The invitation arrives in an envelope thick enough to pay rent. Gilded letters spell out: The Harrington Foundation Charity Gala.

I stare at it on the kitchen table while Maya twirls the envelope like it's a wand.

"A gala," she says reverently. "That's code for free champagne and judgmental rich people."

"It's code for humiliation," I mutter. "I don't belong in rooms like that."

"Correction," Maya says, pointing with the envelope. "You pretend to belong. That's the deal, right? Fake it till you make it."

I groan. "You make it sound easy."

"Because it is. Walk in there with Adrian, head high, pretend you own three yachts.

Smile at cameras like you have nothing to hide. Piece of cake."

"Piece of humiliation cake," I correct.

By Saturday night, I'm zipped into a navy gown borrowed from the Harrington wardrobe team-fabric that shimmers like starlight under our apartment's weak bulb.

Even Maya is speechless for a full ten seconds before whispering, "You look like you were born to ruin billionaires."

I study my reflection, adjusting the shimmer of the gown. Every bead and fold makes me feel like I'm stepping into someone else's world. Maya circles me like a trainer, whispering, "Posture, girl. Shoulders back. Smile like you own the room-even if you want to crawl under it."

The gala is held at a hotel ballroom that looks more like a palace. Chandeliers glitter like frozen constellations, waiters float by with trays of champagne, and cameras explode the moment Adrian and I step out of the car, clicking relentlessly.

My heels clack against the marble, each step echoing like a drumbeat in my chest. I clutch Adrian's arm as we move through the crowd, marveling at the glint of diamonds, silk gowns, and polished shoes. My pulse races as though the room itself could swallow me whole.

Adrian's hand finds mine-firm, steady, grounding. "Breathe," he murmurs without looking at me.

I do.

Inside, heads turn. Conversations hush. I feel like I've been dropped into a cage filled with predators in silk gowns.

Every camera flash makes me flinch, forcing a smile that feels like armor. I can feel dozens of eyes tracing me, judging every movement. Even the smallest misstep feels like a headline waiting to happen.

A reporter surges forward. "Mr. Harrington, care to comment on your new relationship?"

Adrian's grip tightens as he answers smoothly, "We're very happy."

Cameras snap like gunfire. I force a smile, praying it doesn't look like panic.

Marcus appears at our side, grinning like the devil on holiday. "Well, well. Look at you two. Almost believable."

I shoot him a glare. "Glad my humiliation amuses you."

"It does," Marcus says cheerfully. Then, lowering his voice, "But seriously-smile more. The sharks are circling."

I adjust the gown for the fifth time, muttering under my breath. Do they notice the awkward tilt of my shoulders? The way my hair won't cooperate? Everyone here probably grew up knowing how to glide like this... and I'm barely keeping my balance.

I swallow hard, reminding myself: Fake it till you make it.

At our table, Adrian introduces me to board members and donors with unnerving ease. His hand stays lightly over mine, enough to ground me without drawing attention. I notice the way his eyes scan the room, always returning to me, calculating, protective. It's unnerving-yet comforting in a way I hadn't expected.

I smile, nod, try to keep my fork from trembling. But every whispered glance reminds me I don't belong.

Halfway through dinner, I excuse myself for air. The balcony is mercifully empty, the city spread out below like a promise I can't touch. The night air is sharp against my skin, carrying the faint scent of the hotel's rooftop garden.

"You look like you're planning an escape," a voice drawls.

I turn. Clara Vance-sleek, stunning, eyes sharp with amusement-steps into the moonlight. Adrian mentioned her once in passing: an investor's daughter, polished and ambitious.

"I'm not planning anything," I say cautiously.

Clara's smile is sweet poison. "Don't worry. You won't last. None of them do."

My heart thuds. "None of who?"

"Adrian's distractions," Clara replies, her voice soft as silk. "But don't feel bad. You're pretty enough to be convincing-for now."

With that, she glides back inside, leaving my stomach in knots.

When I return to the table, Adrian's gaze sweeps over me, sharp. "You were gone a while."

"Balcony," I mutter, avoiding his eyes.

Something in his expression hardens, but he doesn't press. Instead, he offers his hand again, a silent anchor.

I take it.

By the time the gala ends, my face hurts from smiling. Cameras flash as Adrian guides me toward the car. Inside the backseat, silence stretches.

"You handled yourself well," Adrian says finally.

I scoff. "I nearly fainted into the champagne tower."

His lips quirk. "But you didn't. That's what matters."

Marcus leans back in the leather seat, smirking. "I'd say you survived, but your smile gave it away. Almost believable."

I roll my eyes, ignoring the faint warmth rising in my chest.

I want to argue, but exhaustion settles too heavy.

I dare a glance at Adrian; his expression is unreadable, but there's something in the slight upturn of his lips that I almost miss.

I lean back, closing my eyes. For one dangerous second, I let myself imagine this is real-not a performance, not a contract, but a hand I could hold without conditions.

The illusion shatters when my phone buzzes with a notification.

A headline blazes across the screen:

"Adrian Harrington's Mystery Girlfriend: Gold Digger or Genuine?"

Notifications ping relentlessly. Every mention of my name feels like a small explosion in my chest. Gold digger? Mystery girlfriend? Who even writes this stuff?

My throat tightens. I turn the phone so Adrian can see.

His jaw clenches. "Ignore it." But I know better. Whispers like that spread fast-and once they do, they can swallow everything.

