She Fell Into His Arms And Went Viral, But The Millionaire Turned Scandal Into Love!

Sloan Mitchell never expected that a messy Monday morning would turn her into the most talked about person in New York before she even had a chance to drink her morning coffee. She was running late, which was already becoming a stressful habit, and the subway system had chosen that exact day to experience severe technical delays. That meant she had exactly four minutes to sprint three blocks, navigate the crowded sidewalks, and somehow arrive composed on the twelfth floor of the Sterling and Associates building. It was the most important pitch meeting of her entire career, and she was desperate to make a lasting impression. Her new shoes, a pair of expensive designer pumps she really could not afford, betrayed her on the wet concrete. Her heel caught in a small crack, the world suddenly tilted on its axis, and she braced herself for a painful impact with the pavement. Instead, strong hands grabbed her by the waist, a solid wall of solid muscle wrapped in an impeccably tailored suit wrapped around her, and an expensive scent of cedar and citrus filled the air.

Whoa, I got you, a deep, amused voice murmured near her ear. Sloan blinked rapidly, finding herself inches away from a pair of striking dark green eyes and a ridiculously handsome face with a chiseled jawline. You can let go of me now, she muttered, trying to maintain whatever dignity she had left while struggling to keep her balance. I could, but the real question is, should I? His smile widened, revealing a boyish charm that probably caused chaos across Manhattan. You look like the kind of person who makes a habit of falling. I am definitely not clumsy, she argued, squirming until he finally released his grip. Her feet touched the pavement, and she immediately wobbled like a newborn deer. See, I am completely fine. Ow. Her ankle protested with a sharp spike of pain, and she would have kissed the concrete a second time if he hadn’t caught her once more. This time, the momentum pulled her directly against his chest in a position that was far too intimate for a public sidewalk.

Those raised eyebrows should honestly be illegal, she muttered, pressing a hand against his lapel to push herself back. My shoes are brand new and clearly plotting against me. Okay, I just need to flash. They both froze instantly as a sharp click echoed from across the street. A woman in her sixties was standing by a bakery window, holding up her smartphone with a triumphant grin plastered across her face. How absolutely beautiful, the stranger shouted across the lane of traffic. I just posted it on Instagram. True love and the most perfect couple in New York. Catch that NYC magic. Wait, what did she just say? Sloan tried to yank herself away, but the handsome stranger, whose name she still didn’t know, held his ground with firm amusement. Do not move, he whispered under his breath. If you trip again right in front of that woman, she is going to write a romance novel about us. Let me go right now. You are wearing killer stilettos on slick pavement while I am basically acting as a neighborhood hero. Sloan shoved his chest and instantly felt a sharp twist in her ankle that made her hiss in breath.

All right, that was impressively stubborn, he conceded, his playful tone shifting into genuine concern. Are you actually all right? Never been better, she groaned, attempting to take a single step before her ankle throbbed. Dammit, he sighed, running a hand through his tousled brown hair. Where do you need to be right now? The Sterling building, right over there. She pointed blindly toward the glass skyscraper two blocks away. Of course it is, because the universe loves a sick joke. What is that supposed to mean? It means I happen to work in that exact building. Without waiting for permission, he draped her arm securely over his broad shoulder to support her weight. Come on, and try not to sue me for this heroic rescue. I never asked to be rescued by a stranger, she grumbled. Technically, gravity made the request on your behalf. They began walking down the busy avenue at a painfully slow pace. Well, he walked normally while she limped heroically, quickly realizing that pedestrians were turning their heads to stare at them. A teenager standing near a coffee cart pointed her phone directly in their direction. People are recording us, she hissed in panic. Welcome to New York City, where your most embarrassing moments come with complimentary documentation. This is not funny in the least. It is at least a little bit funny. Not to me. You literally fell into a stranger’s arms like an extra in a cheesy romantic comedy. I stumbled, and there is a massive difference between being clumsy and being pathetic. Sloan nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, and he just chuckled softly.

They finally reached the towering glass lobby of the Sterling building, and Sloan had never felt so relieved to see revolving doors in her entire life. She detached herself from his side, testing her weight on her injured ankle and finding the pain manageable. Thanks for the unsolicited rescue, she said reluctantly, brushing off her skirt. You are entirely welcome for the thoroughly unappreciated rescue, he replied with a smug grin. Try not to fall down anymore today, because my superhero shift has official limits. Do not worry, I plan on avoiding you like the plague for the rest of my natural life. Excellent plan, considering Sterling has twelve floors and we share the same zip code. She rolled her eyes and hurried through the revolving glass. Through the reflection, she caught him glancing down at his phone, his expression suddenly freezing into pale disbelief. It was strange, but she had a high-stakes corporate meeting starting in two minutes and simply had no time to unpack the drama of attractive strangers.

The pitch meeting itself turned out to be an absolute disaster, though through no fault of her own. Her presentation on the innovative social media campaign was thoroughly researched and flawlessly delivered. The real issue was her boss, Richard Sterling, who spent the entire duration of the conference staring at his tablet with an expression of profound bewilderment. Sloan, he interrupted right as she wrapped up her final slide, are you secretly engaged to someone? The entire room went dead silent. Excuse me, what did you just ask? Richard turned the screen around to face her, revealing a glowing Instagram post. There was a photo of her looking up while being caught in strong arms, the morning light hitting the pavement to create a cinematic halo around them. The caption read, Just witnessed the absolute most beautiful proposal of my life on a rainy Manhattan sidewalk. She cried, love still exists, true love goals. This already has fifty thousand likes, Richard noted slowly, peering over his reading glasses. I am not engaged to anyone, Sloan insisted, her heart dropping into her stomach. Then why is Twitter currently crowning you the couple of the year?

Sloan grabbed her own phone with trembling fingers and opened Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok. The image was everywhere. Someone had already set a romantic piano soundtrack to a compilation of photos, another user had drawn digital fan art, and a massive online thread was actively debating their hypothetical wedding date. This is an absolute nightmare, she whispered, staring at the exponential view counts. Actually, Richard leaned forward across the mahogany table with a calculating glint in his eye, this might just be the greatest opportunity this agency has ever seen. How on earth is a viral misunderstanding an opportunity? You know we are currently competing against three other agencies for the multi-million dollar Forever Weddings account. Sloan nodded slowly, remembering the massive luxury wedding planning firm. Landing that contract would easily secure Sterling and Associates as the top agency in the city for the next five years. They want authentic romance, real emotion, and genuine connection, Richard explained, smiling broadly. And you just accidentally went viral as the internet’s most adorable bride-to-be overnight. The pitch is tomorrow morning. Imagine the absolute advantage if you walk into that boardroom holding hands with your mystery fiancé. I do not have a fiancé, Sloan protested loudly. But the entire internet firmly believes you do. Richard shrugged dismissively. Look, I know it sounds unorthodox, but think about it logically. One pitch meeting, a few hours of pretending with your mystery photo guy, and we land the contract of a lifetime. Then everyone simply moves on. This is completely insane. This is modern marketing, my dear.

Sloan opened her mouth to argue further, but her phone suddenly buzzed with a relentless stream of notifications. One alert popped up, followed by another, and another, creating an endless digital vibration on the table. Her personal Instagram account had gained twenty thousand followers in a single hour, and her work email was already flooded with journalists requesting interviews and lifestyle brands offering free gifts. A major morning television show had even sent a message inviting the viral couple onto their broadcast. Oh no, she breathed, pressing a hand to her forehead. Before Richard could reply, the conference room door swung open and Jessica from reception poked her head inside with wide eyes. I am so sorry to interrupt this meeting, but there is a very tall, very angry man making a scene downstairs in the lobby, she blurted out. He says he needs to speak with Sloan immediately about some urgent damage control. Sloan’s stomach plummeted to the floor. What does he look like? Tall, dark, handsome, visibly annoyed, and exceptionally familiar, Jessica rattled off. Wait, it is the exact guy from the viral photograph. Is he really your secret fiancé? He is not my— but Jessica had already vanished down the hallway, likely spreading the juicy gossip across every cubicle in the building. Richard smiled serenely. It appears fate is making your career decisions much easier today. I am not doing this. Sloan, do you want the promotion and the partnership or not? She wanted it more than anything. Three years of working twice as long hours, constantly being passed over for leadership roles because she lacked the right presence, and now the universe had handed her the ultimate presence on a silver platter. Just one meeting? she asked, despising herself for even considering it. Just one pitch, Richard confirmed.

Sloan took a deep, steadying breath, grabbed her notepad, and marched out of the room. She took the elevator down to the main lobby, where sure enough, Crew Dalton was standing near the front desk while half the office staff pretended to browse brochures just to stare at him. When he spotted her walking toward him, his expression cycled rapidly through relief, annoyance, and sheer panic. We seriously need to talk, they both said in unison. And Sloan knew with absolute certainty that her Monday was about to get infinitely worse. They retreated to a small, windowless conference room on the third floor, a neutral territory far enough from her department to discourage eavesdropping, yet public enough that she wouldn’t be trapped alone with a complete stranger. A complete stranger who was currently pacing the small room like a caged panther while checking his phone every five seconds. All right, Sloan said, firmly shutting the door behind them. You go first. Who on earth are you, and why do you look like you are about to have a full panic attack? He stopped pacing and finally looked straight at her. Those green eyes were even more intense up close, causing a strange fluttering sensation in her stomach that she stubbornly ignored. Crew Dalton, he said at last. Senior account manager down on the fourth floor. I have worked in this building for two years. Crew? Sloan blinked in genuine surprise. That is your actual name? Family name, my grandfather was an ocean sailing champion, long story. He rubbed the back of his neck with a groan. And I am having a panic attack because in exactly four hours—he checked his digital screen again—I have the most important client pitch meeting of my career with Maxwell Industries. The tech giant Maxwell Industries? Sloan echoed, her eyes widening. The very same multi-billion-dollar client that every agency in Manhattan has been hunting for the past decade. He turned his phone around to show her the screen. The exact same viral photo of him catching her on the sidewalk was splashed across every major news aggregator, and the fifty thousand likes had already ballooned past two hundred thousand. And to make matters infinitely worse, their CEO, Patricia Maxwell, just sent me a direct message saying, Congratulations on my wonderful engagement, looking forward to meeting your partner.

Sloan dropped heavily into one of the leather chairs. You have got to be kidding me. I genuinely wish I were, Crew muttered, leaning against the edge of the table. Patricia is famously old-school and values traditional family values above everything else. She only works with people she deeply trusts, and apparently she believes a man who makes impulsive romantic gestures on a rainy New York street corner is the exact kind of authentic leader Maxwell Industries needs. He used air quotes with profound frustration. So let me make sure I understand this correctly, Sloan crossed her arms over her chest. I need you to pretend to be my devoted fiancé for Forever Weddings tomorrow morning, and you need me to pretend to be your devoted fiancée for Maxwell Industries today. In four hours? In four hours, he confirmed. They stared at each other across the quiet room as the sheer absurdity of the situation washed over them. This is completely ridiculous, Sloan said, shaking her head. Absolutely insane, Crew agreed. We do not even know each other. I did not even know your name until Jessica mentioned it downstairs. I spent the last hour referring to you as Stumble-Mc-Handsome in my own head. Crew’s lips twitched despite his stress. That is actually a pretty solid nickname. Do not let it go to your head. He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down, leaning forward earnestly. Look, I know this sounds like a terrible soap opera. Trust me, if I could think of any other way—he ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even further—this Maxwell account is everything to me. It is the promotion I have worked toward for years, and it is finally proving to my father that I—he cut himself off abruptly. That you what? Nothing, just forget it. He straightened his posture. The point is that we are both sinking in the exact same boat, and we both need this deception to work.

