The problem with planning to fake a romantic relationship, Vivian discovered, was that it required her to actually spend time with Sebastian Ashford.
This should not have been a problem. She had been working in his orbit for three weeks, attending the same meetings, eating lunch at her desk while he ate lunch in his office, exchanging professional emails that contained precisely zero subtext. She knew what his voice sounded like when he was irritated versus when he was focused. She knew that he drank his coffee black and that he had a habit of tapping his pen against his desk when he was thinking. She knew that he treated Diana with a respect that most people in his position would not have bothered with, and that he corrected his own mistakes before anyone else caught them.
She knew him, in other words, in the way that you know a colleague—thoroughly and professionally and with complete awareness of the boundaries between you.
The briefing book Diana had assembled did not change this. It simply provided more context: Sebastian's education at Columbia (business and English lit, dual degree, because of course he had a dual degree), his two years abroad in London before returning to New York to join the family business, his mother's death when he was seventeen from what the briefing book diplomatically described as "a prolonged illness." There was information about his publicly known relationships—a college girlfriend named Amelia Park who had since married a tech entrepreneur, a brief rumored romance with a fashion designer named Valentina Cruz that both parties had denied—and his general reputation in the industry as someone who was serious about journalism and not interested in celebrity.
Vivian read the briefing book twice. She memorized the key facts. She prepared her own briefing, a two-page document that covered her own background in enough detail that Sebastian would not be caught off guard by any question a gala guest might ask.
And then, because she was thorough, she also prepared a list of things she did not know about Sebastian—gaps in her knowledge that she needed to fill if the deception was going to be convincing.
The list included:
- What he did for fun when he wasn't working
- Whether he had any siblings besides Lyra (the briefing book mentioned a sister but no others)
- What his relationship with his father was actually like
- What kind of music he listened to
- Whether he had any pets
- What his apartment looked like
- What he thought about when he was alone
This last one bothered her more than the others. She had a professional relationship with this man. She saw him in a professional context, and the context defined what she knew. But a girlfriend—a real girlfriend—would know these things. Would know what he was like when he was not performing the role of Editor-in-Chief.
A real girlfriend would know what made him laugh.
She did not know what made him laugh.
The gala was on a Saturday evening in October, and Vivian spent the entire day preparing with a anxiety that bordered on clinical. She had bought a dress specifically for this occasion—a deep burgundy color that she had selected after an hour of indecisive browsing at Nordstrom, ultimately choosing it because it made her feel like someone who could belong at a fancy party with wealthy, important people. The dress was not expensive, as these things went. She had looked at the price tag and taken a deep breath and then bought it anyway, reasoning that this was an investment in her professional future that happened to also involve wearing a fake relationship with her boss.
The dress came with a small voice in her head that said you look nice, which was not helpful.
Maya came over at four to help her get ready, and spent the intervening three hours asking questions that Vivian answered with varying degrees of honesty.
"So you've been practicing being a couple?"
"We've had two rehearsals. One at his apartment, one at a restaurant he likes."
"That doesn't sound like a rehearsal. That sounds like dates."
"They were strategic discussions with visual aids."
Maya's expression suggested she did not believe this for a second, but she did not push it. "Well, just so you know, Marcus is coming to the gala too. He RSVP'd last minute because his firm donated a table. He's going to be watching you like a hawk all night—he asked me three times if you were sure about this, and I had to tell him to back off and let you handle it."
"Marcus is being dramatic."
"Marcus is being Marcus. You know how he gets when he thinks someone he cares about might get hurt." Maya paused, her expression softening. "He worries about you, Viv. We both do. Just—be careful, okay? I know Sebastian seems like a good guy, but this whole arrangement feels like something that could go sideways in a lot of ways."
At seven, Sebastian texted to say he was outside.
Vivian looked at herself in the mirror one last time. The dress was good. Her hair was down, which she had decided was more romantic than pulled back, even though it made her feel slightly exposed. She was wearing lipstick—the first time she had worn lipstick to work, or anywhere, really, since she had decided several years ago that makeup was an unnecessary complication.
She looked different. She looked like someone else.
She grabbed her small handbag, checked that her phone and keys were inside, and walked to the door.
Sebastian was standing by a black car that was definitely not a regular taxi, and when he saw her, he went completely still.
