Seraphim's POV
The next hours blurred into a grueling rehearsal. We sat across from each other in the grand dining room, a notepad between us filled with his sharp handwriting.
"You grew up in Atlanta," he dictated. "Your father was a businessman, your mother a schoolteacher. They both passed away in a car accident when you were seventeen."
I frowned. "That's… dark."
"Do you want it to sound believable or not?"
I sighed. "Fine."
"Good. And we met…"
"At the restaurant where I worked," I said quickly, remembering the script. "You noticed me when you came in with friends. You asked me out. I said no, but you kept coming back until I said yes."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "See? You can play along when you want to."
I rolled my eyes. "Don't get used to it."
But the cracks kept showing. Sometimes I forget details. Sometimes he snapped at me. Sometimes our real dislike for each other slipped through the fake romance, leaving us bickering in the middle of our "love story."
By dinner, I was completely drained. I dragged myself to bed and collapsed. Just when I began to drift off, a knock came at the door.
It was him. Grey.
"What do you want?" I asked, exhausted and irritated.
"Oh, in my house, you're asking me why I'm here?" he said with mock surprise. "I can go anywhere I want. I own the property."
I glared. "If you really want this to work, you're going to respect my privacy. And yes, I know you'll say I'm doing this for the money — and you're right. But you're not handing out ten grand for nothing either. You need something from me. So enough for today, Grey. Let me rest. And don't forget — it's our house, remember?"
His grin was infuriating. "Careful with that temper. My parents won't buy it, and if they don't, we both lose. Remember that. For now, though… yes, it's our house."
He patted my shoulder mockingly and left.
I stood frozen, fuming, until the door creaked open again. He leaned in with one final blow.
"You're meeting my parents tomorrow."
My blood ran cold. We hadn't even gotten our story straight.
Dinner was set in the largest dining hall I had ever seen. The table was long enough to seat twenty, though tonight only four of us would sit at it. I stood in front of the mirror one last time, smoothing down the dress Natasha had forced me into earlier.
"You look like you belong there," she'd said before leaving. But I didn't believe her.
Grey appeared at the doorway, crisp in his suit, looking every bit the heir to an empire. His eyes traveled over me once, then slid away as if uninterested.
"Let's go. They're waiting."
My palms were sweaty. My knees felt weak. But I followed him.
Grey's POV
Mother greeted us first. She was seated gracefully, her smile polite but wary. She had always wanted me to settle down, but she hadn't expected me to bring home someone like Seraphim.
"Welcome, dear," she said warmly enough, though her eyes flicked over Seraphim's dress, her posture, her hesitant steps.
Then Father looked up. His expression was unreadable at first, then sharp. His eyes narrowed, studying Seraphim like she was a puzzle he didn't trust.
"Sit," he said curtly.
Dinner began in silence. The clinking of silverware was the loudest sound in the room. Mother tried to break the tension.
"So, Seraphim, tell us about yourself."
I shot her a quick glance at the script. Remember the script.
"Um… I was born in Atlanta," Seraphim began, her voice low. "My parents were… My father was a businessman, and my mother was a teacher. They passed away… in an accident, when I was seventeen."
Mother's eyes softened. "I'm so sorry to hear that."
But Father wasn't moved. "Atlanta, you say? Which part?"
Seraphim froze. That wasn't in the script. My heart clenched. She stammered, "Uh… near… Decatur."
Father leaned back, his gaze piercing. "Interesting. And your father's businesswhat did he do exactly?"
Again, hesitation. Her fork clattered slightly against the plate. "He, uh… he imported goods. Different kinds. From… overseas."
I jumped in quickly. "It was small-scale. Not a major company, Father."
But George Williams wasn't satisfied. He kept probing. "And how did you two meet?"
"The restaurant," Seraphim said quickly, seizing the script again. "I was working there. Grey came often. He asked me out, I refused at first, but… he was persistent."
Mother chuckled softly, but Father's frown deepened. He folded his arms. "Persistent? My son? He doesn't chase. Ever."
The air grew heavier. Seraphim's cheeks burned, and I could see her fighting to keep her composure. I wanted to step in, but something in Father's gaze held me still.
The questions continued, sharper each time. Dates didn't line up. Details slipped. Every small inconsistency became ammunition.
Finally, Father slammed his fork down. The sound echoed through the hall.
"This is nonsense," he snapped. "You're lying. Both of you. I don't know what game you're playing, Grey, but this girl" he pointed directly at Seraphim, his voice hard "is not who she claims to be. She's fake. And she is not good enough for my son."
The room fell into stunned silence. My mother gasped softly. Seraphim's eyes glistened, but she blinked quickly, holding back the tears.
And me? For the first time in years, I felt cornered.
My hands trembled as I set my fork down. George's words hung in the air like a verdict, unshakable. I opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Grey clenched his jaw, torn between pride, anger, and something else he refused to name.
George's stare bore down on me, cold and merciless.
The mansion had swallowed me whole. By now, my few belongings were tucked away in one corner of a room that felt too big for me, too perfect for someone like me. Each morning, I woke to silk sheets and chandeliers, but the weight of what I'd left behind — Nana, my real life, my freedom — pressed down heavier than the marble walls.
Grey and I barely spoke outside of the rehearsed lines we'd agreed on. In public, we smiled and played our roles; in private, silence was safer. Silence, or his cutting remarks that reminded me this arrangement was nothing more than a transaction.
But something had changed after that disastrous dinner. His father's rejection wasn't just an insult — it was a wound. Grey hated being cornered, and his pride wouldn't let him forget it. If we were going to survive in this lie, we needed a new plan. A smarter one.
And so, the strategy began.