Sloan studied him closely. Beneath all that confident corporate swagger, there was a layer of vulnerability he was desperately trying to conceal. She recognized the look instantly because she saw the exact same guarded expression in her own mirror every single morning. Fine, she heard herself say, surprising even herself. But if we are doing this, we need strict ground rules. Rules? Okay, I can work with rules. Sloan grabbed a spare notepad and a pen from the conference table. Rule number one: this is strictly business. No actual feelings, no unnecessary drama, and absolutely no personal complications. Agreed entirely, Crew nodded. Rule two: we keep our stories completely straight. When did we start dating, and how long have we been together? Six months, Sloan stated immediately. Long enough to seem serious and deeply committed, but short enough that nobody expects us to know every single detail about each other’s childhood pets. Smart. And how did we meet? A coffee shop encounter, classic, believable, and boring enough that reporters will not dig too deeply. Which specific coffee shop? Sloan thought fast, scanning her memory. The Blue Roast on Madison Avenue. I accidentally spilled a boiling hot latte all over your very expensive suit, and you were surprisingly polite about it, so we started talking. I love it, it has that classic meet-cute energy, Crew smiled, looking genuinely amused. Rule three: we need to know basic facts about each other to pass any sudden interrogation. Favorite foods, family backgrounds, that kind of thing. All right, you go first. Okay, I am twenty-nine, originally from Boston, with a younger sister who is a total pain in my neck but whom I love dearly. My father is a corporate lawyer who always wanted me to follow in his footsteps, and we do not talk about it much. My absolute favorite food is pepperoni and jalapeño pizza from Tony’s place in Brooklyn. I run in the mornings because I hate conventional gyms, I have a weird obsession with true crime audiobooks, and—he hesitated for a beat—I am notoriously bad at commitment. The last part came out quieter, lacking its previous playful edge. Sloan raised an eyebrow. Well, it is a very good thing this engagement is entirely fake then. Exactly, he leaned back in his chair with a tight smile. Your turn. I am twenty-seven, born and raised in Seattle, moved to New York three years ago for this job. I am an only child, and my parents are both university professors—my mother teaches English literature and my father teaches modern history. They are basically walking encyclopedias with astronomically high expectations. She paused, tapping her pen against the notepad. I collect vintage manual typewriters even though I cannot repair a single one of them, I stress-bake chocolate chip cookies at two in the morning, and I have a terrible habit of saying yes to insane things I should definitely decline, like fake engagements. They stared at each other across the table as the lingering tension began to dissipate, replaced by a strange, mutual understanding. It was still wildly bizarre, but maybe, just maybe, they could actually pull it off.

Crew’s phone buzzed sharply against the wood. He glanced at the screen and stood up in a single fluid motion. I have to get back and prep for the Maxwell meeting. Can you meet me at the North Tower Cafe across the street at one o’clock sharp? We need to be seen together publicly before I walk into their boardroom to make it look organic. Organic, right, because nothing about this manufactured chaos is natural. Just try not to trip over your own feet on the way there. Sloan tossed the notepad at him, he caught it with a grin, and then he was gone. She sat alone in the quiet conference room, wondering what kind of cosmic joke had just rewritten her entire life. Her phone immediately rang, displaying her mother’s caller ID. Perfect timing. Hi, Mom. Sloan Elizabeth Mitchell, her mother’s sharp voice could have shattered crystal glasses from miles away. Why on earth am I finding out about your sudden engagement from my local book club group chat? Martha sent me a screenshot of a Twitter post. You are trending online. Mom, I can explain everything. You can start by explaining why you did not bother to tell your own mother that you were seeing someone, let alone engaged to be married. Who is he? What does he do? Where did you meet? When is the wedding taking place? It was going to be a very long, very exhausting conversation.

At exactly one o’clock, Sloan walked into the sunlit North Tower Cafe wearing the most balanced outfit she could assemble on short notice: a crisp white silk blouse, dark tailored jeans, and block-heeled boots she could comfortably sprint in if necessary. Crew was already seated at a corner table, looking unfairly striking in a deep navy knit sweater that should probably have been illegal. When he saw her approach, he stood up, and Sloan noticed several nearby patrons glancing their way. Of course they were looking—they were the viral internet couple of the day. Hey, he greeted her, his voice softening into a warmer, more intimate register. You look incredible. You are already using your fake boyfriend voice, she noted, sliding into the chair opposite him. Practice makes perfect for the cameras. He reached across the small table and wrapped his warm, slightly calloused hand around hers. Also, there are at least three people secretly filming us right now with their phones tucked under menus, so you might want to look happy. Sloan forced a radiant, completely unnatural smile to her lips. This feels deeply wrong. Think of it as method acting. You are simply playing a role. A friendly barista suddenly appeared beside their table carrying two ceramic mugs on a house tray. These are on the house for New York’s favorite couple, she beamed, resting her hands on her apron. We all saw the viral video this morning, it is just so romantic. Sloan’s carefully constructed smile froze solid. Someone actually filmed the entire street encounter? The barista whipped out her smartphone and tapped the screen. Look, it already has over three million views online. She turned the display toward them, revealing crisp video footage of Sloan stumbling, Crew catching her in mid-air, and the entire sequence slowed down and set to an emotional piano ballad. The comment section below was overflowing with heart-eyed emojis and weeping digital tears. Wow, Crew muttered, and Sloan could detect the genuine, barely contained panic hiding behind his calm facade. Right? You guys are total couple goals, the barista giggled before hurrying off to take another order. Sloan waited until she was safely out of earshot before speaking. Three million views. This is fine. This is not fine, Sloan, and we both know it. Crew squeezed her fingers gently. Just breathe. We can handle this step by step. Can we? Because it honestly feels like a runaway freight train. Then we take control of the steering wheel. He leaned in closer, and Sloan was hit once more by that intoxicating blend of cedarwood and citrus. Look at me right now. We are going to walk up to my meeting, you are going to charm Patricia Maxwell with that razor-sharp wit of yours, and we are going to secure this contract. Then tomorrow you will do the exact same thing for Forever Weddings. After that, we can quietly figure out how to gracefully break up in a few weeks. Easy as pie. You make it sound like a walk in the park. It is simple if we just refuse to mess it up. Famous last words, she sighed.

His phone buzzed again, vibrating against the table. He checked the screen and his posture immediately went rigid. Patricia’s assistant just moved our meeting time up by twenty minutes. We have to leave right this second. They stood up in unison, and Crew kept his hand firmly wrapped around hers as they navigated the crowded cafe. Outside on the sidewalk, a small cluster of curious people had gathered near the entrance. Someone boldly asked for a selfie, while another passerby offered warm congratulations. This was spiraling completely out of hand at supersonic speed. Inside the sleek lobby of the Maxwell Industries building, Crew paused near the elevator banks and turned to face her directly. Listen, Patricia is going to probe and ask difficult questions. Just be your authentic self—the fiery version of you that argued with me about coffee shops this morning. She is going to adore that side of you. Be myself while pretending to be your devoted fiancée, got it, Sloan muttered under her breath. And one more thing, he stepped closer until his voice dropped to a low murmur. If she brings up the engagement ring or the proposal details, just follow my lead and let me do the talking. Okay, what exactly are you planning to improvise? Nothing, probably nothing at all. He was definitely planning something catastrophic.

The elevator dinged pleasantly, the stainless-steel doors slid open, and Sloan felt her adrenaline spike. This was the defining moment. As the car ascended past the fifteenth floor, Crew glanced down at her left hand with a frown. By the way, you have a terrible physical tell. A tell? What are you talking about? Whenever you get nervous, you unconsciously twist an imaginary ring around your finger. He glanced at her bare ring finger, which we should probably fix before we walk into her executive suite. We do not even own a ring, Crew. I know that. Then what is your brilliant backup plan? The elevator chimed softly, the indicator light hitting the penthouse floor, and the doors glided open to reveal a spacious marble hallway. Standing right there in the corridor was a woman in her sixties with impeccably styled silver hair and sharp, intelligent eyes that immediately assessed them both. Patricia Maxwell. Hello there, she smiled warmly, stepping forward. The famous couple of the hour. I have been dying to meet you both in person. Her gaze dropped instantly down to Sloan’s empty left hand. But tell me, where is the ring? Sloan’s mind went completely blank, threatening a full system crash. Crew let out a sudden, completely genuine laugh that echoed down the hallway. Funny story about that, he began, and Sloan knew with absolute certainty that whatever fabrication was about to tumble out of his mouth was going to make their lives infinitely more complicated.

Funny story about that, Crew repeated smoothly, his arm sliding around the small of her back to pull her slightly closer. The proposal on the sidewalk was so utterly spontaneous and overwhelming that I simply did not have the ring with me at the time. Patricia’s perfectly arched eyebrows lifted in surprise. Spontaneous, you say? Completely unplanned, I was on my way to work, crossed paths with Sloan, and simply knew I could not let another single day pass without asking. The actual heirloom ring is currently being resized as we speak. Sloan’s brain finally rebooted from its panic loop. It belonged to my grandmother, she chimed in, surprising herself with how effortlessly the fabrication rolled off her tongue. A vintage art deco piece, absolutely stunning, but it was slightly too small for my knuckle. How wonderfully romantic, Patricia’s expression softened into genuine warmth. My late husband actually proposed to me without a ring as well, having to borrow a simple twist tie from a bread bag in a frantic pinch. She laughed softly at the fond memory. Come along into my office, I want to hear every single detail of how you two managed to pull off such movie-star magic.

They followed her down a sprawling hallway lined with minimalist modern art and massive floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. Crew’s hand remained firmly and reassuringly planted against the small of her back, and Sloan tried very hard not to focus on how wonderfully natural and comforting his touch felt. Patricia’s executive office was breathtaking—spacious, minimalist, and powerful, featuring a view that likely cost more than Sloan’s annual salary. The older executive gestured toward a plush cream-colored leather sofa. Please make yourselves comfortable. Can my assistant fetch you anything to drink, perhaps some sparkling water or artisanal coffee? We are completely fine, thank you, Crew answered smoothly, and Sloan noticed how he positioned himself just a fraction of an inch closer to her than strictly necessary, their knees nearly touching. Patricia sat down in a sleek chair opposite them, crossing her legs with quiet authority. Now then, I have thoroughly reviewed your digital transformation proposal for our upcoming brand rollout, Crew. Exceptional, highly innovative work, but I will be completely honest with you—I was originally on the fence about whether Sterling and Associates had the creative grit for a project this massive.

Sloan felt Crew tense up beside her on the sofa. And then I happened to catch that photograph online this morning, Patricia continued with a knowing smile, followed by the video footage. Do you know what struck me the most about it? What was that, Patricia? Crew asked cautiously. Pure, unfiltered authenticity. In my forty years navigating the cutthroat corporate world, I have learned to spot phonies, sycophants, and actors from a mile away—people who wear corporate masks and simply parrot what they think I want to hear. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the glass table. But that raw, clumsy moment on a wet city sidewalk was entirely genuine. A man who spots something he truly values and immediately goes after it, consequences be damned. If only she knew the profound irony dripping from every syllable. That is precisely the kind of bold, unfiltered thinking Maxwell Industries needs right now, Patricia declared firmly. Someone who refuses to just follow a safe playbook and instead has the courage to rewrite the rules. She turned her gaze to Sloan with a gentle smile. And you, my dear, the absolute devotion in the way you looked up at him in that captured frame—it was like you were looking at both the greatest blessing and the most wonderful disaster to ever walk into your life. Sloan nearly choked on her own saliva, coughing lightly into her fist. That is, um, remarkably accurate assessment, she squeaked out. Crew offered a cough of his own to cover a suppressed laugh. How long have you two actually been together now? Patricia inquired, resting her chin on her hand. Six months, they answered in unison with terrifying, laser-like precision.

Absolute gold star for synchronization and preparation, Patricia chuckled. And how did you two cross paths initially? It was a coffee shop encounter, Sloan took the lead, finding her storytelling rhythm. I clumsily spilled a scalding hot latte all over his very expensive designer suit. She was completely mortified about ruining wool fabric, Crew added helpfully. She kept profusely apologizing and offering to pay for professional dry cleaning on the spot. So naturally, I bypassed the dry cleaning and asked her out to dinner instead. And you immediately said yes? Patricia raised an eyebrow at Sloan. Well, not immediately, Sloan felt herself getting entirely too invested in the fictional narrative. I initially thought he was just being overly polite out of pity, so he had to ask me out multiple times. Four separate times, Crew corrected her softly, his eyes sparkling with mirth. You made me work very hard for that first date. The rich timber of his voice, combined with the intense way he was staring down at her, made the whole charade feel uncomfortably real. Sloan’s heart executed a strange, unauthorized flutter that she definitely did not have time to process. Patricia looked practically radiant with satisfaction. This is precisely what my brand needs to see. Maxwell Industries is not merely about cold technology and software metrics; it is about people, human connection, and genuine relationships. She stood up from her chair and extended her hand directly to Crew. Congratulations, Mr. Dalton. You have officially secured the Maxwell account.

