The sharp knock at the door made me jump so high I almost ruined Sophia's hard work on my eyeliner.
"Driver!" Sophia hissed like a prophet receiving revelation. She practically skipped to the door and yanked it open.
Sure enough, a man in uniform stood beside a sleek black car parked outside—the kind that looked like it came with a complimentary bodyguard and an insurance policy for your soul.
"Miss Amara?" the driver asked, bowing slightly.
"Yes," I squeaked, suddenly forgetting how to use my vocal cords.
Sophia was vibrating with excitement. "Sir, take care of her, oh! If anything happens to this my friend, I'll report you to CNN!"
The driver blinked. "Yes, ma'am."
Sophia shoved my clutch into my hand, whispered, "Don't disgrace us," and pushed me out like I was being married off to royalty.
Inside the car, silence reigned. My palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms heavy—basically, I was one nervous breakdown away from rapping Eminem.
By the time the car glided to a stop in front of the hotel, my heart was banging against my chest like a tenant owing rent.
The doors opened, and for a second, the world froze. Flashing lights. Polished marble steps. Glittering gowns. Men in tuxedos. And me—in silk. Me—in heels that could double as medieval torture devices.
I stepped out, clutching my bag like a lifeline. Heads turned. Eyes lingered. I prayed silently, God, don't let me trip on these steps and disgrace my village.
And then—there he was.
Adrian.
Standing at the top of the stairs like a scene from a K-drama, suit cut sharp enough to slice egos, expression cool enough to freeze fire.
When his gaze found me, something flickered in his eyes. Approval? Amusement? I couldn't tell.
He descended one step, then another, until he stood before me. His eyes swept over me slowly—too slowly.
"Not bad," he said at last.
Not bad? Excuse me? If I were food, I'd be Michelin-star jollof rice with fried plantain on the side.
"Thanks," I muttered, lifting my chin. "You clean up well too."
The corner of his mouth curved, like I'd just passed some secret test. Then he extended his hand.
"Ready?"
No. "Yes."
He laced my fingers through his, and together we entered.
The ballroom was a nightmare wrapped in chandeliers. Glittering tables, champagne towers, music so soft it made me want to scream. The kind of place where forks had more cousins than I did.
And every eye turned to us. Correction: to him. Adrian Cole. Billionaire. King of the Universe. But because my arm was hooked through his, some of that spotlight spilled onto me too.
"This is Amara," Adrian said smoothly to the first group of suits we encountered. "My girlfriend."
Girlfriend. He said it like a fact, not fiction. Like it had always been true.
I smiled, tight enough to break my jaw.
"Amara, this is Monica, my cousin," he said, introducing me to a woman in a sequined gown who eyed me like I'd crawled in from the gutter.
"So," she purred, "how did you two meet?"
My brain flatlined. How did we meet? In a café where my wig was fighting for its life? In a parking lot where I mistook him for his assistant? No, thank you.
Before my mouth could betray me, Adrian slipped an arm around my waist and said, "She spilled coffee on me. Best accident of my life."
The group chuckled, charmed. I stared at him, resisting the urge to hiss, Liar, liar, billionaire pants on fire.
Cousin Monica, however, gave me the stink eye like it was her full-time job. Why she clearly didn't like me, I had no idea.
Next, Adrian led me to a quieter corner of the ballroom, where a man in his sixties leaned on a cane, chatting with three others.
"Grandpa," Adrian called, and the group turned.
Ahh. My brain short-circuited. Adrian's grandfather.
His face lit up with a smile, deep lines etched across his skin. He turned to me. "And this is...?"
"This is my girlfriend, Amara." Adrian's hand pressed against my lower back, nudging me forward while I tried to disappear into the wallpaper.
"Good evening, sir," I blurted. "The party is lit."
Adrian's grandfather blinked. I blinked. Lord—did I just say lit? Please, kill me now.
"Umm..." I scrambled for a recovery, but Adrian's grandfather suddenly laughed. A warm, hearty laugh that softened his whole face.
"Thanks," he said, eyes twinkling. And just like that, I could see the resemblance—Adrian had his eyes.
Hours passed in a blur of introductions, fake laughter, and fake stories that Adrian delivered like a seasoned actor. I just stood there, nodding like an overpaid bobblehead.
Finally, when the room felt like it was closing in on me, I excused myself and slipped onto a balcony. Cool night air kissed my skin, and I inhaled like I hadn't breathed in hours.
"Running away already?"
I jumped. Adrian leaned against the doorframe, glass of champagne in hand, looking like temptation dressed in Armani.
"I wasn't running," I lied. "Just... taking a break."
"Hmm." He stepped closer, eyes gleaming. "You did well in there."
I snorted. "Please. I almost fainted when that woman asked how we met."
"You handled it." His voice was calm, annoyingly so. "Relax, Amara. No one can tell you're faking."
That stung more than it should. "Gee, thanks. Great pep talk."
His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. Then he leaned down, lowering his voice until it wrapped around me like velvet.
"Stay close to me tonight. You'll be fine."
I swallowed. Hard. His cologne—whatever brand it was—made me want to grab his shoulders for a bigger sniff.
"Right," I croaked. "Fine."
My heart raced a hundred beats per minute. Why did this man suddenly make me feel nervous?
And then—just as I thought I could breathe again—a pair of guests strolled onto the balcony.
"Oh!" one of them gasped, eyes darting between us. "Mr. Cole, we didn't mean to interrupt your... moment."
Moment?
Before I could deny it, Adrian's hand slid to my waist. He bent down and pressed a slow kiss against my cheek.
The guests giggled, embarrassed, and retreated quickly.
I just stood there, frozen, my cheek burning where his lips had been.
And for the first time, this whole fake thing had me wondering if my heart was in on the act—or if I was in serious trouble.