It was supposed to be a simple night—wine, editing notes, and a curated playlist called Songs That Don't Make Me Feel Anything. But Emery's carefully planned evening came to a screeching halt with a single ping.
Liam: Hey, slight complication.
She stared at the message. That was never a good opener.
Before she could type out a sarcastic reply, another text appeared.
Liam: Natalie just texted me. She's in town. Wants to catch up.
Emery blinked.
Natalie. The Ex. The reason Liam agreed to this whole charade in the first place. The ghost that had been haunting the edges of their faux-relationship like an emotional landmine.
She took a sip of wine and typed:
Emery: "Catch up" like coffee or "catch up" like she suddenly wants to get back together?
Liam: No idea. But I figured you should know in case she stalks my socials.
Emery: Great. Just what we need. An audience member who knows how the magic trick works.
Her phone buzzed again.
Liam: You free tomorrow? We might need to level up the illusion. Just in case.
Emery stared at the screen, then at her calendar.
She had edits due. A deadline looming. A column to finish titled "Modern Romance and the Illusion of Control."
The irony wasn't lost on her.
Emery: What kind of "level up" are we talking about?
Liam: Something... more couple-y. Public. Memorable.
Emery: Like brunch with matching mugs or something?
Liam: I was thinking something that says "we're wildly into each other and not at all interested in unresolved history."
She sighed.
Emery: I'll meet you at The Glasshouse Café. 11 a.m. Dress like someone who knows how to commit.
The Glasshouse Café was almost offensively romantic. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden glow across tables adorned with fresh flowers and reclaimed wood charm. The kind of place where breakups felt illegal.
Liam was already there when Emery arrived, wearing a navy sweater that somehow made his eyes bluer and his whole vibe more dangerously datable.
She hated it.
"You came," he said, standing to pull out her chair.
"I'm here for the mission," she replied, sliding in and removing her coat. "Not the ambiance."
Their server brought over lattes with artfully swirled foam, and Emery took the moment to study Liam's face. He looked... distracted. Alert. Like a man scanning a room for ghosts.
"Do you think she'll actually show up?" she asked.
"She used to love this place," he murmured. "So, maybe."
Emery sipped her drink. "Well, I hope she does. I've been practicing my 'possessive but effortless' look."
Liam chuckled. "How's that going?"
She narrowed her eyes, then reached across the table to rest her hand on his. "If she sees us, I want her to think I'm two seconds from stealing your hoodie and writing our anniversary date in my planner."
Liam glanced down at their hands. He didn't move. Didn't flinch.
In fact, he flipped his palm so their fingers locked, just like that.
"You're really good at this," he said, quieter now.
Emery shrugged, ignoring how warm his hand was in hers. "I told you—I weaponize charm."
Their brunch arrived, full of curated chaos: artful poached eggs, pancakes that looked too pretty to eat, and a mimosa that Emery ordered solely because it matched her nails.
They played their parts well. Laughter that tilted just a bit too close to real. Jokes only half-performed. A rhythm, she realized, that felt less like improv and more like memory.
"Liam?"
The voice was soft, tentative.
And Emery knew immediately.
Natalie.
She turned to see her—shoulder-length waves, neutral makeup, soft smile. Pretty in that effortless, untouchable way.
Liam stood. "Hey," he said, polite but unreadable. "Didn't expect to run into you."
Natalie glanced at Emery, eyes flicking to the linked hands, then the pancakes, then back to Liam.
"This must be your...?"
Emery smiled. "Girlfriend," she said easily. "Hi. I'm Emery."
Natalie's smile was tight. "Right. I've seen a few posts."
"I write for Heartline Weekly," Emery added, squeezing Liam's hand just slightly. "Sometimes the love story writes itself."
Liam cleared his throat, a little too loudly. "Natalie and I went to college together."
"Old flames," Emery said with a light laugh. "Gotta love those."
Natalie didn't respond. Her expression remained careful.
"I should let you two enjoy brunch," she said finally. "Good seeing you."
"You too," Liam said softly.
As she walked away, Emery let go of his hand and leaned back, heart racing harder than it had any right to.
"Well," she said. "That went well."
"You were... amazing."
"I am amazing," she agreed, trying to smile, even as something inside her twisted.
Because even though it was fake—scripted, strategic—when she'd looked at Natalie, there'd been something real in the woman's eyes. Something lingering.
And worse, Emery wasn't sure if Liam had noticed—or if he'd noticed and just didn't want to admit it.
As they left the café, walking side by side in the chill of late morning, Emery finally asked, "Would you take her back?"
Liam stopped walking.
"What?"
"If she wanted to try again. Would you?"
He looked at her for a long second, then said, "I don't know."
And for the first time since their little performance began, Emery wished she could unsubscribe from her own story.