Crew stood up so fast he nearly tipped the low coffee table over onto the designer rug. Are you completely serious? Absolutely serious. I will have my legal team draft the formal contracts by the end of the week. Patricia turned and shook Sloan’s hand firmly as well. And congratulations to you both on your wonderful engagement. I fully expect to receive a formal wedding invitation when the big day arrives. You can absolutely count on that, Sloan heard herself blurt out without a moment of hesitation. I would not dream of getting married without you there to celebrate. What on earth was wrong with her mouth today? They floated out of the executive office—or rather, Crew floated on cloud nine while Sloan stumbled along in a dazed, overwhelmed haze. The microsecond the elevator doors slid shut and sealed them inside, Crew let out a loud, triumphant whoop that echoed off the metal walls. We actually pulled it off! Can you even believe it? He spun around to face her, but whatever expression he caught on her face made him pause instantly. Wait, what is wrong? You just promised a corporate titan a wedding invitation! Are you out of your mind? You were the one who agreed right along with me! Because you were actively improvising wild fairy tale stories about asking me out four separate times! I was improvising under pressure, which is a required survival skill in these executive situations. These situations? Sloan’s voice pitched upward in disbelief. Just how many fake engagements have you practiced for in your spare time? This is my absolute first time running a scam of this magnitude, obviously, but she honestly expects an invitation to a wedding that does not exist, Crew!

The elevator chimed softly, indicating the ground floor, and the doors opened to reveal the bustling lobby. Crew grabbed her elbow gently and steered her toward a quiet corner near the revolving doors. All right, take a deep breath, we will figure this out together. How on earth do you propose we figure out a wedding invitation for a ceremony that is entirely fictional? We have plenty of months ahead of us. By the time the hypothetical wedding date rolls around, we will have gracefully broken up due to irreconcilable lifestyle differences. Patricia will be so thoroughly absorbed in managing the massive Maxwell account that she will not even remember the wedding chatter. She will not care? Did you not see the expression on her face back there? She is probably already picking out floral centerpieces and color swatches! You are catastrophizing a minor detail. I am being brilliantly realistic. They were standing dangerously close now, almost nose-to-nose in the quiet corner, both breathing a little faster than normal. A security guard slowly walked past them, offering a knowing, approving smile. Crew ran a distracted hand through his already messy hair. Look, tomorrow morning is your high-stakes Forever Weddings pitch, right? Right, so we focus entirely on conquering that next hurdle one crisis at a time. We can deal with Patricia and the fake wedding invitation later down the road. Later, Sloan repeated dubiously. Sure, because absolutely nothing about this runaway train could possibly get any more complicated.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, followed instantly by two more rapid vibrations. She pulled it out with a grimace. Text messages were pouring in by the dozen: a string of excited alerts from Jessica at reception shouting, Oh my god, you are literally featured on Page Six; a panicked ping from her college roommate asking when she was planning to drop the news; and an urgent message from her father warning that her mother was hyperventilating and demanding an immediate phone call. And then she saw the headline blinking back at her from the screen: the Page Six digital article had just dropped. Viral Proposal Couple Revealed: Meet Sloan Mitchell and Crew Dalton, NYC’s newest power couple. The article featured multiple candid paparazzi-style photos of them leaving the morning cafe hand-in-hand and entering the Maxwell building together, accompanied by a speculative quote from someone claiming to be Crew’s neighbor who swore he was always the marrying type. We are officially on Page Six, Sloan announced in a flat, emotionless tone. Crew glanced down at his own screen with wide eyes. We are also currently trending on E! News, and People magazine just emailed my desk requesting an exclusive interview. They stared at each other in shell-shocked silence. This is officially fine, Crew murmured. Do not you dare say that word to me again, Sloan snapped. No, listen to me carefully. This morning I was a complete nobody—a junior account manager who could not secure a promotion to save her life. Now I am featured in gossip columns, lying to multi-billionaires, and apparently planning a lavish wedding to a man whose favorite pizza toppings I learned precisely three hours ago. Pepperoni and jalapeño from Tony’s in Brooklyn, Crew offered quietly with a faint smirk. What? My absolute favorite pizza toppings. You actually remembered that detail? Sloan’s simmering anger deflated just a fraction. That is completely beside the point. I know, but you still managed to remember it under pressure. He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping into a much softer, more genuine register. Look, I know this has spiraled entirely out of control, and I know it is terrifying, but we are in this together now. And for what it is worth, you were absolutely phenomenal up there in Patricia’s office. I lied straight through my teeth for an hour. So did I, and we make a remarkably effective team. His crooked smile was almost shy, carrying an undeniable charm. Even if we are a total disaster together, especially because we are such a disaster.

Sloan’s phone interrupted them once more, ringing with the caller ID of Richard Sterling. She swiped to answer. Hi, Richard. Sloan, fantastic news! Forever Weddings corporate team saw the digital Page Six article and they just moved tomorrow’s pitch window up to tonight at seven o’clock sharp. Furthermore, they explicitly requested that your dashing fiancé join us for the presentation this evening. Tonight? As in a few hours from now? This is it, Sloan, your big career-defining moment, so do not screw it up. He hung up without waiting for a reply. Sloan lowered the phone slowly, her gaze fixed on the floor. The Forever Weddings pitch was moved to tonight at seven. Tonight, as in five hours from now. Crew checked his watch with a grimace. All right, okay, we can handle this. What do you need me to do? I need you to be my perfect, supportive, utterly wedding-obsessed fiancé in front of the most prestigious, high-end wedding planning company in New York City. Wedding-obsessed? They plan luxury weddings for a living, Crew, they are going to interrogate us with a million questions. A lot of difficult questions, right? Okay, so what kind of specific questions should we anticipate? Venue preferences, exact guest list sizes, wedding color palettes, first dance songs, artisanal cake flavors. With every single word, Sloan felt the rising tide of panic threatening to drown her. We know absolutely nothing about weddings, we have prepared zero details, and they are going to see straight through our amateur act. Then we start preparing right this second. People have planned actual weddings in less time than five hours. Crew grabbed her hand firmly. Come on, I know a place we can work. Where on earth are we going to plan our entirely fake wedding? He pulled her along toward the sidewalk, and Sloan had the distinct, terrifying sensation that she was either about to pull off the greatest performance of her entire life or crash and burn in a spectacular fireball.

The secret location for planning their fake wedding turned out to be the grand New York Public Library. A public library? Sloan stared up at the iconic stone lions flanking the massive entrance stairs. You dragged me to a public library to plan a fake wedding? Trust me, it is brilliant. Crew led her quickly up the stone steps. It is quiet, has blazing-fast free Wi-Fi, nobody from the office will ever bother us here, and they happen to have an entire exhaustive section dedicated to interior design, event styling, and wedding planning archives. There is an entire section for wedding planning? It is New York City, there is a specialized section for literally everything here. Twenty minutes later, they were tucked away at a quiet corner table surrounded by towering stacks of glossy bridal magazines, heavy event planning guides, and two overpriced lattes from the nearby cart. All right, let us start with the basic framework, Crew opened a clean notebook and uncapped his pen. What kind of wedding do you actually want? I do not want any wedding at all, because the entire concept is a lie. But if we are pretending, what kind of celebration would Sloan Mitchell envision if this were real? Sloan opened her mouth to deliver a sarcastic deflection, but stopped herself. Actually thinking about it, she murmured, keeping it small. Intimate, maybe fifty guests maximum. Somewhere with genuine character and history, rather than some sterile, generic hotel ballroom. Great food, incredible live music, and none of that stuffy, formal protocol nonsense. Crew’s pen scratched rapidly across the paper. Location? I do not know, maybe an outdoor garden or an old historic bookstore. Wouldn’t that be magical? Getting married surrounded by walls of old books. That is actually remarkably cool, he admitted, looking up with a softened expression in his green eyes. What else? Wildflowers instead of traditional imported roses, a live jazz band playing for the reception, and for the cake—she reached over and flipped open a bridal magazine—lemon elderflower cake with buttercream frosting. Simple, elegant, and memorable. You have clearly thought about this before, haven’t you? Every woman daydreams about her hypothetical wedding at some point in her life, it does not mean anything profound. I never claimed it did, he smiled gently. What about color palettes? Sage green and warm gold, not that harsh school bus yellow, but a sophisticated candlelight gold.

Crew kept writing diligently, and Sloan found herself leaning in closer to watch his neat, precise handwriting flow across the page. What about you? she asked curiously. What kind of wedding would Crew Dalton design for himself? I have never really thought about it much, he demurred. Liar, everyone has thought about it. He fell quiet for a moment, his pen hovering motionlessly over the blank paper. Somewhere outdoors near the ocean, where you can hear the waves, he said quietly at last. Nothing overly fancy or pretentious, just surrounded by people you genuinely care about. And the first dance? He paused, his pen stopping entirely. What song? It is probably a bit stupid. Tell me anyway. I always imagined it would be to The Way You Look Tonight, the classic Frank Sinatra version. My parents danced to that exact song at their wedding years ago, before everything in our family got so complicated. Sloan’s chest tightened at the unexpected vulnerability in his tone. That is not stupid at all, it is genuinely sentimental and sweet. Their eyes locked across the narrow table, and for a fleeting second—just one second—Sloan completely forgot that this entire exercise was a fabrication. She forgot about the viral photographs, the corporate lies, and the impossible pressure. It simply felt like two complex people genuinely getting to know one another in a quiet corner of the world.

Crew cleared his throat softly, breaking the lingering spell. Anyway, we should probably pick something much more mainstream because Forever Weddings will definitely expect predictable luxury. No, Sloan interrupted on an impulse. Keep the Frank Sinatra song. It is perfect. Are you completely sure about that? I am entirely sure. They spent the next three consecutive hours meticulously building their fictional wedding from the ground up, ironing out every detail and anticipating every possible question: the venue would be an upstate botanical garden; the target date would be next October; the guest list would consist of close family and intimate friends. They even invented a fictional wedding party, assigning Crew’s sister as the maid of honor and Sloan’s college roommate as a bridesmaid. By the time Crew’s phone alarm chimed to signal their departure time, they had constructed a comprehensive, airtight wedding plan—a completely fake blueprint that felt dangerously, uncomfortably real. We need to get moving, Crew checked his watch with a frown, because evening traffic across town is going to be absolute murder. They gathered their extensive notes into a neat folder, and as Sloan stood up from the wooden bench, her ankle wobbled slightly from the lingering morning strain. Crew instantly reached out and caught her by the elbow to steady her. Steady on there, we cannot afford to have you taking another dramatic fall before the pitch. Ha-ha, very funny, she muttered, though she noticed he did not let go of her arm right away, and she made no active move to pull away either.

Outside the monumental stone library, the Manhattan sun was beginning its descent, painting the late afternoon sky in magnificent shades of bruised purple, dusty pink, and molten gold. The sprawling city was hitting its magical golden hour, where even the chaotic noise and concrete grime took on a romantic cinematic glow. Are you ready for this final hurdle? Crew asked softly, looking down at her. Honestly, no, but let us go face it anyway. He smiled warmly and took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers as they walked briskly toward the soaring glass tower of Forever Weddings, moving as though they were genuinely stride-for-stride toward a shared future. Sloan forcefully pushed down the traitorous whisper in her chest wishing for a single second that it wasn’t all an elaborate act.

Forever Weddings occupied the breathtaking penthouse suite of a modern glass skyscraper in Midtown, and walking through their double doors felt like stepping straight into a fairy tale engineered by a brilliant designer with an unlimited budget and impeccable aesthetic taste. Glistening crystal chandeliers, polished white marble floors, and extravagant floral displays of cascading white peonies, lush orchids, and delicate roses filled every corner—arrangements that likely cost more than Sloan’s annual salary combined. This is deeply intimidating, she whispered under her breath to Crew as they waited in the plush reception foyer. You have got this completely under control, he reassured her, giving her hand a comforting squeeze. Just keep your focus on the upstate botanical garden next October, fifty intimate guests, sage green and gold accents, and Frank Sinatra playing softly in the background. I know the script, and we are deeply, hopelessly in love with each other. The words felt remarkably strange and heavy rolling off her tongue, carrying a dangerous current of electricity. Miss Mitchell, Mr. Dalton, a polished woman in her early thirties approached them with a clipboard in hand and a brilliantly warm, professional smile. I am Andrea Chen, head of client relations here at Forever Weddings. Everyone upstairs is beyond thrilled to finally meet you both in person. Everyone? Sloan asked, her eyes widening slightly. Oh, absolutely, the entire executive creative team practically begged to sit in on this intimate pitch presentation.