"Hi," Vivian said, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about the dress and the lipstick and all of it.
"Hi," he said, and his voice had a quality she hadn't heard before—a roughness, a hesitation—that made her stomach do something medically inadvisable.
"You look—" He stopped, visibly recalibrating. "The car is here. We should go."
He helped her into the car, which was unexpectedly chivalrous, and then got in on the other side, and they sat in the back while a driver Vivian had never seen before navigated through Manhattan traffic.
" Nervous?" he asked.
"Terrified."
"Good. That will make you look appropriately anxious about attending your first high-profile event with your boss." He glanced at her. "I'm joking. Mostly."
"Mostly."
"The gala is at the Plaza. We arrive together, we make an entrance, and we spend the next two hours convincing everyone we see that this is real." He paused. "I should warn you: Lyra will be there. She will approach us at some point. She will almost certainly bring Catherine Vance."
"I remember the briefing."
"I'm not worried about you. I'm worried about me." He met her eyes, and his expression was almost smiling. "You're going to do fine."
The Plaza Hotel was, as expected, extremely fancy.
Vivian had attended events in nice venues before—book launches, industry mixers, the occasional wedding—but this was different. The Plaza was all gilt and marble and chandeliers that looked like they cost more than her apartment building, and the guests were dressed in a way that made her feel simultaneously overdressed and underdressed at the same time.
Sebastian's hand was on the small of her back as they walked into the ballroom, a gesture that she knew was calculated to look romantic but that was making her skin tingle in a way that felt significantly less calculated.
"Nod and smile," he murmured. "Don't volunteer too much information. Let them fill in the blanks."
"You're very good at this."
"I had a lot of practice being watched."
They made their entrance, and Vivian tried to project confidence while internally cataloging every person who might be looking at them. The gala was a charity event, she had learned from the briefing book, benefiting the New York Public Library's literacy programs. The guest list was a mix of media executives, celebrity supporters, and high-profile donors, and the room was full of people who were almost certainly wondering why Sebastian Ashford had arrived with an unknown woman instead of alone, or with Catherine Vance, or with any of the other society women who had been rumored to be in his orbit.
She spotted Chloe near the bar, holding a drink and watching the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who was technically off-duty but could not stop working. Chloe caught her eye and raised her glass in a subtle salute—a gesture that said you've got this without saying anything at all.
"Sebastian!"
A woman in an emerald green dress was approaching them with the determined energy of someone who had been waiting for this moment, and Vivian recognized her immediately from the briefing book: Lyra Ashford, in the flesh, looking exactly like the kind of beautiful older sister who had probably been everyone's favorite since childhood.
Lyra's eyes moved from Sebastian to Vivian, and her expression shifted almost imperceptibly—warming by a single degree, like a climate-controlled smile that had pre-set settings for different occasions.
"Sebastian, darling," Lyra said, kissing his cheek in a way that was clearly habitual. "And this must be—" She extended a hand to Vivian. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Lyra Ashford. Sebastian's sister."
"Vivian Shaw," Vivian said, shaking the hand. Lyra's grip was firm and brief, the handshake of someone who had shaking hands down to a professional skill.
"I've heard so much about you," Lyra said, in a tone that suggested she had heard exactly as much as she wanted to and nothing more. "Sebastian has been very—private about his personal life, so imagine my surprise when I heard he was bringing someone to Father's gala."
"Surprise is mutual," Sebastian said, in a tone that was pleasant but cool. "I didn't realize Father was having a gala."
"He does so love an excuse to gather his constituents." Lyra's smile was sharp. "Speaking of which, I want you to meet someone. Catherine Vance—she's been asking about you."
A woman materialized at Lyra's side, and Vivian's first impression was tall—Catherine Vance was nearly as tall as Sebastian, with perfect blonde hair and a smile that was more dental than emotional. She was wearing white, which seemed like a bold choice for a charity gala, and she extended her hand to Sebastian with an enthusiasm that was difficult to miss.
"Sebastian," Catherine said. "I've been hoping we would run into each other. Your father mentioned you might be here tonight."
"Hello, Catherine." Sebastian shook her hand briefly and then, very naturally, moved his arm around Vivian's waist. "I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Vivian Shaw. She works at Elite with me."
The word girlfriend hung in the air.
