The cream-colored envelope sits on my kitchen counter like a beautiful serpent, elegant and venomous. My name is written across the front in familiar calligraphy—the same script that once addressed our save-the-dates, back when I thought my life was falling perfectly into place.
Catalina Salvacion.
I know what's inside before I even open it. My hands shake as I slide my finger under the seal, the expensive paper crackling like breaking bones. The invitation unfolds like a nightmare dressed in gold foil and ivory silk.
Marcus Gabriel Villareal and Esperanza Luz Madrigal request the honor of your presence at their wedding ceremony.
The words blur as my vision swimming with unshed tears. Two weeks. They're getting married in two weeks. My ex-fiancé and my former best friend, the two people who systematically destroyed my faith in love and friendship, are celebrating their union and apparently want me to witness it.
I sink onto my small couch, the invitation trembling in my grip. Six months. It's been six months since Marcus broke our engagement with his speech about "not being ready" and "needing space to find himself." Six months since Essie held me while I sobbed, buying me expensive wine and booking spa weekends to help me heal. Six months of thinking I was moving forward while they were planning their future behind my back.
The worst part? I should have seen it coming. All those times Essie insisted on girls' trips when Marcus was "too busy" with work. The way she always asked detailed questions about our relationship problems, claiming she wanted to help. How she suddenly had opinions about my wedding dress being "too traditional" and my venue being "not quite right for someone like Marcus."
Someone like Marcus. Someone who deserves better than me.
My phone buzzes with a text from my coworker Jessica: "Did you see Essie's Instagram story? That ring is MASSIVE!"
Against my better judgment, I open Instagram. There it is—a close-up of a diamond so large it could fund a small country, with the caption: "Dreams do come true! Can't wait to marry my soulmate! #Blessed #SoulmateLove #ForeverStartsNow"
Soulmate. The word hits me like a physical blow. Marcus used to call me that, back when he was planning our life together instead of planning his escape.
I scroll through the comments, each congratulatory message another knife twist. Our mutual friends, colleagues, even my own distant relatives—everyone celebrating the love story that began with my heartbreak.
"You two are perfect together!"
"Finally! We all saw this coming!"
"The most beautiful couple ever!"
We all saw this coming. The implication makes my stomach churn. Was I the only one who didn't see it? Was I the naive little girl playing house while the adults made real plans?
My small apartment feels suffocating suddenly. The same apartment I've been trying to convince myself is "cozy" instead of cramped, "minimalist" instead of empty. The same apartment where I've spent six months rebuilding myself from the rubble of everything I thought I wanted.
I'm twenty-five years old. I should be excited about my career, my independence, my freedom. Instead, I feel like everyone is moving forward while I'm stuck in place. Marcus gets Essie and her trust fund and their perfect Instagram life. My other friends are getting engaged, promoted, buying houses. And here I am, a marketing coordinator drowning in student loans, eating ramen for dinner, and apparently so forgettable that my ex-fiancé and best friend thought it was appropriate to invite me to their wedding.
The invitation mocks me from the coffee table. Even the paper is expensive—thick, textured, the kind that whispers "money" with every touch. The kind Marcus always preferred. The kind he said we couldn't afford for our wedding, but apparently could for theirs.
I pick up my phone and scroll through my own Instagram feed. The last post is from three months ago—a forced smile at a work happy hour, trying to prove I was "thriving" after the breakup. My follower count is embarrassingly low, my aesthetic is non-existent, and my life looks exactly as pathetic as it feels.
But then an idea begins to form. A terrible, wonderful, completely insane idea.
If they want to play the social media game, if they want to broadcast their perfect love story for the world to see, then maybe it's time I played too. Maybe it's time Catalina Salvacion showed everyone including herself that she's not the girl who got left behind.
I open my laptop and navigate to an AI image generator I've heard about at work. My heart pounds as I start typing in parameters: Handsome man, Filipino features, successful businessman, warm smile, elegant suit.
The first image that generates takes my breath away. He's perfect sharp jawline, kind eyes, the sort of smile that makes you believe in happy endings. He looks like someone who would never break promises, never abandon the people he loves, never make you feel like you're not enough.
I generate a few more images, creating a whole gallery of this beautiful, fictional man. In one, he's in a tuxedo. In another, casual clothes that still scream expensive taste. In the last one, he's looking directly at the camera with an expression so tender it makes my chest ache.
Before I can lose my nerve, I open Instagram and start crafting my post. I select the most romantic of the images—the one where he's almost smiling, like he's looking at someone he adores.
Sometimes the best things come when you least expect them. Can't wait to marry my soulmate! #Engaged #SoulmateLove #BlessedBeyondWords
I add a few more hashtags, making sure to mirror Essie's post just enough to send a message. Then I hit share before I can chicken out.
