When Emery returned home, she did what any responsible adult would do in an emotional spiral: she opened her laptop and started writing an article titled "What to Do When You Accidentally Catch Feelings for a Man You're Pretending to Date While His Ex Lurks in the Background Like a Plot Twist."
She got as far as the title before deleting it and changing it to:
"Why Emotional Boundaries Are Sexy."
Still too transparent.
She finally settled on:
"Five Ways to Keep Love Casual (and Yourself Sane)."
Professional. Breezy. Like her chest wasn't tight and her hands weren't still remembering what Liam's felt like.
She closed her laptop without writing a single word.
Her apartment felt smaller than usual, like her walls were pushing in, quietly judging her for every smug column she'd written about emotional detachment. She had called vulnerability "a marketing scheme for couples therapy" in one, and in another, compared love to "clickbait for the soul."
And now?
Now her fake boyfriend's ex had resurfaced, and instead of sipping champagne over how poetic it all was, Emery had the sudden urge to scream into a pillow and maybe hug a dog.
Her phone buzzed.
Liam: You okay?
She stared at the screen for a long time.
He was checking on her. Because that's what you do when you care.
But he wasn't supposed to care. And neither was she.
And yet—
Emery: I'm fine. She's pretty. I hate her. It's fine.
Three dots appeared. Paused. Disappeared.
Then—
Liam: She's not you.
Emery blinked.
That was too soft. Too easy.
She needed to make this weird again. She needed control.
Emery: Gross. That sounds like a rom-com line. Did you steal it from Netflix or your therapist?
Liam: Neither. It just felt true.
That shut her up.
Completely.
She tossed the phone onto the couch like it had personally insulted her and paced across the room.
This wasn't the plan.
The plan was clever captions. Some harmless hand-holding. A few well-filtered photos. No feelings. No longing. No late-night texts that made her heart stutter.
This wasn't how she lost control.
And yet here she was—standing in mismatched socks, spiraling over a man who wasn't hers and pretending she didn't want him to be.
Later that week, Emery arrived at the Heartline Weekly offices to find her editor, Sasha, waiting with a look that screamed, "I have news and you're going to hate it."
"I need a favor," Sasha said, before Emery even had her coat off.
"Is it legal?"
"Technically."
"Then I already hate it."
Sasha handed her a printout. "You're getting too good at the fake relationship thing. Your followers love it. Your engagement is up forty percent."
Emery scanned the numbers. "And this is bad because…?"
"Because BuzzBeat wants to profile you and Liam for a feature called 'Modern Love in the Age of the Internet.'"
Emery froze. "You're kidding."
"I'm not. They want photos, interviews, some kind of 'at home' vibe. You and Liam pretending to be a couple in your natural habitat. They called it 'domestic aesthetic.'"
Emery almost choked. "We aren't even real in public. You want me to let them into my apartment?"
"They'll style it, don't worry. Throw pillows, candles, all that fake cozy crap."
Emery collapsed into the nearest chair. "This is spiraling."
Sasha crossed her arms. "It's traction. You've struck a nerve with readers. They're buying into it. If you're smart, you'll keep playing."
Emery wanted to scream. Instead, she said, "Fine. I'll talk to Liam."
They met that night at Liam's place—a loft that somehow managed to look both lived-in and Pinterest-worthy, with vintage bookshelves and a record player that actually worked.
He offered her tea like they were a real couple winding down after work.
"You sure about this interview thing?" he asked as they sat on his ridiculously cozy couch.
"I'm never sure about anything," Emery replied. "But Sasha practically vibrated with excitement. I couldn't say no without triggering a full-blown media tantrum."
Liam tilted his head. "You okay?"
"Nope. But I'm good at faking it."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, "You don't have to fake it with me, you know."
That made her throat catch.
She turned to him, suddenly overwhelmed.
"Why are you being so decent?" she asked.
"Is that not allowed?"
"No, it's just… you're supposed to be the fake boyfriend. Emotionally safe. Predictable."
He smiled, soft and infuriating. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Don't be nice to me."
"Too late."
And just like that, the air changed. The distance between them shrank. There was something pulsing beneath the quiet. Something real. Something dangerous.
Emery stood too fast. "I should go."
"Okay."
She hesitated.
"Just… remember we're lying, okay?" she said, forcing a smile. "Even if we're getting good at it."
Liam didn't argue.
But as she left, Emery realized she didn't want him to.
She wanted him to say something messy. Something reckless. Something that made this fake thing feel real.
And that scared her more than anything.