Andrea led them down a wide hallway lined with framed photography of breathtaking luxury weddings. When we saw that your spontaneous moment had gone viral online, well, we knew immediately that Sterling and Associates was the exact right creative partner for our new digital campaign, Andrea chatted amiably. You embody the exact kind of organic, modern love story that our brand wants to celebrate on a global scale. Crew’s grip on her hand tightened reassuringly as they approached a set of frosted glass double doors. They entered a spacious executive conference room, and Sloan felt her stomach drop right down into her designer boots. There were not three polite executives waiting for them; there were twelve people seated around the massive conference table, all turning their heads simultaneously to look at them with expressions ranging from intense curiosity to absolute, unabashed delight. Everyone, Andrea announced brightly to the room, meet Sloan and Crew, our wonderful viral lovebirds. A ripple of genuine applause echoed around the table. Actual, spontaneous applause. Sloan wanted nothing more than to open a trapdoor in the marble floor and melt straight through it. At the head of the table sat a striking woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and sharp, discerning eyes, draped in a designer dress that screamed quiet luxury. Caroline Winters, she introduced herself, standing up to offer them both firm, confident handshakes. I have been orchestrating high-end weddings for thirty years, and I pride myself on being able to spot genuine, unadulterated love from a mile away. She beamed at them. You two clearly have that rare spark. Thank you so much, Sloan managed to force out gracefully. Please, take your seats right here in the center, Caroline gestured warmly. But first, Richard, let us dive right into this pitch presentation.

Richard Sterling was already seated near the end of the table, looking like a man who had successfully won the lottery without buying a ticket. He stood up smoothly and launched into the presentation, detailing Sterling and Associates’ comprehensive vision for the Forever Weddings digital campaign—focusing heavily on real couples, authentic emotional storytelling, and unscripted connection. Sloan barely registered a single word of his corporate jargon. She was far too occupied trying to breathe while twelve pairs of expert eyes observed every micro-expression passing across her face. Crew’s thumb was rhythmically drawing small, soothing circles against the sensitive skin of the back of her hand, providing a steady anchor in the storm. When Richard finally wrapped up his slide deck with a polished flourish, Caroline nodded slowly with deep approval. Exceptional presentation, truly. But I want to hear directly from the couple sitting before us, she declared, turning her undivided attention toward Sloan and Crew. Tell us your personal love story in your own words, and please do not leave out any of the charming details. We want to feature your actual journey as the foundational face of our upcoming campaign.

The face of the national campaign. Sloan’s brain momentarily short-circuited under the intense spotlight. Crew stepped in smoothly without skipping a beat, entirely at ease. Well, like all the greatest, most memorable love stories, ours naturally started with an absolute disaster. Soft laughter rippled around the conference room table. Sloan accidentally spilled a boiling hot latte all over my best business suit at the Blue Roast downtown, he continued effortlessly, and Sloan marveled at how terrifyingly easy it was for him to lie with a charming grin. She was completely mortified, standing there apologizing profusely and offering to pay out of pocket for professional dry cleaning. I took one single look at her standing there flustered and thought to myself, I am going to marry this woman one day. Absolute love at first sight, Andrea sighed dreamily from the corner of the table. More like love at first stubborn coffee stain, Crew joked lightly, eliciting another wave of warm chuckles. But yes, I knew right then. And what about you, Sloan? Caroline leaned forward, resting her chin on her folded hands. When was the exact moment you finally knew he was the one?

The conference room went dead silent, the heavy weight of expectation pressing down on every square inch of the space. Sloan’s mind raced at Mach 3, searching through the fictional narrative for something that would ring utterly true. What would convince these professionals? What felt emotionally resonant enough to sell this elaborate fiction? She turned her head to look directly at Crew, and the words simply bypassed her rational brain and tumbled out of her mouth. Our fourth date, she said softly, her voice carrying a quiet, hypnotic quality. We decided to take a walk through Central Park. It was raining with that typical, miserable New York spring drizzle, and we were originally supposed to have reservations at some fancy upscale restaurant, but Crew casually suggested we just walk and talk in the rain instead. She was technically improvising on the spot, but somehow the memory felt vividly real in her mind. Everybody else was running frantically for indoor cover, but we just kept walking, talking, and getting completely soaked to the bone. She smiled faintly at the phantom memory of a date that had never actually occurred. And at some point during that walk, he said something—I honestly do not even remember the exact words now—but it made me laugh so hard I actually snorted out loud, which is thoroughly embarrassing, by the way. I absolutely loved every second of it, Crew murmured, and his voice carried a raw, tender edge that scraped against her ribs. And he looked at me right then, Sloan continued, her gaze locked onto his, like I was the most fascinating thing he had ever laid eyes on. Not despite the embarrassing snorting, or the ruined hair, or the waterlogged clothes, but specifically because of all those imperfect things—like he saw the genuine, unfiltered me beneath the surface and decided he never wanted to look away. She paused, swallowing hard. That was the precise moment I knew.

The room remained completely, reverently silent for several long beats. Then, someone near the back sniffled softly, and Andrea could be seen quickly dabbing at the corner of her eye with a pristine tissue. That is profoundly beautiful, Caroline said, her voice noticeably thick with emotion. That is precisely the kind of raw, imperfect, human story we have been desperate to tell through our brand. So, regarding the execution of the campaign, Richard smoothly reinserted himself into the conversation, clearly recognizing that they had secured total victory. We would feature Sloan and Crew’s real journey from their impromptu engagement all the way up to their upcoming wedding day—behind-the-scenes content, planning sessions, the entire emotional arc. Authentic storytelling that showcases Forever Weddings’ unmatched expertise, culminating in their actual wedding ceremony. Caroline’s eyes lit up with uncontainable professional excitement. You would actually allow our team to design, plan, and comprehensively document your real wedding? Oh, we would be deeply honored, Crew replied without hesitation, though Sloan felt his muscles tense up rigid beside her on the chairs. Absolutely wonderful! We need to sit down and discuss all the fine logistical details right away. When is the targeted date for the ceremony? Next October, Sloan answered promptly. The venue will be the Riverside Botanical Gardens upstate, Crew chimed in smoothly to maintain the rhythm. Guest count capped strictly at fifty people, give or take a few. Color palette? Sage green and candlelight gold.

They were absolutely nailing every single beat, firing off answers with seamless precision, every detail matching the notes they had hurriedly scribbled down in the public library earlier that afternoon. Caroline looked practically euphoric. Have you two already chosen your official first dance song? The Way You Look Tonight, they answered in unison. The entire conference room practically melted into puddles of romance. Frank Sinatra, an older female executive near the end of the table pressed a trembling hand against her chest. That was my parents’ wedding song as well, it is utterly timeless. You two are absolute perfection, Caroline declared, standing up from her executive chair with finality. Richard, I will be completely transparent with you—we were originally evaluating three different top-tier agencies for this massive campaign, but after spending this hour with Sloan and Crew, she smiled warmly, there is simply no competition left. The account is yours. Richard looked like he might genuinely pass out from pure professional ecstasy right there on the carpet. Thank you so much, Caroline, you will not regret placing your trust in Sterling and Associates. I know with absolute certainty that we will not, Caroline turned her beaming gaze back toward the young couple. Now, I insist that you both stay for a celebratory glass of champagne with our team before you head out for the evening.

Before Sloan could formulate any polite excuse to escape, staff members materialized smoothly around the room carrying crystal flutes of chilled champagne and silver trays of gourmet hors d’oeuvres. The creative team members crowded around them eagerly, everyone wanting to clink glasses, ask enthusiastic questions, and hear more romantic anecdotes about their relationship. Crew kept his strong arm securely wrapped around the curve of her waist, providing a solid, comforting physical presence, and she found herself leaning her weight into his side—not because onlookers were watching, but because she genuinely needed the physical anchor. This entire evening was simply too massive, too surreal, too emotionally high-stakes. When did he actually propose to you this morning? a young designer asked curiously, sipping her champagne. Oh, it was entirely spontaneous, Crew laughed easily, playing his part to perfection. I simply woke up, looked at her across the room, and realized I could not wait another single second to lock her down. Do you already have the physical ring picked out? It is currently being resized by the jeweler, Sloan chimed in quickly, remembering their rehearsed cover story. It is a priceless family heirloom. How did both of your respective families react to the sudden news? My mother is already stress-planning a massive rehearsal dinner from afar, Sloan answered with a wry smile, which happened to be the absolute truth given her mother’s frantic morning voicemails.

The rapid-fire questions kept coming, and they kept fielding them with practiced ease, their collaborative backstory growing richer and more detailed with every single retelling. It was a flawless theatrical performance from start to finish. And that precise realization was what terrified Sloan the most—because somewhere between the quiet wooden tables of the public library and this glittering penthouse suite, the invisible line separating their elaborate performance from cold reality had begun to completely dissolve. An hour later, they finally managed to make their polite excuses and escape into the cool, crisp night air of Midtown. Sloan took a deep, shuddering breath of the city breeze, trying to steady her racing pulse. We actually pulled it off, Crew murmured, sounding slightly dazed as he stared down at the pavement. We successfully executed the impossible. The official face of the national campaign, Sloan repeated softly in disbelief. They actually want to document our real wedding ceremony, which we will eventually have to plan and then gracefully cancel closer to the actual date under the guise of some tragic family emergency or something. A fabricated family emergency that conveniently cancels a high-profile wedding they are actively planning and filming for national television, Crew groaned, rubbing his palms over his face. Okay, yeah, that is a massive logistical problem. You think?

They began walking down the sidewalk without any particular destination in mind, simply moving because standing still felt entirely impossible. That rainy fourth date story you invented back there, Crew said after a long stretch of comfortable silence, was genuinely good. Exceptionally good, actually. I made the whole thing up on the spot, you know. I know you did, but it felt—he trailed off, leaving the sentence hanging in the cool night air. Real, Sloan finished his sentence for him in a quiet whisper. Yeah, they walked in companionable silence for another full block while the city hummed its familiar nocturnal soundtrack around them—distant police sirens wailing, car horns blaring, and pedestrians laughing—none of it feeling remotely normal anymore.

Can I ask you something personal? Crew’s voice was remarkably careful and hesitant. That story you told back in the boardroom about knowing the exact moment you knew your ex was the wrong one—have you ever actually experienced that kind of genuine certainty in your life? Sloan thought briefly about deflecting or lying to protect her pride; it certainly would have been much safer. Once, back in college, she admitted quietly, her gaze fixed on the concrete ahead. His name was Daniel, and we dated seriously for two years. I genuinely thought he was it—you know, the one I would spend my life with. She let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. Turns out he had been quietly seeing someone else behind my back for six months. When I finally uncovered the truth and confronted him, he looked me dead in the eye and told me that I was simply too much—too ambitious, too driven, too intensely focused on my career goals to ever be a proper girlfriend. What an absolute idiot, Crew muttered fiercely. Maybe he was right. Or maybe he was just profoundly insecure, and maybe I am actually too much for anyone to handle.

Crew stopped walking abruptly on the crowded sidewalk, turning to face her with intense gravity. Sloan, look directly at me right now. She lifted her chin to meet his gaze. You are never too much for the right person. You are precisely the right amount of everything. Any man who is intimidated by your drive and your brilliance simply does not deserve to occupy space in your life. A passing streetlamp illuminated the sharp angle of his jaw and the fierce, protective intensity burning in his green eyes. He meant every single word, and she could feel the absolute sincerity vibrating in his voice. What about your own history? she asked softly, turning the tables back to him. You mentioned earlier that you are notoriously bad at commitment. Why is that? His jaw tightened noticeably, the muscles flexing. My parents went through a profoundly messy, remarkably ugly divorce when I was fifteen years old. My father cheated repeatedly, my mother completely fell apart emotionally, and I had a front-row seat watching the entire foundation of our family implode. He shoved both hands deep into his coat pockets, staring down at the pavement. I watched my father stand up and promise forever to my mother, and then break that promise without blinking an eye. I watched my mother invest her entire soul into a happily-ever-after that got systematically destroyed. And from that wreckage, I learned a very specific lesson about love. He paused, his voice dropping an octave. Love is ultimately just a convenient story we invent and tell ourselves until harsh reality inevitably shows up to break the spell. That is a deeply sad way to view the world, Sloan whispered. That is simply a realistic way to survive it. Maybe so, or maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet who makes the risk worthwhile. Maybe the right person simply does not exist for people like us. You do not genuinely believe that, do you? Do I?

