It started with a message.
Short. Polite. Almost clinical.
> **From: Ethan Marrow**
> *Subject: I hope this finds you well.*
>
>Miss Zoey,
> I understand we haven't met yet under circumstances either of us would consider ideal.
>
> I am currently in Switzerland completing a postgraduate program. I'll return soon, but I thought it best we begin a line of communication.
>
> If there's anything you need—or anything you want me to know—feel free to write.
>
> —E.M.
I read it twice. Then a third time.
There was nothing romantic in it. No warmth. No fake charm. Just straight lines and formality. But beneath that, I caught a whisper of something else: caution. Maybe even guilt.
I sat on the edge of the bed, typing a reply and deleting it over and over again. Eventually, I landed on:
> **To: Ethan Marrow**
>
> Thank you for reaching out.
>
> Since this is apparently happening with or without our full consent, I'd at least prefer transparency.
>
> I'm in my final year at Bludgeon sprouts college . I'm double majoring in International Relations and Behavioral Science . I'd planned to pursue a Master's afterward—but now, I'm not sure what's mine to plan.
>
> I don't want to play house, Ethan.
> If we're going to be stuck in this situation, I need something back.
>
> There's a house. My childhood home. I want it secured. It's all I have left of my parents. I need you to make that happen.
>
> Do that—and I'll cooperate.
>
> I'll be the perfect fiancée in public.
> I'll go wherever they want.
> I'll keep up the illusion.
>
> But in private, you and I are strangers.
>
> Deal?
I stared at the screen for a long time before hitting **Send**.
Ten minutes later, he replied.
> **To: Zoey Carpenter**
>
> Consider it done.
>
> I've already instructed legal to halt foreclosure proceedings. You will not lose that house.
>
> And yes—strangers in private. That's fine by me.
>
> I assume the illusion begins soon.
>
> —E.M.
---
The next morning, the entire family was gathered around the long oak breakfast table like actors in a play I'd never auditioned for. Sunlight poured in through the glass ceiling. Everything smelled like rosemary and citrus and fresh wealth.
Helena Marrow sat at the head of the table, serene and watchful. Beside her was a man I hadn't met before—thin, graying, with the same calculating silence I'd seen in the Marrow driver.
Ethan's uncle, apparently. Another board member. Another shadow.
The conversation turned quickly to me.
"To make things easier," Helena began, stirring her tea, "we've arranged for a transfer."
I blinked. "Transfer?"
"To a university closer to the family," the uncle chimed in. "Where Ethan lectures when he's in the country. It makes sense, given the upcoming nuptials."
Helena smiled gently. "It would give you both some privacy. A chance to adapt. Without the pressures of the public eye or the business just yet."
They made it sound reasonable. Even kind.
But I could feel the steel under their velvet.
"And when is this transfer supposed to happen?" I asked.
"Your application has already been accepted," the uncle said. "Scholarship intact. Credits accounted for. You'd start next term."
I set my fork down.
"So that's it," I said. "My future decided over pancakes and tea."
"No," Helena said softly. "It's not a command. But it's a recommendation. One that benefits you both. It lets you control the narrative."
She looked at me carefully, and I understood what she really meant: **Control the illusion. Before it controls you.**
I said nothing more.
I simply nodded.
---
That night, I messaged Ethan again.
> **To: Ethan Marrow**
>
> They told me I'm transferring.
> I assume you already knew.
>
> I'll play along—same terms. Publicly polite. Privately distant.
>
> One more thing.
>
> When I arrive, don't greet me.
> Don't acknowledge me.
> Let them think we're strangers just beginning to develop a student - lecturer relationship. I don't want my fellow students thinking l get special treatment.
Space. Safety.
>
> Agreed?
His reply came quickly.
> **To: Zoey Carpenter**
>
> Agreed.
>
> No contact upon arrival.
>
> I'll ensure there's isn't any public contact unless it's absolutely necessary .
>
> Your home is now protected. I've signed it into a private trust under your name. No one can take it.
>
> One illusion for another.
>
> See you soon, Miss Carpenter.
>
> —E.M.
---
That night, I sat at the bay window of the guest suite they'd given me, overlooking the hedge maze behind the estate.
The stars above were quiet.
Everything looked beautiful.
But I knew better now.
This wasn't a home.
This wasn't a love story.
This was a chessboard.
And I had just moved my queen.
---
To be continued.