The air outside the restaurant was brisk, tugging lightly at the hem of Sophia's dress as she crossed her arms and waited for the valet. Behind her, the soft hum of music and muted conversation faded as the heavy restaurant door swung shut.
She exhaled slowly. Clean air, clean break.
Except it wasn't.
She heard his steps first—unhurried, confident, like he already knew she hadn't gone far.
Nate Sterling's voice curled around her from behind. "You always leave before dessert?"
She didn't turn. "Is that disappointment I hear, or relief?"
"Neither," he replied smoothly, stepping to her side. "Just curiosity. You seemed like the type who'd make an exit count."
"I prefer subtle over dramatic."
"You stormed out in heels," he said, nodding at her Louboutins. "That's a statement."
She glanced at him, just long enough to catch the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't storm. I left."
His shoulders lifted in an easy shrug. "Semantics. But the look on your face when I said I didn't regret coming? That wasn't subtle."
Sophia fought the urge to sigh. "Don't read into it."
"Too late."
The valet hadn't returned yet, and the seconds stretched like wire between them. Nate's hands were in his pockets, his posture deceptively relaxed. But the tension beneath the surface—God, she could feel it crackling like static between them.
"You know," he said, voice lower now, "you're a better actor than I expected."
Sophia raised a brow. "Excuse me?"
He nodded toward the restaurant. "Back there. I watched you hold your tongue. Smile through gritted teeth. Say all the right things. It was impressive. Painful to watch, but impressive."
"I wasn't acting. I was being polite."
"Same thing in our world."
Her jaw clenched. "That's not my world anymore."
His gaze sharpened. "Isn't it?"
Before she could reply, the valet booth light blinked on. Her car was still being pulled around. She cursed the delay under her breath.
Nate angled his body slightly toward her. "I'm not going to pretend tonight was fate. But… it was convenient."
Sophia frowned. "What?"
"We both got pushed into this dinner by people who think they know what's best for us. We both walked in expecting a disaster. And now here we are. Not hating each other."
She laughed, dry and short. "Is that your standard for success?"
"Low bar, I know." He paused. "But it got me thinking."
"Oh no."
He smirked. "Relax. It's just a proposal."
She narrowed her eyes. "The legal kind or the disturbing kind?"
"Neither." He looked almost amused by her suspicion. "A practical one. You pretend to be with me. I pretend to be with you. We kill two birds with one very strategic lie."
Sophia blinked. "A fake relationship."
He nodded once. "Exactly."
"No."
"Why not?"
She turned to face him, arms still crossed. "Because it's manipulative. And complicated. And absolutely insane."
"Yet… you're still listening."
Damn him.
She was.
He stepped closer, not enough to crowd her, but just enough to be felt. "You said it yourself. Your family's been pressuring you. I'd bet good money your phone's full of calendar invites from your mom for brunches with men named Bryce."
"Okay, that's a terrifyingly accurate guess."
He grinned. "And me? My mother's trying to arrange mergers via matrimony. I can't breathe without her vetting my potential plus-ones. If I show up with you—successful, polished, obviously out of reach—it shuts down her campaign."
Sophia tilted her head. "You want someone 'out of reach'?"
"I want someone real," he said, voice quieter. "Someone who doesn't fawn or scheme or smile like there's a camera on them. You might be the first woman I've talked to in a year who didn't ask me what my net worth was in the first ten minutes."
"I already knew it," she muttered, earning a chuckle from him.
"You also didn't flirt."
"I kind of did."
"You glared at me over calamari."
"Same thing."
Another beat of quiet.
"You get a break from the matchmaking circus," he said. "And if the press picks up on it? Even better. You're the one who left Ryan, not the other way around. This makes that narrative stick."
She blinked at him. "You googled me."
"I knew who you were before I walked in, Sophia. You didn't recognize me. But I knew."
That shook her. She covered it with sarcasm. "Wow. That's not creepy at all."
He shrugged again. "It's strategic."
Sophia glanced toward the road. Her car was finally pulling up, headlights sweeping across the sidewalk and catching the silver thread in Nate's tie.
He didn't move. "You're going to say no. And drive away. And tell yourself this is beneath you."
"Isn't it?"
His gaze pinned her. "No. It's exactly your level. Because you're smart enough to know a good deal when it's staring you in the face."
She turned to him slowly. "If I say yes, there are conditions."
"Of course. I can work with that."
She hesitated. "And if I ever want out—"
"You're out."
Her hand hovered over the car door.
"And Sophia?" he added as she paused. "This doesn't have to be miserable."
Her eyes flicked to him. "You think we'll actually enjoy it?"
Nate smirked. "You've been enjoying it. You just don't want to admit it yet."
She wanted to say something snappy.
She wanted to say he was wrong.
But the door handle felt too cold in her hand—and his heat felt too close.
Sophia's fingers curled tighter around the car door handle, the cool metal biting into her skin. Her heels were beginning to pinch. The night air, no longer refreshing, settled like static around her shoulders.
She should get in the car.
Drive away.
Forget this night, this man, and the delicious mistake he was tempting her into.
But then—
"You won't regret it," Nate said quietly. "If you say yes."
That stopped her.
Because regret? That was her specialty. Regretting trusting Ryan. Regretting the years spent swallowing her ambition to play dutiful girlfriend. Regretting how she smiled through betrayal and buried her anger like good girls were supposed to.
