The engagement ring glittered like a crown jewel, but Jennifer Swordest knew a ring alone wouldn't fool the world.
If this charade was going to work, she and Arga had to become believable. They had to look at each other not as cousins playing roles, but as two people swept up in love.
Society fed on appearances. And appearances could be weaponized.
***
"Again," Jennifer said firmly, pacing the length of Arga's penthouse living room.
Arga, leaning stiffly on the sofa, rolled his eyes. "We've been doing this for hours."
"You still look like you're bracing for execution whenever I touch you," Jennifer retorted. She crossed the room, stood before him, and held out her hand. "Stand up."
He rose reluctantly.
"Now," she instructed, "put your hand on my waist. Lightly. As if it belongs there."
He hesitated before resting his hand against her side.
"Better," she murmured, tilting her head. "Now look at me. Not through me. At me."
Arga's gaze lifted, his dark eyes meeting hers.
Jennifer studied him. "Closer. Softer. You're not trying to intimidate me. You're trying to convince the world you'd die for me."
Something flickered in his expression — pain, longing, a ghost of someone else.
"Don't think about her," Jennifer said sharply, reading his silence. "Think about *this.* Think about survival."
Arga's jaw tightened. "It's not that simple."
Jennifer smirked faintly. "Nothing ever is. That's why I'm here."
***
Their first test came at a museum gala. Cameras swarmed, lights flashing as soon as they stepped from the car.
Jennifer wore a silver gown, sleek and luminous, her hand poised perfectly in Arga's arm. Arga, in a tailored black suit, forced his shoulders back and smiled as Jennifer had taught him.
Every step they took was measured. Every glance exchanged rehearsed.
To the cameras, they looked radiant.
Inside, Jennifer whispered against his ear, "Relax your grip. You're holding me like a prisoner."
He adjusted, loosening.
Better.
Reporters shouted questions:
"Jennifer, how did he propose?"
"Arga, is Sharon Countbell truly in the past?"
"When's the wedding?"
Jennifer laughed lightly, squeezing Arga's hand. "A lady never reveals all her secrets," she said, her voice a melody designed for headlines.
Arga remained silent, his smile strained.
But in photographs the next morning, they looked perfect.
***
Back at the penthouse, Arga collapsed onto the sofa. "That was torture."
Jennifer poured herself a drink, unfazed. "You did fine."
"Fine?" he scoffed. "I felt like a puppet."
"Good," she replied dryly. "Because that's exactly what you need to be until this works."
Arga glared. "You enjoy this too much."
Jennifer swirled her glass. "Maybe I do. But unlike you, I don't let emotions cloud the goal. This isn't about love. It's about power, image, control. If you want Sharon to choke on her jealousy, you need to master the performance."
Arga froze at the mention of Sharon's name.
Jennifer studied him carefully. "You're still obsessed."
"I love her," Arga muttered.
"No," Jennifer said coolly. "You're addicted to her hate. And that's dangerous. If you want to win, you have to stop reacting like a victim and start acting like a rival."
Arga's hand tightened into a fist. "I'm not her victim."
Jennifer's lips curved. "Then prove it."
***
Over the next weeks, their rehearsals turned into routine. Jennifer drilled Arga on posture, timing, laughter, the subtle touches that convinced the world of intimacy.
Sometimes they argued — Arga too rigid, Jennifer too demanding. But gradually, friction gave way to rhythm.
She taught him to smile without strain, to hold her gaze without flinching, to place his hand at the small of her back as if it belonged there.
He, in turn, began to see in her something unexpected: not just a strategist, but a woman who understood the brutal dance of society as well as Sharon ever had.
One night, after another flawless public appearance, they returned to the penthouse exhausted. Arga poured two glasses of whiskey, handing one to Jennifer.
"To survival," he said.
She clinked her glass lightly against his. "To survival."
For a brief moment, their eyes met without pretense. No strategy. No rehearsal. Just two conspirators, bound by necessity.
***
But even as they strengthened their act, Sharon's shadow loomed.
Tabloids began comparing her radiant solo appearances to the supposed bliss of Arga and Jennifer. Paparazzi waited for any slip, any crack.
And Sharon herself, though silent, moved like a predator in the dark. She did not attack immediately. She watched. She calculated. She let the charade stretch, waiting for the perfect moment to tear it apart.
Arga could feel her watching. He saw her face in every mirror, heard her voice in every silence.
Jennifer noticed the way he drifted into those thoughts. And though she never said it aloud, a sliver of unease settled in her chest.
Because while this was a game to her, she was beginning to wonder if Sharon was more than just an enemy to him.
***
Epilogue – The Rehearsal and the Shadow
Late one evening, Arga and Jennifer practiced again in the dim glow of the penthouse.
"Closer," she instructed softly. "Smile like you mean it."
He obeyed, their faces inches apart, their bodies aligned in perfect illusion.
And for a fleeting second, Arga almost believed it — that this was real, that someone could stand beside him without judgment.
But then, in the corner of his vision, he thought he saw Sharon's reflection in the glass — watching, waiting, smiling.
And the illusion shattered.