They stared at each other in the glowing city light, and a palpable shift occurred in the atmosphere crackling between them—something dangerous, electric, and utterly terrifying. Crew’s phone suddenly buzzed loudly in his pocket, shattering the intense moment like thin glass. He pulled it out, glanced at the glowing screen, and his facial expression instantly morphed into utter disbelief. You have got to be kidding me right now. What is it this time? He turned the screen toward her to reveal a text message from an unknown number: Just saw you featured on the local news clips tonight. Massive congratulations, little brother! Can’t wait to finally meet your mysterious fiancée in person. I am flying into the city tomorrow morning to surprise you. Ivy, your younger sister, Sloan read aloud. My exceptionally nosy, deeply opinionated, remarkably perceptive sister who possesses an absolute superpower for seeing straight through amateur charades in about thirty seconds flat. She is arriving tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning, they repeated in unison. They stared at each other with wide eyes. This is officially fine, Sloan muttered sarcastically. Stop using that word, but they both abruptly broke down into a bout of slightly hysterical, entirely overwhelmed laughter that echoed down the empty side street. When they finally managed to catch their breath, Crew was wiping a stray tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. All right, here is our tactical game plan: Ivy lands tomorrow, and we simply have to convince her through sheer acting talent that we are genuinely, deeply in love. Just that simple, Sloan sighed. Just that utterly impossible. He offered a crooked, sympathetic smile. But hey, we managed to fool a room full of hardened corporate executives and wedding professionals today. What is one more sharp-witted person? Your sister who happens to know you better than anyone else on the planet. Minor logistical detail, he shrugged.

Sloan’s phone rang insistently in her palm—her mother calling once again. She declined the call with a sigh. My parents are demanding to fly in to meet you, too, by the way. Naturally they are. My mother is probably already researching local premarital counseling centers. Premarital counseling? We are not even actually engaged! Try explaining that minor technicality to my mother. They started walking slowly toward her apartment building once more, and somewhere along the pavement, their hands naturally found each other again, fingers intertwining as if they had performed the motion a thousand times before. Crew, she murmured softly. Yeah? That fictional story you told back in the boardroom about knowing instantly that you wanted to marry me at the coffee shop—did any part of you actually mean it? He fell quiet for a long, agonizingly drawn-out moment. Too long of a silence. I honestly do not know anymore, he admitted finally, his voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. And that is precisely what terrifies me to my core. Sloan’s heart executed that familiar, stupidly hopeful flutter once more.

They finally reached the entrance of her apartment building, standing quietly on the concrete step where neither of them seemed willing to say goodnight first. Tomorrow morning at ten sharp, Crew broke the silence, I will pick you up, we will grab coffee, and we will review our survival game plan before Ivy arrives at your door. Okay, that sounds like a plan. And Sloan? Yeah? That comment Daniel made years ago about you being too much—he stepped a fraction of an inch closer, his gaze burning into hers—he was profoundly, categorically wrong. You are not too much. You are simply just right. He leaned forward and pressed a quick, incredibly soft kiss against her cheek—likely intended as a casual gesture just in case any late-night pedestrians were watching. But it felt like a lightning strike across her skin. Then he turned and walked away down the sidewalk, leaving Sloan standing frozen on her doorstep like a complete fool, touching her warm cheek with trembling fingers.

Once safely inside her tiny apartment, she collapsed onto the sofa with her face buried in a throw pillow, her mind racing at a million miles an hour. Just forty-eight hours ago, she was an invisible corporate drone; now she was a viral internet sensation, a publicly engaged fiancée, living a sprawling web of delicious lies, and developing very real, very dangerous romantic feelings for a guarded man who fundamentally did not believe in the institution of love. Her phone buzzed gently against the cushions—a simple text message from Crew: Thanks for today. You were genuinely amazing under pressure. See you tomorrow morning. She smiled softly against her pillow, typing back a quick response: You too. See you tomorrow. Then a second later, a follow-up message pinged on her screen: P.S. I definitely was not lying about that cheek kiss just now, for the record. Sloan stared at the illuminated words, her heart hammering against her ribs. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This entire arrangement was supposed to be a temporary business transaction, a clean theatrical performance. So why did it suddenly feel like the single most authentic, terrifying thing happening in her entire life?

Sloan woke up the following morning to seventy-three unread text messages, fourteen frantic missed phone calls, and a profound, heavy sense of impending doom. The text messages were a chaotic digital archive from every single person she had ever crossed paths with—high school acquaintances, distant cousins, and even that girl she had once shared a hot yoga mat with—all variations of variations of oh my god, huge congratulations, why didn’t you tell me the big news, and can I please secure an invitation to the wedding? The missed calls were predominantly from her mother, demanding an immediate audience, while the overwhelming dread in her stomach was entirely dedicated to the impending arrival of Crew’s hyper-observant sister in approximately two hours.

She was standing in the middle of her cramped bedroom staring blankly into her closet trying to decide what someone wears to meet their fake fiancé’s deeply protective sibling when her doorbell rang. Exactly ten o’clock in the morning, right on schedule. Sloan unlocked and pulled open the door to find Crew standing on the threshold holding two steaming cardboard coffee cups, looking devastatingly handsome in dark tailored denim and a casual gray Henley shirt. Good morning, fiancée, he greeted her with a warm smile, handing her one of the cups. It is far too early in the morning for corporate humor. It is never too early for accurate humor. He stepped past her into the apartment, and Sloan was instantly struck by how remarkably small her living space felt the moment he occupied it. Are you mentally prepared for this interrogation? Not even a fraction of a percent, she confessed, taking a cautious sip of the hot brew. Perfect. One sugar, heavy splash of oat milk. Just how did you miraculously know how I take my coffee? I pay close attention to the details. His green eyes locked onto hers, holding her gaze with that signature, heart-stopping intensity. Right, paying close corporate attention because we are maintaining a high-stakes performance, she stammered slightly. Exactly, a theatrical performance. But for a long moment, neither of them made any move to break eye contact or put physical distance between them.

Her phone buzzed sharply on the kitchen counter, shattering the heavy tension like thin glass. A text message popped up from an unknown number: Hi Sloan, this is Ivy! Just touched down at LaGuardia and landing an Uber in an hour. Can’t wait to finally meet the legendary woman who managed to break my stubborn brother’s lifetime commitment phobia. See you both very soon! She uses an aggressive number of exclamation points in a single text, Sloan observed nervously. She tends to use an aggressive amount of energy for everything in life, Crew sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. All right, here are the vital survival things you need to know about my sister: she is twenty-six, works as a senior graphic designer, holds loud, uncompromising opinions about everything under the sun, and can read human micro-expressions better than anyone I have ever met. She is going to ask deeply invasive, uncomfortable questions, she will completely reject surface-level corporate answers, and she will not believe we are actually in love for one microsecond unless we completely sell the illusion. No pressure at all, then. Exactly, zero margin for error. He began pacing the small floorboards. Furthermore, she knows intimately that I have a pathological aversion to traditional relationships, so the abrupt revelation that I am suddenly engaged out of nowhere is going to trip every single protective red flag she possesses. Understood. Anything else I should prepare for? She is fiercely protective of me. Back when our parents went through that brutal divorce, I essentially stepped up to raise her—making sure she stayed fed, getting her safely through high school, and eventually paying out of pocket for her design school tuition. His voice dropped into a softer, rougher register. She is quite literally the single most important person in my life, which means if she smells bullshit and refuses to buy this story, the entire house of cards collapses instantly.

Sloan set her coffee mug down on the counter with a definitive clatter. Crew, look at me right this second. He stopped his restless pacing and turned to face her. We successfully convinced a multi-billion-dollar tech mogul and an entire board of elite luxury wedding planners yesterday. We can certainly handle one sharp-witted younger sister. You simply do not understand Ivy. Then stop worrying and tell me about her. Really tell me who she is. What does she genuinely love? What makes her laugh out loud? What kind of person would actually make her believe you could fall this hard? Crew fell silent for a long moment, his green eyes slowly studying her face with quiet wonder. You are remarkably good at this, you know. At what exactly? Caring about people. Actually seeing what is beneath the surface. He took a slow step closer to her. Ivy loves terrible, trashy reality television shows, she unashamedly cries at viral rescue videos of golden retrievers, she holds a militant belief that putting pineapple on pizza is an unforgivable crime against humanity, and she will physically fight anyone who dares to argue with her about it. Noted for the record: absolutely no pineapple pizza ever again. She fundamentally wants me to be happy—not merely professionally successful or financially accomplished, but genuinely, deeply happy in my personal life. His voice dropped to a low murmur. And I haven’t been happy in a very long time, and she knows it better than anyone. So we show her tonight that you are genuinely happy now, right? The delicate question hung heavily in the vibrating air between them. I honestly do not know anymore, Sloan admitted, her voice trembling slightly. But I do know one thing for certain: I am no longer pretending when I genuinely laugh at your terrible jokes, or when you hold my hand, or when you—she abruptly caught herself, biting her lower lip. When I what? Nothing, just forget it. Sloan, tell me the rest of that sentence. When you look at me the exact way you are looking at me right this very second.

The oxygen in the small apartment suddenly felt entirely too thin to breathe. Crew’s phone rang out loudly, shattering the fragile moment like porcelain. He checked the display and grimaced apologetically. She managed to catch an earlier express shuttle; she is already at the Bean Cafe down the street and wants us to rendezvous there right now. Now, as in this exact second? Now, as in we have roughly ten minutes to sprint down three blocks. Sloan frantically grabbed her purse, snatched her coat from the peg, and mentally strapped herself in for the most dangerous performance of her life. They were just turning toward the apartment door when Crew reached out and caught her gently by the forearm. Hey, whatever chaos happens during this lunch, I just want you to know something important. He paused, his thumb brushing over her pulse point. I am genuinely, profoundly glad that you literally fell into my arms on that rainy Monday morning. Sloan’s heart executed a full, breathtaking somersault. Even though it completely derailed both of our professional lives? Especially because of that exact moment.

The Bean Cafe was packed to absolute capacity with the chaotic Saturday morning commuter rush—families with strollers, exhausted parents, college students huddled over laptops. Sloan spotted her target immediately near the sunlit front window. Ivy Dalton looked remarkably like a pixie-cut, younger female clone of her brother: possessing the same striking green eyes and sharp facial features, but elevated with vibrant purple-streaked hair and at least a dozen sparkling ear piercings. She was sitting at a corner table tapping her fingernails impatiently against the wood, and the moment she spotted them walking through the glass door, her entire face lit up with a brilliant grin. Big brother! She launched herself out of her chair, nearly knocking over two neighboring wooden chairs in her enthusiastic haste. Crew caught her by the shoulders, laughing warmly as she crashed into his chest. Hey there, Sprout. Do not you dare call me Sprout in public anymore, I am twenty-six years old, she scolded playfully, though she was grinning from ear to ear. Then she abruptly pivoted her gaze toward Sloan, and those sharp green eyes instantly shifted into analytical, diagnostic mode. And you must be Sloan. Hi, it is so wonderful to finally meet you, Sloan extended a polite hand in greeting. Ivy completely ignored the outstretched hand and instead pulled her straight into a tight, enthusiastic bear hug. We are practically family now, and I am a hugger, so deal with it. Oh, um, okay, Sloan blinked in surprise, awkwardly returning the embrace.