Sophia finally turned toward him, arms folding like armor.
"This can't blow back on me."
"It won't."
"If this makes things worse with my family—"
"It won't," he repeated. "They'll love me."
She snorted. "God, you're arrogant."
"I prefer efficient."
She eyed him warily. "How long are we talking?"
"Three months," he said without missing a beat. "Just long enough to silence my mother, get through a few key events, and flip the story on your breakup."
"Three months," she repeated. "No sex."
"Unless you beg."
Her mouth fell open. "You're joking."
A shrug. "Mostly."
Sophia's car idled beside them now, engine purring like it was getting bored. The valet hovered just far enough away to pretend not to hear them.
"This is insane," she muttered.
"I'm a lawyer," Nate replied. "I specialize in insane things that technically still work."
She studied him. The arrogance. The charm. The razor-sharp focus in his eyes, like he was already closing a deal. It should have scared her. Or irritated her. Or at the very least sent her running.
Instead, it made her curious.
Bold.
Maybe a little reckless.
"You'll text me the details?" she asked.
"I'll have my assistant draft a mock agreement by tomorrow. Nothing binding, just expectations in writing. You can add anything you want."
"You're really doing this."
"I told you," he said with a smirk. "I don't regret tonight."
She glanced toward the car, then back at him. "Fine. But if this turns into a PR disaster, I'm flipping you off on every red carpet."
"I'd expect nothing less."
A camera click snapped her attention away.
She turned just in time to see a man duck back behind a black SUV across the street—lens still visible, his beanie pulled low over his eyes.
Her stomach dropped.
Paparazzi?
Already?
Nate cursed under his breath, stepping in closer, half-shielding her with his body.
"Did you know they'd be here?" she hissed.
"No," he muttered. "But I wouldn't be surprised if someone tipped them off."
"Your mother?"
"Or Ryan," he said flatly.
That name. It struck her like a slap.
"What the hell would he gain from—"
"I think he wants you rattled," Nate said darkly. "Or embarrassed."
Sophia's blood ran hot. The idea of Ryan watching, scheming, trying to control the narrative even now—it made her spine straighten.
"No," she said sharply. "No way he gets the last word."
Nate looked at her, brow raised. "So… that a yes?"
She reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and turned the screen toward him. "We follow each other. We're seeing where things go. Something vague enough to be plausible. And I don't want this to be some glossy, fake-smile relationship. We keep it believable."
"I can do believable," he said. "Can you?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Try me."
Another camera flash sparked in the distance, and instinctively, Nate stepped even closer.
His hand came to rest lightly on her lower back—nothing inappropriate, just a gesture. Protective. Natural.
Too natural.
She stiffened.
"Relax," he murmured, voice pitched low for her ears only. "We've got an audience now."
"Fine," she said under her breath. "But if you kiss me—"
"You'll slap me?"
"No," she said, lifting her chin. "I'll kiss you back. Just to confuse you."
Nate let out a quiet laugh. "You're terrifying."
"And yet you still want to fake-date me."
"Maybe I like terrifying."
Another pause. And then—because the night hadn't been chaotic enough—her phone vibrated in her hand.
It was Jazz.
Jazz: Did Ryan just post this or am I having a stroke???
Sophia's brows knitted as she opened the attached link.
Her heart dropped.
It was an Instagram story. Ryan. In some overpriced lounge. Laughing with his bros. Drink in hand.
Caption: Some people upgrade. Others rebound. I wish them well 😉
The bile rose in Sophia's throat instantly.
Nate caught the look on her face and leaned in. "What is it?"
She shoved the screen toward him. "Your ex-employee is publicly implying I'm pathetic."
Nate's jaw ticked. "And people are seeing this?"
"Oh, they're seeing it," she snapped. "He's got followers. Half my extended family watches his stuff like it's gospel. My mom's probably already texting my aunt."
Nate's eyes darkened. "Then we escalate."
"What do you mean—"
He took her phone.
And before she could react, he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her forward, and—
Clicked the camera.
One photo. Just one.
It wasn't obscene. It wasn't even fully posed. Just the two of them on the sidewalk, lit by her car's headlights, her face tilted slightly up, his mouth near her ear like he was whispering something private.
It looked intimate.
It looked real.
It looked dangerous.
"You didn't ask," she breathed, stunned.
He held up the screen, showing her the image. "Look at that and tell me we're not convincing."
Her mouth went dry.
"Delete it."
"After we post it."
"Nate—"
"I'll crop the location. Keep the caption vague. But this?" He glanced back at the spot where the photographer had stood. "This photo buys us control. It turns the tables. We're not reacting to Ryan—we're playing our own game."
Sophia stared at the screen.
She did look happy.
Or at least, distracted. Not broken. Not angry.
And Nate?
He looked like a man who wanted her.
Even if it was a lie.
"Fine," she whispered. "But post it from your account. Let him see you moved first."
Nate's smile returned, lazy and sharp. "Savage."
"I'm learning."
He took out his phone, airdropped the picture to his, tapped the screen, added a caption—Dinner was supposed to be awkward. It wasn't.—and hit share.
It was done.
The deal wasn't just spoken now.
It was documented.
And for the first time all night, Sophia felt the ground shift beneath her—not because she was falling.
But because she'd jumped.
And the landing?
That would be messy.