Zara woke up to the sound of her phone buzzing nonstop.
She groaned, rolled over, and buried her face in her pillow.
The buzzing didn't stop. It buzzed again. And again.
"Go away," she mumbled at the phone, as if it would listen.
Soba the cat, curled up beside her, gave a judgmental meow.
Zara squinted one eye open.
Who the hell was calling at 8:23 a.m.?
Correction: Texting. Ping after ping filled the air. Instagram. Twitter. WhatsApp. Even her cousin in Australia who never spoke to her was suddenly blowing up her phone.
She finally reached out, grabbed the device, and unlocked it with a groggy thumbprint.
Then she froze.
Dozens of headlines flashed across her screen:
"WHO IS THE MYSTERY GIRL WITH CEO NOAH LANCASTER?"
"SLIPPER GIRL STEALS THE HEART OF A BILLIONAIRE"
"FROM MINIMART TO MRS. LANCASTER?"
Zara sat up so fast that Soba leapt off the bed in protest.
Her face—her sleepy, hoodie-wearing, no-makeup face—was plastered across multiple news sites.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "I've been meme'd."
A photo of her holding Noah's arm, deadpan expression and all, was now going viral. Someone had even zoomed in on her slippers and added the caption:
"She came for boba, she left with a billionaire."
Zara dropped her phone on her lap.
"I just wanted milk tea," she muttered. "Now I'm trending."
She debated going back to sleep and pretending it didn't happen.
But fate had other plans.
Knock, knock.
Zara blinked. No one ever knocked on her door. The only people who visited were delivery drivers, and she hadn't ordered anything.
She dragged herself to the door, still in pajamas, and peeked through the peephole.
There he was.
Noah freaking Lancaster.
Holding two cups of coffee like this was some kind of post-scandal date.
Zara slowly opened the door. "Are you serious?"
He held out a cup. "Flat white. No sugar. Figured you might need caffeine."
She stared at him.
"You tracked me down?"
"I Googled the address from your payment receipt."
"You stalked me."
"I call it efficient gratitude."
Zara snatched the coffee. "I should sue you."
"But you won't."
She scowled. "Why not?"
"Because," Noah said calmly, "you're wearing the same slippers from the article, and you don't look like someone who wants more attention right now."
Zara glanced down at her feet.
Pink bunnies. Betrayers.
She stepped aside with a sigh. "Fine. Five minutes. Then you vanish."
He walked in, looking entirely too comfortable in her tiny apartment. Eyes scanned the bookshelves, the cat, the small couch piled with snacks and blankets.
"This is… cozy," he said.
"It's controlled chaos," she corrected, flopping onto the couch. "You want thanks? I accept cash or bubble tea points."
Noah sat on the armrest. "Actually, I wanted to make you an offer."
Zara raised a brow. "Is this the part where you ask me to fake date you for a few weeks until the scandal dies down?"
He blinked.
"…Yes."
She sighed dramatically. "Figures."
Noah leaned forward slightly. "You helped me without thinking. I owe you. But also—this would help us both. The media already thinks we're together. We either deny and deal with the storm… or play along and control the narrative."
Zara sipped her coffee. "You want me to lie to the entire country for you."
"Technically, for both of us."
She looked him dead in the eyes.
Then said, "Only if I get free snacks for a month."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. I want snacks. Premium. Imported. Delivered."
"…You're negotiating a fake relationship with potato chips?"
"Also foot massages and weekly bubble tea."
Noah stared at her.
Then slowly smiled. "I think I just met the strangest woman in this city." Zara smirked back. "You should see me when I'm fully awake."