When Ivy finally pulled back, she kept her hands planted on Sloan’s shoulders, studying her face with unnerving, clinical intensity. Wow, you are genuinely, breathtakingly gorgeous—like, intimidatingly pretty in person. Um, thank you so much, I am honestly just relieved. Crew usually dates high-fashion runway models—you know, the emotionally unavailable Instagram influencer archetype, Ivy noted bluntly, turning her attention back to her brother. No offense intended to your past taste. Some minor offense taken, Crew dryly remarked, sliding into the booth. They all settled into the booth, and a harried waiter materialized instantly at their table. After a rapid-fire round of orders—Ivy demanding an iced oat milk latte with two extra espresso shots because long flights and desperate times call for heavy caffeine—she leaned across the small table, propping her chin in her hands. All right, I want the full debrief, and by that I mean absolutely everything from the beginning. What exactly do you want to know first? Crew asked defensively. Oh, I don’t know, maybe how my chronically commitment-phobic brother, who swore on our mother’s grave that he would never legally shackle himself to anyone, suddenly gets engaged out of nowhere to someone I have never once heard him mention in a casual conversation, capped off by a viral proposal currently trending across the entire internet? It was completely spontaneous on both our parts, Sloan offered calmly. But a spontaneous sidewalk meeting doesn’t mathematically explain six solid months of a secret relationship that I was kept entirely in the dark about. Crew shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I preferred to keep my personal life intensely private for once. You mean you kept her as a total classified government secret? I did not—did you even bother introducing her to our parents yet? Ivy fired back, raising an eyebrow at Sloan. Not quite yet, actually, Sloan hesitated, feeling the trap closing in. Interesting, because usually when someone is genuinely serious about building a life with a partner, introducing them to close family is step number two after dating for half a year.

This conversation was spiraling down the drain at supersonic speed. Crew simply wanted to wait until the timing was completely right and stable, Sloan interjected quickly, scrambling to defend the timeline. Given his lingering trust issues surrounding our parents’ toxic divorce— I am well aware of the deep-seated trust issues, Ivy interrupted sharply, her voice losing its playful edge. I lived through the exact same messy divorce proceedings, remember? What I cannot wrap my head around is why my older brother, who systematically ghosted his last three serious girlfriends the exact millisecond they nervously uttered the word relationship, suddenly decided to propose marriage to a coworker on a public street corner out of nowhere. Because I am deeply in love with her, Crew stated plainly. The ambient cafe noise around them seemed to instantly muffle and fade into the background. Crew was looking directly at Sloan, and the naked expression of raw truth stamped across his features was so intense, so completely unguarded, that for a full three seconds she completely forgot Ivy was even sitting across from them. I know it all sounds impossibly fast from the outside looking in, he continued softly, his gaze locked onto Sloan’s eyes. And I know I have spent my entire adult life running away from anything resembling permanence. But when you finally cross paths with someone who effortlessly makes you want to be a better version of yourself—someone who bravely looks past all the thick concrete walls you spent decades constructing—you do not just let them walk away. You grab onto them with both hands and refuse to let go, even when every instinct in your body tells you to panic. Sloan felt the breath entirely leave her lungs, trapped somewhere in her chest. That is genuinely beautiful, Ivy murmured quietly. And when Sloan finally managed to break her gaze away to check the younger sister’s reaction, she noticed that Ivy’s eyes were suspiciously glistening with unshed tears. But I am still not entirely convinced. Ivy, come on— Crew started to protest. No, listen to me, big brother. I want nothing more in this world than for you to be happy—desperately happy. But I also know your psychological defensive patterns inside and out. Ivy pulled out her smartphone and tapped the screen to display the viral photograph. This exact moment captured on camera looks profoundly real, but I have personally witnessed you fake happiness before—at our father’s disastrous wedding to Barbara, and at every tense family holiday dinner where you plastered on a fake smile and pretended everything was fine. She looked back and forth between them. So I need you to prove it to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. Prove what exactly? Sloan asked, her throat tightening. Prove that this relationship is real. Not a clever corporate publicity stunt, not a desperate business arrangement to salvage a failing pitch, and not whatever elaborate scheme you two cooked up to survive the week.

Crew’s hand instinctively searched out and found Sloan’s fingers resting on the wooden table, interlacing them tightly. What specific test do you want us to pass? Answer one simple question each, completely honestly, Ivy leaned back against the leather cushion with an uncompromising stare. Sloan, you go first: what is Crew’s absolute biggest, most deeply buried fear? Sloan’s mind raced through every fragment of conversation they had shared. What had he accidentally revealed during their quiet moments of vulnerability? That he is terrified of ultimately turning out just like his father, she said quietly, her voice steady and clear. He is terrified that he will inevitably make grand promises he cannot possibly keep, and in doing so, end up emotionally destroying the people he cares about most. So instead of risking failure, he makes zero permanent promises at all, refuses to let anyone get close enough to leave a mark, and secretly worries that he is fundamentally broken beyond repair. Ivy’s green eyes widened slightly, the sharp defensive barrier in her expression cracking open. And Crew, Ivy turned her intense gaze to her brother, his voice dropping an octave softer now. What is Sloan running away from? Crew did not hesitate for a single millisecond. She carries a deeply rooted fear that she is somehow too much for people—that her fierce ambition, her relentless drive, and her refusal to settle for mediocrity make her somehow unlovable. Some toxic ex-boyfriend told her years ago that she was far too intense, and she unfortunately believed the lie. So she pushes herself to work twice as hard, achieves twice as much, secretly hoping that if she becomes successful enough and accomplished enough, someone will finally look at her and decide she is actually worth staying for.

Sloan felt a hot, traitorous sting of tears prickle fiercely behind her eyelids. How on earth did he pick up on that? She had mentioned Daniel in passing for all of thirty seconds, yet Crew had looked straight through the armor and identified the bruised insecurity hiding underneath. Ivy remained completely silent for a long, heavy stretch of time. Then, very slowly, a genuine, brilliant smile broke across her face—reaching all the way up to crinkle the corners of her eyes. All right, she whispered softly at last. I completely believe you both. Are you actually serious? Crew let out a long, shaky breath of sheer disbelief. You believe us just like that? Because you can successfully fake a lot of superficial things in this life, big brother, but you cannot fake someone knowing the hidden, bruised corners of your soul that deeply. Ivy reached across the table and firmly placed both her hands over theirs. Besides, I have never once in my entire life seen you look at another human being the way you are looking at her right now—like she is the morning sun and you are finally feeling warm for the first time. Sloan’s vision blurred completely with happy tears. Now, can we please pivot the conversation to actual, important wedding planning details? Ivy bounced excitedly in her seat, her earlier skepticism entirely evaporated. Because I have a million incredible design concepts floating in my head! Have you settled on a concrete color palette yet? What about the florist? And please, for the love of everything holy, tell me you are not going to serve a traditional tiered fruitcake because I know this phenomenal artisan baker who builds modern architectural sculptures entirely out of French macarons. Ivy, take a deep breath and pace yourself, Crew laughed, shaking his head.

They spent the next full hour enthusiastically plotting and debating the details of their entirely fictional wedding—a planning session that somehow felt increasingly, intoxicatingly real with every passing minute. Ivy pulled out her phone to show digital Pinterest mood boards, drafted color swatches, and passionately debated the structural merits of botanical succulents versus cascading wildflowers. And through the entire animated conversation, Crew kept his thumb resting against the back of Sloan’s hand, rhythmically drawing those small, familiar, comforting circles that had quickly become her favorite anchor in the world. When Ivy finally excused herself to briefly visit the cafe restroom, Sloan let out a long, trembling breath of relief. That was easily the most terrifying interrogation of my professional life. That was simply my sister going remarkably easy on us because she likes you, Crew smiled softly. But we successfully passed her test. You were incredible back there, Sloan. So were you, she murmured. That raw thing you said about being the sun—I genuinely meant every single word of it. Their eyes locked in a profound, unshielded moment. Crew, I— His phone abruptly buzzed against the table. He glanced down at the screen, and his entire physical posture instantly went rigid, the warmth draining from his features. What is wrong this time? He turned the display toward her to reveal a formal email notification from Patricia Maxwell’s executive assistant: Ms. Maxwell warmly invites you and your fiancé to attend an intimate, private engagement dinner party tomorrow evening at her Upper East Side townhouse. Strictly close family and VIP associates. She is incredibly excited to personally celebrate your beautiful love story. Please confirm your attendance by this afternoon. Formal attire required. Sloan felt the blood drain from her face. An intimate dinner party with close family and VIP associates, which inherently means— My father, Crew finished the sentence for her in a harsh, strained whisper. My father, whom I have deliberately not spoken to in over two years, and whom I intentionally did not inform about this fake engagement because I knew he would show up, dissect every detail, and deliberately detonate the entire thing. We simply will not attend, Sloan offered immediately. Patricia is our primary corporate client now; we cannot simply ghost her exclusive invitation. He rubbed his palms heavily over his face in mounting despair. And my father is a ruthless criminal defense attorney—he makes a living professionally dissecting human beings, finding the hidden structural cracks, and exploiting them for maximum damage. Then we simply refuse to give him any structural cracks to exploit. Sloan, you fundamentally do not understand the man. He will systematically dismantle this entire illusion piece by piece just for sport.

Ivy returned from the restroom at that exact moment, instantly sensing the heavy, suffocating tension hanging over the table. What on earth just happened? Patricia Maxwell is hosting an exclusive private engagement dinner party for us tomorrow evening, Crew stated flatly. And our father is guaranteed to be on the guest list. Ivy’s vibrant face instantly paled. Oh god. What does that specific reaction mean? Sloan asked, her anxiety spiking. Oh god, what? Brother and sister exchanged a dark, heavy look across the table. Our father, Ivy explained with a cold edge in her voice, is not a remotely kind or decent human being. He is exceptionally charming, wildly successful, and entirely toxic. He firmly believes that Crew’s creative career is beneath him, he views human relationships as transactional leverage, and he will actively attempt to sabotage this evening purely out of spite. Why would he do that? Because sabotaging whatever success Crew builds has practically been his lifelong hobby, Ivy stated bluntly. Sloan looked across at Crew, seeing the raw tension locked in his jaw and the deep-seated emotional wound he was desperately trying to conceal. Then we simply do not let him win, Sloan said firmly, her voice ringing with sudden resolve. We are going to walk into that party, we are going to look flawless, and we are going to prove to him that you are genuinely happy and that you have built something real. But we cannot do that, Crew murmured quietly, his eyes dark with defeat. That is the fundamental problem here—none of this is actually real.

The blunt words hit Sloan squarely in the chest like a physical blow. Because somewhere over the past forty-eight hours of shared secrets, library planning sessions, and lingering touches, she had almost managed to forget that brutal reality herself. Right, she said, her voice dropping into a cold, flat register as she slowly pulled her hand away from his grasp. It was never real, just a dirty business transaction. Sloan, I didn’t mean it that way— We should probably call it a day, I need to get home and find something formal to wear to a party I am actively dreading, she interrupted, standing up abruptly and grabbing her coat. Sloan, wait a second— Crew reached out to catch her wrist, but she instinctively pulled back out of his reach. I will see you tomorrow evening, just text me the logistical details. She turned and walked out of the coffee shop before he could utter another syllable, before Ivy could intervene, and before the hot tears stinging her eyes had a chance to spill over. Out on the sidewalk, the cold autumn wind slapped against her flushed face. Not real, just business. She had known that fundamental rule from the very first minute. So why did hearing him state it aloud feel like a genuine, devastating heartbreak?