The morning after the gala, I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing nonstop.

Notifications flooded the screen-group chats, social-media tags, even random classmates I hadn't spoken to in years.

My stomach dropped as I opened the first link.

From Intern to Billionaire's Flame: Who Really Is Elena Ramirez?

Another headline followed: Cinderella or Con Artist?

My hands trembled. Each article dissected my smile, my background-or lack of one.

They pulled at scraps of my life like vultures, speculating, judging.

Every ping felt like a drumbeat against my ribs. Why is my life suddenly a headline?

I scrolled through comment after comment-half admiration, half speculation, all invasive.

Even the tiniest detail about my dress or hairstyle was up for debate.

"Elena!" Maya's voice cut through from the kitchen, unusually sharp. "You need to see this."

Heart pounding, I rushed out. Maya sat cross-legged on the counter, scrolling with an expression that was equal parts rage and glee.

"They're writing about you like you're some kind of... scammer," she said, shoving her phone at me.

"I should call the internet police," she muttered, shaking the phone. "Or hire a PR team for you. Or at least a personal bodyguard. Do you have bodyguards yet?"

I groaned.

"But look at this-people on Twitter are already defending you. Hashtag TeamElena is trending."

I sank into a chair, head spinning. "This isn't funny, Maya. They're digging into my life. What if they-"

A knock at the door made us both jump.

Maya peered through the peephole. "Oh my God. It's him."

I barely had time to protest before she swung the door open.

Adrian Harrington filled the frame-impeccably dressed, unreadable expression, the weight of the entire internet buzzing at his back.

His gaze swept over the apartment like a spotlight, calm yet exacting. A shiver ran through me-not fear exactly, more the force of his presence.

Maya planted herself in front of me, fists on hips, daring him to underestimate her sister. Adrian didn't flinch.

"We need to talk," he said, voice clipped.

Maya arched a brow. "You mean you need to spin a story before your board panics."

His gaze flicked over her, unimpressed. "This doesn't concern you."

"Everything that concerns her concerns me," she shot back.

"Stop. Both of you," I cut in, pulse racing. I turned to him. "What do we do?"

He stepped inside, lowering his voice. "We get ahead of it. Dinner. Tonight. In public."

"Dinner?" I blinked.

"A visible, undeniable display. It silences rumors. They'll see us together-comfortable, believable."

"And if I'm not comfortable?" I challenged.

For the first time, his mask cracked, just slightly. His eyes softened. "Then I'll find another way."

The sincerity threw me off balance. I swallowed hard. "Fine. Dinner."

Maya groaned. "God help me, this is going to be a rom-com."

That evening, the restaurant glittered with soft lighting and expensive silence. Adrian's choice, of course-discreet enough for privacy, prestigious enough to attract exactly the kind of attention we needed.

Reporters lingered near the entrance, cameras flashing as we walked in hand in hand.

Adrian guided me with quiet authority, every inch of him composed.

I tried to mimic his ease, though my nerves hummed like live wires.

Over wine, I whispered, "They're staring."

"Good," he said simply. "Let them."

It was ridiculous-sitting across from him, pretending this was a date, while my heart thudded like it believed it.

Every whisper around us seemed louder than the soft piano notes drifting from the corner.

I adjusted my posture constantly, hyper-aware of every blink, every shift of my gown beneath the chandeliers.

The urge to shrink into the chair was almost overwhelming.

Halfway through the meal, my phone buzzed. Maya, of course: Smile like you love him. I'm watching on livestream.

I bit back a laugh. Adrian raised a brow. "Something amusing?"

"My sister thinks she's a coach," I murmured.

"Smart girl," he said, surprising me.

His fingers brushed mine when passing the breadbasket, a tiny spark shooting up my arm. I reminded myself it was nothing-yet my heartbeat betrayed me.

His gaze met mine for a moment-calm, assessing, strangely reassuring.

By dessert, I almost forgot we weren't alone-until a flash went off just outside the window. Paparazzi.

Adrian's hand closed over mine, firm, steady, grounding me again.

"Stay calm," he murmured.

I did. Barely.

When we finally stepped outside, cameras swarmed, questions flying:

"Elena, are you with him for money?"

"Adrian, is this serious?"

"Elena, what about your past-who supports your family?"

That last question struck like a dart. My breath caught, panic clawing up my throat.

Adrian's arm slid around my waist, drawing me close.

"She's with me," he said, voice low and final. "That's all you need to know."

The crowd buzzed, flashes exploded, and for a moment I leaned into him-too aware of the heat of his body, the solidity of his presence.

Back in the car, silence stretched. The city lights blurred past in neon streaks.

I stared at my reflection in the window, tracing the line of my jaw, the faint curve of a smile I hadn't realized I'd worn all evening. Adrian's hand rested lightly on mine-just enough to remind me I wasn't alone in the chaos.

"You didn't have to say that," I said quietly.

He looked at me, unreadable. "Say what?"

"That I'm with you."

His gaze held mine, steady and unsettling. "But you are."

My pulse stumbled. I turned back to the window, reminding myself it was pretend. All of it.

Except... it hadn't felt pretend when his hand steadied mine, when his arm shielded me from the crowd.

It felt terrifyingly real.

Meanwhile, somewhere else in the city, Clara scrolled through the headlines with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"TeamElena?" she murmured, lips curling. "We'll see how long that lasts."

She closed her laptop, already plotting her next move.