The scent of seared meat hung in the air like a well-timed seduction—smoky, buttery, laced with just enough garlic to make promises it had no intention of keeping.
Aiden Reed glanced down at the filet mignon in front of him. It sat atop a swirl of truffle mashed potatoes, glistening like it knew it was the star of the plate. Elegant. Decadent. The tuxedo of steaks.
He cut into it, the knife gliding through with zero resistance. When he brought the first bite to his mouth, the flavor hit him like a full-bodied orchestra—rich, tender, layered. If first love had a taste, it would be this: bold, warm, and slightly indulgent.
Across the table, Valeria Quinn was halfheartedly nudging quinoa around her plate like it owed her money. She hadn't taken a single bite. Her gaze was fixed somewhere between her water glass and a distant thought, her face unreadable but heavy—like she'd been carrying too much for too long.
Aiden slowed his chewing.
Here he was, practically romancing a slab of meat, while she looked like she was prepping for a courtroom verdict.
Silently, he nudged the lamb chops toward her. A quiet offering across polished wood.
Valeria looked down, then up at him. Something in her expression shifted—softened. She didn't say anything.
"Mm," she said playfully.
He blinked. "Are you feeding me now?"
She raised an eyebrow, still holding the fork steady. The moment was light, almost teasing—but the look in her eyes was grounded. Focused.
She sliced a piece, speared it, and raised it toward his mouth. He leaned forward and took the bite.
Crispy crust, tender inside. She had good taste. Not that he'd ever doubted that.
Without missing a beat, he sliced a piece and held it out for her.
Valeria hesitated.
Not because she didn't want it—he knew that. She loved food. Real food. But she was a public figure, and that meant every calorie was a headline waiting to happen. Still, declining her new husband in public? That would spark whispers faster than the tabloids could refresh their homepage.
So she leaned forward and took the bite.
Across the room, whispers stirred. Subtle glances. Fingers tapping phones. Valeria Quinn, New York's reigning screen darling, feeding and being fed by her new husband—who wasn't a celebrity, wasn't wealthy, wasn't anyone in the public's eyes.
No disguises. No handlers. No press statements to clean it up.
Aiden glanced at her again. "Not hungry?"
She swallowed delicately. "One bite's enough."
He didn't push. Maybe she'd eaten earlier. Maybe she hadn't. Maybe tonight's chaos had simply stolen her appetite.
He cut into the steak again. "So… about tomorrow."
Her eyes flicked up.
"What do I need to know before I meet your parents?"
He tried to sound casual, but his voice betrayed him—tight around the edges.
Valeria leaned back in her seat, folding her hands over her lap. "Dad teaches veterinary medicine at Columbia. Mom's a history professor at NYU. My brother just graduated from MIT with a focus in artificial intelligence."
Aiden stopped chewing.
"Okay," he said slowly. "So… I'm walking into a Mensa reunion."
She smiled, barely.
"They're brilliant," she added. "And... very traditional."
That word hit differently. He could already see it: the long, assessing looks; the cool silence during dinner; the unspoken how dare you marry her without our blessing hanging in the air like smoke.
"They don't know this arrangement is temporary, do they?" he asked.
Valeria shook her head. "They think it's real. All of it."
He exhaled. "Right. So we're doubling down on the performance."
"Exactly. And for what it's worth… they care more about who you are than what you do."
He gave a humorless chuckle. "That's almost worse."
She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I can't fake 'character.' I can fake a résumé. But if your dad asks me why I love you, I can't exactly say, 'Well, we drew up a contract and got hitched for PR purposes.'"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she took a slow sip of water, then looked at him. "They'll like you. Just be honest. Be... you."
He tried not to roll his eyes. Be yourself was advice people gave when they didn't have to suffer the consequences.
He leaned forward on his elbows. "What do they like? I'm thinking—gifts."
Valeria hummed thoughtfully. "Dad used to keep tropical fish. Had a whole wall of aquariums growing up. But he donated them after he started traveling more. Mom collects antique books. Her study looks like a scene out of an old mystery novel."
Aiden groaned. "So nothing safe. One wrong fish and he'll think I'm careless. One wrong book and she'll think I'm uneducated."
She gave him a wry smile. "I already got them gifts—Pu'er tea from San Francisco and some French skincare stuff. Don't stress."
"Too late," he said.
There was a long pause.
Then, mostly to make himself feel better, he muttered, "I could bring koi fish. Worst case scenario, they hate me... but love sushi."
That earned him a laugh.
Not a polite giggle—a real, head-tilted, nose-wrinkling laugh that pulled the corners of her mouth wide and left her eyes twinkling.
"You're an idiot," she said fondly.
"I'm a strategist," he corrected. "Big difference."
"You're also weird."
He grinned.
Then, unexpectedly, she reached across the table and pinched his cheek.
"Relax," she said, gentler now. "You've got me."
His smile faltered for a second. Not from discomfort—but from something warmer. Something unfamiliar.
"You keep doing that," he said quietly. "And I'm gonna start believing this marriage is real."
Valeria's eyes lingered on his. Just for a moment.
"Maybe that's not the worst thing," she said.
Neither of them spoke after that. The food cooled slightly. The chatter around them faded into white noise.
Because for now—just for tonight—pretending didn't feel so pretend after all.