Sloan spent her Sunday afternoon violently stress-baking. By midday, her tiny apartment smelled like a catastrophic commercial bakery explosion—trays of chocolate chip cookies, burnt lemon bars, and a thoroughly botched attempt at croissants that looked more like abstract pastry crimes. She was aggressively piping vanilla frosting onto a batch of cupcakes she had zero intention of ever eating when her doorbell chimed persistently. Go away, Crew, I am not in the mood, she called out toward the door. It is not Crew, a muffled voice shouted back. Sloan unlocked and pulled open the door to find Ivy standing on the threshold holding a large zippered garment bag and wearing an expression of grim determination. We need a serious tactical chat, Ivy announced, pushing past her into the living room without waiting for an invitation. Also, can I please have one of those cookies? I completely skipped breakfast. Help yourself to whatever disaster is on the counter, Sloan muttered, shutting the door. What are you doing here anyway? I am here to save my stubbornly idiotic brother from completely sabotaging his own life, Ivy grabbed three cookies in one hand. And I brought you this—she hoisted the garment bag upward. You desperately need a formal dress for the party tonight, right? I figured since we are roughly the same height, this emerald silk number would fit you like a glove. Ivy, he didn’t even mean it like that. Mean what? Yesterday when he cowardly stated that none of it was real, Ivy dropped the cookies onto the plate, her expression turning deeply serious. He is terrified out of his absolute mind, Sloan. Because the terrifying truth is that it is real to him, and he has zero emotional infrastructure to handle how deeply he has fallen for you. Sloan’s throat tightened painfully. You cannot possibly know that for a fact. I raised him, I know my brother better than he knows himself. I have watched him date runway model after runway model, actress after actress, never allowing anyone remotely close to his core, never letting anyone actually matter. Ivy stepped closer and gently placed a hand on Sloan’s arm. And then you quite literally fell into his arms on a sidewalk, and I watched him fall right back down the rabbit hole. The way he looks at you when you are not paying attention, the way he talks about you—that is not a corporate performance. That is blind panic. He explicitly stated it wasn’t real. He lied straight to your face, straight to his own reflection, and probably to the entire universe because he is a coward when things get emotionally genuine. Ivy grabbed both of her hands firmly. Look, tonight is going to be an absolute bloodbath. Our father is going to be operating at his absolute worst—he is going to try to systematically tear you down, humiliate Crew publicly, and make everyone in that room miserable because that is his favorite sport. And Crew is naturally going to withdraw into his armor and put up his impenetrable walls because that is his only defense mechanism. So what on earth am I supposed to do about it? You show up. You stand shoulder-to-shoulder by his side. You quietly remind him through your actions that not everyone in this world inevitably packs up and leaves when things get complicated. Ivy squeezed her fingers tightly. And maybe, just maybe, you finally find the courage to tell him the absolute truth. What truth? That I am helplessly in love with him, too? The heavy words hung in the vibrating silence of the room. I am not—Sloan stammered defensively. Please, give me some credit. I saw the exact expression on your face when he claimed it was all fake. You do not look that utterly shattered over a broken business contract. Ivy offered a soft, sympathetic smile. You fell hard for him, and it is written all over your entire being. Sloan sank slowly down onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands. This is the biggest, most monumental mess of my entire life. The absolute best things in life usually start out as monumental messes, Ivy patted her shoulder. Now, let us get you zipped into that emerald dress, because tonight we are walking into that Upper East Side townhouse, you are going to look like a million bucks, and we are going to show Marcus Dalton once and for all that his son is fully capable of real, enduring love—even if Crew is still too terrified to admit it to himself.

Patricia Maxwell’s five-story limestone townhouse in the Upper East Side looked like a wealthy film set come to life—pristine brickwork, gleaming brass fixtures, and immaculate floral arrangements. Sloan stood on the sidewalk outside in Ivy’s borrowed emerald silk gown, the deep jewel-tone fabric hugging her silhouette perfectly and making her feel like an entirely different person—someone who naturally belonged at high-society galas. Her hands were trembling violently despite the cool evening air. A sleek black town car pulled silently to the curb, the rear door opened, and Crew stepped out onto the pavement. The moment Sloan saw him, her brain completely forgot how to process oxygen. He was wearing a meticulously tailored black tuxedo, a crisp white dress shirt with the top button casually undone, and no tie. His dark hair was styled loosely with that familiar, charming tousle. He looked like he had just stepped off the glossy cover of a luxury lifestyle magazine. When he spotted her standing near the entrance, he literally stopped dead in his tracks. Wow, he breathed out softly, his green eyes scanning her from head to toe. You look absolutely—borrowed this dress from Ivy, that isn’t what I was going to say at all, he corrected himself, stepping closer until the space between them vanished. He smelled of cedarwood, expensive citrus, and that undeniable essence that was uniquely him. You look breathtaking. You always look breathtaking, honestly. But tonight—he shook his head slightly with a rueful smile—I am going to have to physically fight every single man in that townhouse just to keep them from staring. It is all a fake performance, remember? You said so yourself yesterday, Sloan reminded him quietly. Crew visibly flinched at the callback. Sloan, about what I said yesterday afternoon—I desperately need to explain— Mr. Dalton, Ms. Mitchell, so wonderful to see you both, Patricia’s warm voice interrupted as she swung the grand double doors wide open. Please, come inside, everyone is dying to greet the guests of honor. The fragile moment evaporated instantly.

Stepping inside the townhouse felt like entering a museum of refined wealth: soaring ceilings, glittering crystal chandeliers, and original modern art installations that likely cost more than Sloan’s entire college education. Roughly thirty impeccably dressed guests mingled in the grand parlor with champagne flutes, all turning their heads simultaneously as the new arrivals crossed the threshold. Everyone, Patricia announced brightly to the room, let us welcome our guests of honor once more—Sloan and Crew, the wonderful couple who reminded us all what true, unscripted love looks like in the modern world. Polite, enthusiastic applause rippled through the gathering. Crew’s strong hand instantly found its familiar resting place at the small of her back, and she could feel the rigid tension coiling through his muscles. He is here, Crew whispered under his breath, his jaw tightening. Who is here? The tall man standing near the grand piano in the tailored gray three-piece suit. Sloan followed his line of sight. Marcus Dalton was striking, tall, and impeccably groomed, sporting distinguished silver-streaked hair and the exact same piercing green eyes as his son. He was currently conversing smoothly with a blonde woman half his age, laughing politely at a joke, but his cold, calculating gaze was already locked dead onto Crew. Showtime, Crew murmured darkly.

They circulated through the lavish rooms for the next thirty minutes, Crew professionally introducing Sloan to prominent corporate clients, senior partners, and wealthy investors whose names she instantly forgot the second she heard them. Everyone wanted to hear the charming origin story of their romance; everyone had unsolicited opinions regarding the upcoming wedding aesthetics. One influential executive’s wife enthusiastically offered to personally design their invitations. Through it all, Marcus Dalton remained stationed across the room, watching them like a hawk evaluating its prey. Finally, he detached himself from his companion and strode directly toward them. Crew, his smooth, practiced baritone cut through the murmur of the room. Massive congratulations are clearly in order, or so I keep reading in the morning papers. Dad, Crew’s voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. I genuinely did not expect to see you crawling out of the woodwork tonight. Patricia and I go back decades in this industry; when she mentioned your sudden corporate engagement at the office, I simply had to come see the miracle with my own eyes. Marcus turned his sharp gaze toward Sloan, extending a cool, manicured hand. Marcus Dalton, criminal defense attorney at your service. And you must be the clever young woman who finally managed to trap my notoriously elusive son into a corner. Trapped him? Sloan deliberately bypassed his hand and offered a polite, untouchable smile, refusing to let him see that his intimidation tactics were registering. Well, Crew has never exactly struck me as the domestic, marrying type. He takes entirely after his old man, Marcus chuckled, though the sound carried zero genuine humor. But tell me, how long did you two claim to have been officially dating before this impulsive sidewalk stunt? Six solid months, Sloan answered smoothly without missing a beat. Fascinating timeline, Marcus sipped his champagne slowly. Because I happened to take a private business lunch with Crew just four months ago, and he didn’t mention a single word about a serious girlfriend. In fact, your name didn’t cross his lips once, did it, son? I prefer to keep my private romantic life strictly separate from the corporate office, Crew interjected, his jaw locked so tightly the muscles visibly strained. That is certainly one convenient way to frame it, Marcus smiled thinly, his eyes glinting with malice. Though, as a rule of thumb, when a man is genuinely serious about building a permanent future with a partner, he at least introduces them to his immediate family—unless, of course, there is a compelling reason to keep the entire arrangement carefully hidden in the shadows. Exactly what are you heavily implying here, Marcus? Sloan challenged, stepping half an inch closer. I am not implying anything untoward at all. It simply strikes a trained legal mind as remarkably convenient timing. You both work closely together at Sterling and Associates, your department just landed two massive multi-million-dollar accounts, and suddenly you are broadcasting an engagement to the world. He smiled coldly. As a defense attorney, I have learned to recognize recurring behavioral patterns, and this smells intensely like a calculated pattern. Dad, that is officially enough out of you, Crew warned, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. Is it? Because I am simply trying to understand the logistics. Help me understand, son—what miraculous epiphany suddenly changed your worldview? You spent the past ten years avoiding commitment like a biological plague, and suddenly you are staging a public proposal on a sidewalk to a junior colleague? What is the real underlying story here?

By this point, several nearby guests had paused their conversations, turning their heads to observe the escalating family confrontation. The real story, Sloan spoke up, her voice ringing clear, steady, and resonant across the quiet parlor, is that your son is quite simply the most genuinely kind, deeply caring, and fiercely loyal human being I have ever had the privilege of knowing. And perhaps the real reason he didn’t bother rushing to introduce you to his personal life is because he instinctively knew you would behave exactly like this—trying to systematically tear down his happiness rather than simply celebrating his joy. Marcus’s eyes flashed with sharp irritation. Loyal? You actually think Crew is capable of genuine loyalty? I know for an absolute fact that he is. Did he happen to mention Vanessa to you yet? Marcus sneered, pivoting his attack. No? Well, Vanessa was his devoted fiancée three years ago. He abruptly called off the wedding a mere two weeks before the ceremony was scheduled to take place, essentially abandoning her at the altar. Marcus turned his triumphant gaze back toward Crew. Or did you conveniently forget to drop that delightful little skeleton out of your family closet?

Sloan’s stomach plummeted into a bottomless abyss. She slowly turned her head to look up at Crew. His face had completely drained of all color, leaving him looking ghost-white under the crystal chandelier. That situation was entirely different, Crew muttered, his voice cracking slightly. Was it really? Because from where I am standing in reality, you have a thoroughly documented behavioral pattern of panicking and running for the hills the exact millisecond things get emotionally real. When actual, permanent commitment is finally required of you, Marcus shook his head with mock pity. I am formally placing a personal wager on this current farce lasting six months tops—probably a lot less. You do not know a damn thing about us or what we share, Sloan fired back, her voice shaking with righteous fury. Don’t I? I happen to know my own son intimately. He is pathologically terrified of turning into a replica of me, so he refuses to commit to anything permanent, he refuses to let anyone get close enough to hurt him, and the second someone finally breaks through his defenses—Marcus snapped his fingers loudly in the air—he packs his bags and runs away. He always has, and he always will. That is an absolute lie! Ivy’s voice suddenly sliced through the tense air of the parlor like a sharp blade. She appeared instantly at Crew’s side, her eyes blazing with fury. You do not have the right to stand here and spew poison. You do not get to come into this room and try to systematically dismantle every piece of happiness Crew has built with his own hands. Ivy, Marcus attempted a patronizing tone. No, you lost all parental authority the day you packed your bags and cheated on Mom, destroying our entire family unit from the inside out! Ivy’s voice shook with years of accumulated rage. And then you had the sheer audacity to act like Crew was the broken problem child simply for being rightfully furious about your betrayal. He raised me! He made absolute sure I was fed, clothed, and emotionally stable; he showed up for every single milestone, every graduation, every breakdown of my life. Where were you during all those years? Oh, that is right, busy playing house with wife number three—or is it four now? I genuinely lost count of your revolving door of marriages!

The expansive parlor had gone completely, deafeningly silent; not a single guest dared to breathe or move. Marcus’s expression hardened into an ugly, mask-like sneer. This is private family business, young lady. Then perhaps you should have tried acting like an actual family instead of a corporate board meeting, Ivy shot back fiercely. Patricia Maxwell suddenly materialized from the crowd, her professional smile strained to its absolute breaking point. Perhaps we should all take a collective deep breath and— No, Crew’s quiet voice cut across the room with a definitive finality that stunned everyone into silence. He turned his gaze away from his father and looked directly at Patricia. I am deeply sorry, Patricia. I cannot do this anymore. Crew, please, Sloan reached out, her fingers brushing his sleeve. I simply cannot play this game another second, he whispered, and when he looked down at her, his green eyes were swimming with an unbearable tide of pain, humiliation, and exhaustion. I am profoundly sorry for all of it—for dragging you into this toxic circus, for forcing you to lie to everyone, for—his voice completely fractured on the syllable. You deserve infinitely better than this mess, and you certainly deserve better than a broken man like me. That is not true at all! Sloan cried out. But it is entirely true, he shook his head slowly, taking a deliberate step backward away from her reach. My father is fundamentally right about me. I am cut from the exact same cloth. I make grand promises I cannot sustain, I inevitably hurt the people who care about me, and I cannot—he choked back a heavy breath, shaking his head. I am so sorry.

