Nothing much had happened in the past few weeks, except for the endless shoots, endorsement campaigns, and back-to-back meetings with producers.
Meanwhile, Raphael was just as busy at the hospital, pulling ridiculous hours that made even my 16-hour shoot days seem easy.
We barely saw each other. A few late-night calls, stolen moments before i left for set.
That was it.
And yet here we were.
Getting married.
I sat in front of the mirror while my glam team fussed over me, perfecting every detail. Soft curls fell around my shoulders, the makeup subtle but flawless, a natural glow for the camera, soft blush, a hint of contour to sharpen my already-famous cheekbones, and nude lipstick that read sophisticated, not desperate.
My stylist zipped me into my gown.
It was stunning.
A mermaid-cut dress with delicate lace, hugging every curve. Off-shoulder neckline that struck the perfect balance between classy and daring. Pearls and crystals stitched throughout, catching the light with every movement.
I caught my reflection.
This was supposed to be fake.
So why did i feel like i might cry?
The venue was a private garden. Carefully selected. No media. No fans. Just family and a few trusted people who'd signed enough NDAs to last a lifetime.
White flowers lined the aisle. Twinkling fairy lights glowed in the early dusk. The setting sun made everything look golden.
As i walked with Mom and Dad, my heart was in my throat.
Mom was wiping her eyes already. Dad squeezed my arm.
"You look beautiful, my princess," he whispered, voice cracking.
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
On the other side, Raphael's mother dabbed at tears with a handkerchief.
And there he was.
Waiting at the altar in a perfect black tux, hair neat, expression unreadable.
God. He looked incredible.
The ceremony was a blur.
I barely heard the officiant over my own heartbeat.
Then the vows.
Raphael went first.
"I didn't expect to be here. Claudia, you're strong. Fiercely independent. You deserve the world. I can't promise i'm perfect, but i'll stand by you in the ways that matter."
He slipped the ring onto my finger.
My fingers shook.
I forced a small smile.
"Raphael, you didn't exactly walk into my life at the right time, but maybe that's the point. We don't have a fairy tale, but i promise to stand with you. To be there. Even when it's messy."
I slid the ring onto his finger.
The officiant cleared his throat.
"You may now kiss the bride."
He cupped my face.
The kiss was supposed to be quick.
But it lingered.
Warm. Careful.
My heart hammered.
And for a moment, it felt real.
The reception was equally private. An open-air space decorated with fairy lights and white flowers. Gold-trimmed tables, laughter, quiet toasts.
We sat at the sweetheart table, families gathered close.
They served steak, lobster, truffle pasta.
Raphael cut a piece of steak and slid it onto my plate without looking up.
"You need to eat," he murmured.
God.
I forced a smirk. "Taking care of me already, Doc?"
He rolled his eyes, hiding a smile.
After dinner, the DJ announced the first dance.
He led me onto the floor, arms slipping around my waist.
"Try not to step on me," he teased.
I scoffed. "I'm an actress. I know how to hit my mark."
He smirked. "We'll see."
We danced under the fairy lights.
It should have felt fake.
But his hands were warm. His eyes steady.
For a moment, I forgot the cameras that would have been there if this were real.
After the reception, we finally arrived at the hotel suite.
Private. Luxurious. Romantic.
For show.
I showered first and changed into my carefully picked sleepwear, a champagne silk set that looked expensive and barely decent. Spaghetti straps. Short shorts. Clinging in all the right places.
I spritzed perfume on my wrists and neck, even though i couldn't smell it myself.
He could.
I sat on the edge of the bed, posing.
Ready.
The bathroom door opened.
Raphael stepped out in just gray sweatpants, hair still damp, water droplets on his chest.
I let my gaze travel slowly, deliberately.
He froze.
I raised a glass of wine.
"Enjoying the view?"
He didn't blink. He took the glass, chugged it, and set it back down.
"Thirsty?" I teased.
He wiped his mouth. "You have no idea."
We ended up side by side on the bed, wine bottle between us.
We talked about the industry. About being tired. About not sleeping.
He laughed when i told him about a director who'd insisted on 42 takes for a single crying scene.
I laughed when he told me about falling asleep standing up in surgery rotation.
At some point, we fell quiet.
He reached out, brushing hair from my face.
Our eyes met.
We kissed.
Slow. Careful.
But then it deepened.
His hand at my waist. My fingers curling around his neck.
He shifted, pressing me back against the bed.
His breath on my skin—
SNAP.
I blinked.
He was on the couch.
Sound asleep.
I stared at the bed i'de prepared for both of us.
Seriously?
I grabbed a pillow and stomped over.
"You're really sleeping there?"
He didn't even open his eyes. "Obviously."
I shoved the pillow at him. "Fine."
I stalked back to the bed and threw myself onto it, fuming.
Then an idea hit me.
I rolled slowly to the edge of the mattress—
Inch.
By.
Inch.
Until—
THUMP.
I landed on top of him.
He groaned.
"What the hell?"
"Sharing," I hissed.
He didn't even argue.
He just scooped me up like i weighed nothing, carried me back, and dropped me on the bed.
I gasped. "RUDE!"
He didn't answer.
He just grabbed the blanket and wrapped me up like a burrito.
I couldn't move.
I glared at him. "This isn't over."
He turned off the lights, smirking.
"Sleep."
I cursed him under my breath.
This fake marriage was going to be the death of me.