is a police officer, and he isn’t scared of smug rich people like you.”

Julian paused, then said flatly, “I have no plans of sleeping with you, Elena. You’re not my type.”

Ellie gasped.

She grabbed her towel so fast it nearly achieved lift-off. “Yet you married me,” she muttered, marching toward the bathroom. She stopped at the door, turned back, and added, “And I only married you for the money, just so we’re clear.”

Then she shut the door.

Ellie leaned against it, heart pounding, staring at the tiles.

She had never been alone in a room with a man before.

She was absolutely not telling Ethan.

---

Ellie woke up at four in the morning with one thought in her head.

Water. Immediately. Or perish.

She rolled onto her side and blinked into the dark. Julian was on the other side of the bed, back turned to her, snoring lightly.

Even unconscious, this man sounded disciplined. No wheezing. No chaos. Just a steady, efficient rhythm that felt suspiciously intentional.

She slid out of bed as quietly as possible, grabbed her jacket, and padded out of the room, following what she hoped was the direction of the kitchen.

The hallway stretched.

Then branched.

Then branched again.

Ellie stopped.

Okay. This house was officially too big. She turned left. That led to a sitting area. She turned right. That led to what looked like a library. Why did this house need so many rooms dedicated to thinking?

She walked faster, half asleep now, mildly convinced a ghost would pop out and scold her for touching the wrong vase. Every shadow felt ominous. Every floorboard creak sounded deliberate.

She rounded a corner.

“Lost, my dear?”

“Oh fuck, Jesus,” Ellie yelped, spinning around and immediately clapping a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I mean. I—I need water.”

Margaret stood there calmly, completely unbothered, as if she routinely startled half-dressed women wandering her house at dawn.

She smiled and motioned for Ellie to follow her.

They reached the kitchen, which was somehow even more impressive at night. Ellie poured herself a glass of water and drank it like she’d crossed a desert. Margaret set a kettle on the stove and moved with unhurried precision.

“You’re up early,” Ellie said, rinsing her glass in the sink.

“Oh, you’ll understand when you’re older,” Margaret replied. “You don’t have to keep me company. Yesterday’s travel must have worn you out.”

Ellie smiled. She was about to excuse herself when Margaret spoke again.

“May I ask you something?” she said. “I would appreciate complete honesty.”

Ellie’s stomach dipped. “Okay?”

“Do you love Julian?”

Oh.

Ellie stared at the counter. Lying to Margaret felt wrong in a way lying to Julian never did. But this was not what she was paid to do. This was not part of the contract. Still, she could not bring herself to give a clean lie.

“He isn’t an easy person to be around,” Ellie said carefully. “But I’m still here.”

Margaret hummed thoughtfully. “And don’t be offended by my next question. Is this because of the money?”

Ellie met her gaze. “We have a prenup.”

Margaret smiled, clearly satisfied by that answer. Then she tilted her head. “What’s your personal opinion of relationships?”

Ellie paused. She didn’t have a polished answer. She didn’t have experience. So she reached for the closest truth she knew.

“My mom had cancer and my dad has been her primary caregiver until she died,” she said, softer now. “A week later, my dad had a heart attack. They didn’t plan it. It just…happened.”

She swallowed, surprised she was saying this at all.

“I grew up thinking that if something could survive that, then love wasn’t just about feelings. Not even death pulled them apart. That kind of ruined the idea of casual relationships for me.”

Margaret stayed quiet, listening.

“And my brother and his wife,” Ellie continued, “they’re not perfect. They argue. They mess up. Sometimes they’re exhausted with each other. But they always choose to fix it. Every time. Not because it’s romantic, but because walking away would be harder.”

She gave a small shrug.

“So I think relationships are about choosing the same person again and again. Even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it is.”

Margaret smiled. “Very well,” she said. “You may go back to your room, Ellie. Thank you for indulging me.”

Ellie nodded, heart pounding slightly, and hurried back toward the bedroom before Margaret could ask anything else.

As she slipped back into the dark hallway, she promised herself one thing.

No more early water runs.

This house asked too many questions.