And then he simply turned around and walked away. He walked right out of the opulent parlor, past the stunned clusters of high-society guests, through the grand double doors of the townhouse, and out into the night—leaving Sloan standing alone in the center of the room under thirty pairs of staring, judgmental eyes. A heavy murmur of whispered gossip instantly erupted among the crowd. Patricia looked genuinely devastated by the abrupt scene, while Marcus Dalton stood nearby wearing a smug, triumphant smirk of self-satisfaction. And in that precise moment, something inside Sloan finally snapped. She was entirely, irreversibly done. Done with hiding behind comfortable lies. Done with tiptoeing around fragile egos. And thoroughly done with standing idly by while the man she had fallen helplessly in love with was poisoned and destroyed by his father’s toxic legacy.

You all want to know the absolute truth? Her voice suddenly rang out across the vast parlor, crystal clear, sharp, and uncompromising. The buzzing room went instantly, dead-silent once more. Crew and I are not actually engaged to be married. Not remotely. We literally met three days ago when I tripped on a wet sidewalk and literally fell straight into his arms, and a stranger happened to snap a photograph that accidentally went viral overnight. We panicked under the intense corporate pressure. We completely fabricated an elaborate story because we both had high-stakes career pitches on the line and we foolishly thought it would give us an edge. We have been lying through our teeth to every single person in this room—to you, Patricia; to you, Caroline; to every executive and investor here. Patricia’s face turned completely pale with shock, while Marcus Dalton let out a loud, mocking laugh. Well, well, look who finally decided to stumble into honesty at long last. I am nowhere near finished talking, Marcus, Sloan spun around to face him with pure fire in her eyes. You want to know what else is absolute truth? Your son is quite simply the finest, most honorable, most deeply compassionate man I have ever crossed paths with in this city. He is kind, brilliantly funny, and he actually sees people—really sees them beneath their armor. He stepped up to raise his younger sister with unwavering devotion when you cowardly abandoned your responsibilities. He works harder, cares deeper, and carries more integrity in his pinky finger than you will ever possess in your entire lifetime. And yes, he is deeply afraid of commitment—but that is not because he is inherently broken; it is because he had a front-row seat watching you systematically murder the very concept of forever! Marcus’s smug smirk instantly evaporated, replaced by a dark, ugly scowl. But here is the vital piece of reality you are entirely incapable of understanding, Marcus: this entire journey started as a stupid, desperate, defensive lie. But somewhere along the way—Sloan’s voice finally cracked slightly on the edge of raw emotion—somewhere along the way through the madness, I fell completely, irrevocably in love with him. Actually, genuinely, terrifyingly in love. Not with a fake social media engagement or a viral news headline, but with the real man who remembers how I take my morning coffee, who intuitively understands my deepest, most guarded insecurities, and who looks at me every day like I am not too much of anything, but precisely the right amount.

Hot tears were streaming freely down her cheeks now, unchecked and unapologetic. So yes, we lied to the corporate world. And yes, I am fully prepared to lose my beloved career and my position at Sterling and Associates over this confession. I thoroughly deserve whatever professional consequences come my way. But I will not stand quietly in this room for one more second and allow you to brainwash him into believing he is fundamentally incapable of receiving love, because that is a blatant lie. He is capable of an infinite amount of love—it simply terrifies him because he cares so deeply, and that vulnerability is not a weakness in his character; it is his greatest, most profound strength. She turned her tear-streaked face back toward Patricia Maxwell. I am deeply, profoundly sorry that we deceived you and your brand. I completely understand if you choose to instantly revoke both accounts from our agency—we entirely earned that punishment. But please, I am begging you, do not punish Richard Sterling or the rest of the innocent staff at the agency for this. This entire elaborate mess belongs solely to us—to me and to Crew. Without waiting for a single person to formulate a response, she turned on her heel, grabbed her heavy winter coat from the foyer attendant, and marched straight out the front doors—ignoring the stunned silence of the high-society guests, ignoring Marcus’s paralyzed expression of shock, and ignoring everything in the universe except the desperate, burning need to find Crew.

She finally located him two blocks away from the townhouse, sitting hunched over on the cold stone steps of a closed neighborhood bookstore, his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried deep in his hands. Hey, she said softly, her voice trembling slightly in the night air as she walked up the steps and sat down beside him. Crew slowly lifted his head, his green eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red. You, you shouldn’t be here tracking me down, he rasped out miserably. You probably have every logical reason in the world to keep running, but here I am anyway, she murmured, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. I walked back into that parlor and told them the absolute truth about everything. What on earth are you talking about? Everything—the fake engagement, the elaborate lies, the viral hoax, all of it. She let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh. I am roughly ninety-nine percent certain I just successfully torched both of our professional careers to ashes. Sloan, why on earth would you deliberately do that? Because I am utterly exhausted by pretending, and because your miserable father was fundamentally wrong about your soul. She shifted closer, turning to face him fully. You are nothing like him. Not even a fraction of an inch. I walked out on Vanessa at the altar three years ago, just like he threw in my face. Tell me what actually happened back then—the unvarnished truth.

Crew fell silent for a long, heavy moment, staring down at the concrete where their shoes almost touched. I was twenty-six years old and completely lost. On paper, she was the epitome of perfection—beautiful, well-connected, and my father absolutely adored her, which should have served as my primary red warning flag. Two weeks before the scheduled wedding date, I had a sudden, terrifying awakening where I realized with absolute clarity that I didn’t actually love her. Not the way a man is supposed to love his partner for a lifetime. I liked her company, sure, but I didn’t love her soul. And I simply couldn’t stand up in front of an altar and swear a sacred vow of forever when every fiber of my being knew it was a complete fabrication. He lifted his gaze to meet Sloan’s eyes. So I panicked, walked away, called the whole thing off, broke her heart into pieces, and triumphantly proved my father’s cynical theory about me being a coward. You didn’t prove you were a coward, Sloan said fiercely, reaching out to cover his cold hand with hers. You proved that you possess immense personal integrity—that you refuse to stand up and utter monumental promises you know you cannot fulfill in your heart. Or maybe I was just too terrified to face real life. A true coward would have silently gone through with the wedding just to avoid an uncomfortable conversation. You were brave enough to shatter the illusion because you respected her enough not to live a lie. Sloan gently squeezed his fingers. And for whatever it is worth, I meant every single word I screamed back in that townhouse about falling in love with you. Crew’s eyes widened significantly, the dark shadows momentarily lifting. Sloan, I know it sounds completely insane and clinically unhinged—we have only known each other for three chaotic days. But somewhere between the public library archives, the morning coffee runs, meeting Ivy, and tonight’s absolute catastrophe, I fell remarkably hard. And I know this was all supposed to be a temporary, fabricated performance, but it stopped feeling fake to me a long time ago. It doesn’t feel like a performance to me either, Crew whispered, his voice thick with raw emotion. That is precisely what scares me down to my bones. What if we mutually decide to stop being terrified of the unknown? What if we simply throw caution to the wind and try for real? Try what exactly? Us—genuinely, authentically, for real this time. No elaborate corporate lies, no theatrical performances, no safety nets, just two deeply flawed people who accidentally fell head over heels for each other in the most absurd, chaotic way imaginable.

Crew was looking at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe, as though she had just handed him the keys to the sun. Are you actually asking to date me for real? I am asking us to finally fall for real this time around—perhaps even intentionally on purpose. Sloan Mitchell, was that an actual joke? Possibly my very first official attempt at corporate humor. How did I score? Instead of offering a verbal critique, Crew leaned forward and kissed her. Really kissed her. Not a fleeting cheek peck for public cameras, not a defensive performance to appease an audience, but a genuine, earth-shattering, heart-stopping kiss that tasted faintly of expensive champagne, unfiltered truth, and the dizzying promise of new beginnings. When they finally broke apart to draw breath, they were both smiling with a radiant, carefree lightness that felt entirely foreign yet profoundly right. So, Crew murmured softly, resting his forehead against hers, we are probably officially unemployed corporate outcasts as of tomorrow morning. Highly probable. And your terrifying father is going to want my head on a silver platter. Definitely. And we still have zero practical idea how we are going to explain this entire soap opera mess to our respective families. Not a single functional clue, Sloan laughed, shaking her head. But at least we finally get to figure it all out together from here on out. Together? Crew pulled her flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around her waist. I profoundly love the sound of that word.

They sat together on the cold stone steps of the closed bookstore for a long time, holding each other tightly while the vibrant pulse of New York City hummed around them in the dark. There were no hidden cameras recording their movements, no demanding corporate audiences watching their expressions, and zero theatrical performances required—just two complex people who had accidentally stumbled upon something undeniably real right in the messy epicenter of a beautiful, unforgettable disaster.

Sloan’s phone buzzed sharply against her coat pocket. She pulled it out with mild hesitation, glanced down at the glowing screen, and instantly burst out into bright, uncontainable laughter. What is so funny? He leaned over to peer at the display. A direct text message from Patricia Maxwell: Be in my executive office tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp, both of you. And do not forget to bring good coffee this time, because this operational conversation is going to take a very long time. Followed immediately by a second, cheerful ping: P.S. Do not worry about your dramatic confessions; I am entirely immune to corporate gossip anyway. Besides, Crew, that impassoned courtroom speech your fiancée delivered was quite simply the most romantic thing I have witnessed in forty years of business. We are definitely not pulling the corporate accounts, but you two officially owe me the genuine, unscripted love story starting tomorrow morning. And then, a third notification popped up from Caroline Winters at Forever Weddings: I honestly couldn’t care less if the initial engagement was a marketing stunt. That level of fierce, messy, authentic love is precisely what our luxury brand wants to showcase to the world. When is the actual first real date? We want to document every single moment of your journey from here on out.

Crew and Sloan exchanged a long, knowing look, a shared smile breaking across both their faces. I honestly think we just successfully got promoted from fake fiances to stars of our own unscripted reality show, Sloan giggled. Totally worth it. She leaned up to kiss him again. Absolutely worth it.

Six months later, the sprawling Riverside Botanical Gardens looked like an absolute emerald paradise bathed in the golden afternoon light of October. Sloan stood in front of the massive antique dressing room mirror, carefully smoothing down the fabric of her wedding gown. It wasn’t sage green, and it wasn’t the overly elaborate dress from their hypothetical mood boards—it was a simple, breathtaking ivory gown with delicate lace detailing that felt entirely, perfectly right. Real in every sense of the word. Are you ready for this, bride-to-be? Ivy appeared in the reflection behind her, her signature purple hair now artfully streaked with delicate gold foil for the grand occasion. Everyone is finally seated outside. Well, almost everyone. He chose not to show up, Sloan stated quietly, though there was zero hint of sorrow in her tone. Marcus Dalton, no, but Crew doesn’t need his validation anymore to be whole, Ivy squeezed her shoulder firmly. He has us, and quite honestly, that is infinitely better.

The soft, familiar notes of a live string quartet began drifting through the garden air—The Way You Look Tonight, the classic Frank Sinatra arrangement. Sloan took a deep, grounding breath and began walking down the flower-lined aisle, passing fifty faces of people who mattered: real, unvarnished friends; supportive family members; and genuine souls. Her parents were openly weeping tears of joy from the front row; Richard Sterling gave her an enthusiastic double thumbs-up from his seat; and Patricia Maxwell was already shamelessly recording the procession on her smartphone. Waiting at the far end of the floral archway stood Crew, dressed in a sharp navy tuxedo, looking at her with an expression of such pure, undiluted devotion that it made her chest ache with happiness. Hi there, he whispered softly when she finally reached him at the altar. Hi yourself, Mr. Dalton. You know, he murmured under his breath as the officiant began the ceremony, this version is infinitely better than our fake library blueprint. That’s because it’s completely real. Because it’s you, he smiled, taking both her shaking hands in his. I am still fundamentally terrified of forever, by the way. Me too, if we’re being completely honest. Good. Let’s be brilliantly terrified together from now on.

They exchanged their vows—messy, imperfect, beautifully honest promises. They formally promised to actively communicate through every storm, to never run away when life inevitably grew complicated, and to choose each other every single morning. They promised forever, fully acknowledging how terrifying it was, and knowing with absolute certainty that it was worth every single risk. When Crew finally leaned down and kissed her, the entire garden erupted into cheers, applause, and joyful laughter. And somewhere out there in the crowd, someone inevitably captured the moment on camera—two people wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, looking entirely, perfectly, unscripted happy. The photograph would probably end up circulating online, but this time around, every single pixel of it was completely, beautifully true.