Lina's POV
"Where is your mysterious fiancé?" Jessica asked, leaning forward with curious eyes. "I still can't believe you kept him a secret for so long!"
I take a sip of my overpriced cocktail and paste on what I hope is a mysterious smile. "He's... traveling. Business meetings." Telling the lie feels bad, but admitting I made up a fake boyfriend is even more embarrassing.
The private dining room at Elevé buzzes with conversation as my six closest friends dissect every detail of my fake engagement. I picked this place specifically because it's upscale enough to match the narrative I'm building, but not so expensive that I'll be eating ramen for the next two months to pay for it.
"But he's coming tonight, right?" Sarah, my college roommate, checks her phone. "You said eight o'clock."
Eight o'clock. When I'm supposed to introduce them to my nonexistent fiancé. Panic flutters in my chest like a trapped bird, but I nod confidently. "He should be here any minute."
The truth is, I have no plan. No backup story. No exit strategy. I just wanted one night of feeling like the woman who wins instead of the woman who gets left behind. One night of seeing envy instead of pity in my friends' eyes.
"Lina." Maria grabs my arm suddenly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Is that him?"
I turn toward the entrance and nearly choke on my drink.
Walking into the restaurant like he owns it—which, given his net worth, he probably could—is the man from my AI-generated photos. Not an approximation or a look-alike, but him. Exactly him. The sharp jawline, the confident stride, the expensive suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
My fictional fiancé is very, very real.
And he's heading straight for our table.
"Oh my God, Lina," Jessica breathes. "He's even more gorgeous in person."
I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but watch as this impossibly handsome stranger approaches with the kind of purposeful intensity that makes my survival instincts scream danger.
He reaches our table and fixes me with dark eyes that seem to see straight through my carefully constructed lies. When he speaks, his voice is warm honey over steel.
"Hello, darling." The endearment sounds natural, practiced, like he's said it a thousand times before. "Sorry I'm late. Business ran long."
My friends are staring. Waiting. I manage to find my voice somewhere in the wreckage of my composure.
"Everyone, this is..." I realize I don't even know his name. The AI generator didn't come with an identity.
"Rio," he supplies smoothly, extending his hand to the table. "Rio Kalinawan. I've heard so much about all of you."
The name hits me like a lightning bolt. Kalinawan. As in Kalinawan Innovations, the tech company that's been all over the business news lately. As in one of the youngest billionaires in Silicon Valley.
I've accidentally catfished a billionaire.
Rio moves to stand behind my chair, his hand settling on my shoulder with casual familiarity. The touch burns through my dress, sending electricity racing down my spine. "Would it be alright if I borrowed Lina for a moment? There's something I need to discuss with her privately."
It's phrased like a question, but his tone makes it clear it's not really optional.
My friends were excited, thinking something romantic will happen, but they don't know I'm in trouble and might get arrested.
Rio places his hand on my back and guides me to a quiet place in the restaurant. His touch is strong and sure, but also gentle and respectful. Like he's done this dance before.
When we're out of earshot, he stops and turns to face me. Up close, he's even more devastating than the photos suggested. There's something magnetic about him, an intensity that makes the air around us feel charged.
"Catalina Salvacion," he says, and my name sounds different in his voice. Richer somehow. "We need to talk."
## Rio's POV
She's more beautiful in person than in the photos. That's my first thought, and it's dangerously irrelevant to the business at hand.
Catalina—Lina—stares up at me with wide dark eyes that hold equal parts fear and defiance. She's wearing a simple black dress that probably cost a fraction of what the women in my usual circles spend on accessories, but she looks more elegant than any of them. There's something authentic about her beauty, something unpolished and real that catches me off guard.
"You're supposed to be fake," she whispers, and I almost smile at the accusation in her voice, like I'm the one who's done something wrong.
"I'm very real," I assure her. "The question is what you plan to do about it."
She glances back at her friends, who are trying very hard to look like they're not watching us. When she turns back to me, her chin lifts in a gesture of defiance that I find unexpectedly appealing.
"Look, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but—"
"I'm not playing anything," I cut her off. "You used my face to announce a fake engagement. That face belongs to a very public figure with a reputation to protect. What I want to know is why."
Color floods her cheeks, making her even more beautiful. "It was a mistake. I didn't know you were real. I'll delete the post—"
"It's too late for that." I keep my voice low, gentle even, though inside I'm calculating rapidly. "The story's already been picked up by three business publications and a gossip blog. My grandfather's assistant has called six times. The damage is done."
She looks like she might be sick. "I'm sorry. I never meant—"
"What's done is done." I lean closer, catching a hint of her perfume—something floral and light that somehow cuts through the expensive cologne and wine-soaked atmosphere of the restaurant. "The question now is how we move forward."
"We?" The word comes out strangled.
"I have a proposition for you, Lina." I let her name roll off my tongue, testing how it feels. "What if we made this engagement real?"
Her eyes widen. "What?"
"Not real real," I clarify quickly. "A business arrangement. You've created a problem for me, but you've also created an opportunity. I need a fiancée for three months. You apparently need to prove to your friends that you're not the woman who got left behind. We can help each other."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle. "Why would you need a fake fiancée?"
Smart girl. "Let's just say my personal life has become a professional liability. Being engaged to someone like you would solve several problems."
"Someone like me?" There's an edge to her voice now, and I realize I've stepped wrong.
"I meant someone real. Genuine. Not the social climbers and fortune hunters I usually meet." The words come out more honest than I intended, and I see something shift in her expression.
"And what do I get out of this arrangement?"
Now we're talking business. I name a figure that makes her grip tighten on her cocktail glass.
"That's... that's enough to start my own company."
"It's enough to do whatever you want." I pause, watching the wheels turn behind her eyes. "All you have to do is play my loving fiancée for three months. Public events, social media posts, meeting my family. Nothing more intimate than what any engaged couple would do in public."
She's wavering. I can see it in the way she bites her lower lip, the way her eyes dart back to her friends who are still watching us with barely concealed curiosity.
"I don't even know you," she says finally.
"You'll learn." I pull out my phone and show her a contract I had my legal team draft during the drive here. "Everything you need to know is in there. Terms, boundaries, expectations. This is a business deal, Lina. Nothing more, nothing less."
She takes the phone, scrolling through the contract with the focused attention of someone who's used to reading the fine print. Another point in her favor.
"This is insane," she murmurs, but she's still reading.
"Sanity is overrated." I glance back at her friends, who are becoming less subtle in their observation. "Your audience is getting restless. Do we have a deal?"
She looks up at me, and for a moment I see past the fear and uncertainty to something else—ambition, perhaps, or simple survival instinct. The look of someone who's tired of losing and ready to win, even if it means making a deal with the devil.
"Three months?" she asks.
"Three months."
"And then we're done? Clean break, no complications?"
"Clean break," I confirm, though something about the promise feels hollow even as I make it.
She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "Okay. Deal."
I shake her hand, and her soft, warm palm touches mine. Her hand trembles slightly, and we hold the handshake a little too long. I don't want to let go.
"Congratulations, darling," I say, loud enough for her friends to hear. "I can't wait to marry you."
I lean in and gently kiss her cheek. I smell her sweet perfume and feel her quick breath against my ear.
As I pull away, her eyes are wide and her cheeks are pink. I realize that this pretend engagement might be more complicated than I thought.
But as we walk back to her friends—her hand tucked into the crook of my arm like it belongs there—I find I don't mind the complication as much as I should.