The likes start coming immediately. Jessica comments first: "OMG WHO IS HE?? You've been holding out on us!"
Then more: "He's gorgeous! How did you meet?"
"Finally! You deserve someone amazing!"
"About time! When's the wedding?"
Within an hour, I have more engagement on one post than I've had in months. My phone keeps buzzing with notifications, and for the first time since receiving that damned invitation, I feel like I'm winning.
I grab a bottle of wine from my fridge—the expensive one Essie bought me during one of her "healing" shopping trips—and pour myself a generous glass. Here's to fiction being better than reality. Here's to beautiful lies and the men who exist only in pixels and dreams.
Here's to finally being the girl with the perfect love story, even if I have to create him myself.
---
Rio's POV
The notification sounds like gunfire in the silence of my office.
You've been tagged in a post.
Then another. And another.
I glance up from the holographic display showing the latest iteration of our cardiac monitoring algorithm, annoyed at the interruption. My assistant knows better than to let social media notifications through during a board meeting. We're three hours into reviewing the final proposals for Teodoro's presentation, and every minute counts.
"Sir?" Michael Santos, my lead engineer, looks concerned. "Should we continue with the stress test parameters?"
Before I can answer, my phone explodes with alerts. Twenty notifications. Fifty. The number keeps climbing like a broken heart rate monitor.
"Excuse me for a moment." I step away from the conference table, where five of the smartest minds in biomedical engineering are waiting for my input on technology that could save millions of lives. Instead, I'm staring at my phone like a teenager.
The first tagged photo makes my blood freeze.
It's me. Or rather, it's someone who looks exactly like me, wearing a tuxedo I've never owned, smiling in a way I haven't smiled since my mother died. The caption reads: Sometimes the best things come when you least expect them. Can't wait to marry my soulmate!
The woman in the photo Catalina Salvacion, according to the profile is beautiful. Genuinely, naturally beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with money or cosmetic enhancement. She's looking at fake-me with such genuine affection that for a moment, I almost believe we're really together.
But I've never seen her before in my life.
My jaw clenches as I scroll through the comments. Hundreds of people congratulating us on our engagement. Engagement. To a complete stranger who apparently thinks she can use my face to... what? Gain social media clout? Scam people? Commit identity fraud?
"Mr. Kalinawan?" My assistant, Patricia, appears at my elbow. "Is everything alright? You've received forty-seven phone calls in the last ten minutes."
Forty-seven calls. I scroll through the missed call log: reporters, business contacts, board members, even Teodoro's assistant. The story has already reached my grandfather.
"Sir, your grandfather's office called," Patricia continues, her voice tight with concern. "He wants to speak with you immediately about your... engagement announcement."
Engagement announcement. The words taste like poison.
I look back at the conference room, where my team is still waiting, where the presentation that could secure our future sits half-finished. The presentation that could mean the difference between my mother's death having meaning and her memory dying with my failed company.
"Cancel the rest of today's meetings," I tell Patricia. "And find out everything you can about this woman—Catalina Salvacion. Address, workplace, background check, everything."
Patricia nods and hurries away, leaving me alone with my phone and a fake engagement that's already spiraling out of control.
But as I stare at the photo again, a different thought begins to take shape. The woman—Lina, according to the comments—has just solved a problem I didn't even know how to articulate.
Teodoro Kalinawan is old-fashioned to his core. He believes in tradition, stability, family values. He's made it clear that he only invests in "serious men" with "solid foundations"—code for married or engaged. It's why I've been dreading our meeting, knowing that my bachelor status would count against me almost as much as my father's abandonment did twenty years ago.
But now, according to the internet, I'm engaged. To a woman who's beautiful, well-liked, and apparently as invested in this fiction as I need to be in reality.
I study her profile more carefully. Marketing coordinator at a mid-level agency. Twenty-five years old. No obvious red flags, no criminal background that a quick search reveals. She looks... normal. Real. The kind of woman who could convince a traditional grandfather that his wayward grandson has finally found his way.
The kind of woman who could help me honor my mother's memory by securing the funding to save lives she never had the chance to live.
I call Patricia back. "Cancel that background check. Instead, I need you to find her address. I'm making a house call."
"Sir, is that wise? We don't know anything about her motivations—"
"Her motivations are irrelevant," I cut her off. "What matters is that she's just given me the solution to the Teodoro problem. I'm going to offer her a deal she can't refuse."
As I grab my jacket and head for the door, I take one more look at the photo. Fake-me looks happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy in a way that feels foreign and dangerous.
Good thing it's not real. The last thing I need is to confuse business with emotion, especially when my mother's legacy hangs in the balance.
But I can't quite shake the image of Lina's smile, or the way it made something tight in my chest loosen for just a moment.
No matter. By tonight, we'll have a contract, and this beautiful fiction will become the most profitable fake relationship in Silicon Valley history.