Vivian watched Catherine's face go through a series of rapid adjustments—surprise, recalibration, and then a polite smile that did not reach her eyes.
"How wonderful," Catherine said. "I didn't know Sebastian was seeing anyone. He's always been so—dedicated to his work."
"Still is," Vivian said, smiling in a way she hoped looked genuine and not at all like she was currently having a minor heart attack. "But he makes time."
"How long have you been together?" Lyra asked, in a tone that suggested she already knew the answer and was testing to see if they did.
"Three weeks," Sebastian said, smoothly. "It's new. We're taking it slow."
Three weeks, Vivian thought. Three weeks since the coffee. Three weeks since I told him his spatial awareness was questionable. Three weeks since he looked at me like I was interesting.
"Three weeks is very new," Catherine said, with a smile that suggested she found this somehow reassuring. "I'm sure there will be plenty of time to get to know each other better."
"I'm sure there will be," Sebastian agreed, and his hand tightened very slightly on Vivian's waist, and she had the strangest feeling that he was not just performing for Lyra and Catherine.
She pushed the thought aside and focused on the conversation, which had moved on to topics like the charity auction and the keynote speaker and other things that Vivian was not actually paying attention to because she was too busy noticing the way Sebastian's thumb was moving in small, absent circles against her hip.
It was probably unconscious. He was probably not even aware he was doing it.
It was definitely making it very difficult for her to concentrate.
The conversation ended eventually—Lyra had to go "mingle," which was a word that had probably never left Vivian's mouth but that Lyra managed to make sound like a strategic military operation—and Sebastian guided Vivian toward the bar with a hand that had migrated from her waist to the small of her back.
"Okay?" he asked, once they were out of earshot.
"Fine. That was—"
"Lyra being Lyra."
"She's very—"
"She's been managing our father's expectations since our mother died. It's a skill she's developed. Don't take it personally."
"I don't." Vivian accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a sip. "I'm more worried about me. Did I seem believable?"
"You seemed perfect." He said it casually, but she caught something in his tone that she could not quite identify. "The part where you said I make time for you—that was good. Believable."
"I was being charitable."
"I know."
They stood at the bar, surrounded by people who were almost certainly watching them, and Vivian tried to focus on the feeling of the champagne rather than the way Sebastian was standing slightly too close, or the way his arm had not left her back, or the way he was looking at her now with an expression that was very difficult to categorize.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"Anything."
"Your mother. The briefing book said she died when you were seventeen. What happened?"
The question landed differently than she had expected. Sebastian's expression shifted—something flickered behind his eyes, a grief that had never quite healed—and for a moment he looked younger, more vulnerable, less like the Editor-in-Chief and more like the seventeen-year-old who had lost his mother.
"She was sick for a long time," he said quietly. "Cancer. The kind where they tell you she's going to die and then they make you wait while it happens. She was sick for two years before she finally—" He stopped. "She was the only person in that family who ever saw me as a person instead of a resource. When she died, Richard stepped in to fill the gap, and he's been trying to mold me into the heir he wants ever since."
Vivian absorbed this, feeling the weight of it settle into her understanding of who Sebastian was. Not just the professional persona. The real person underneath.
"I'm sorry," she said. "That's—I can't imagine what that was like."
"No. You can't." He looked at her, and his expression was something she had never seen before—a raw openness that was entirely at odds with the controlled, professional man she had come to know. "That's why I don't talk about it. Not because I'm hiding something, but because once people know, they look at me differently. They see the tragedy instead of the person."
"I won't look at you differently."
The words came out before she could stop them, and she watched them land—watched Sebastian's expression shift in a way that was too quick to read, too complicated to analyze.
"Thank you," he said, very quietly.
They were interrupted, mercifully, by a colleague from the marketing team who wanted to say hello to Sebastian, and the moment passed, and the performance resumed. Vivian smiled and nodded and made small talk and performed her role as Sebastian's girlfriend with what she hoped was convincing enthusiasm.
But underneath the performance, she was thinking about the way he had looked when he talked about his mother.
She was thinking about the way he had said thank you.
She was thinking about all the things she did not know about him, and all the things she was beginning to suspect, and the growing, uncomfortable feeling that this arrangement was going to be significantly more complicated than she had planned.
The gala ended at eleven.
Sebastian drove her home in the same black car, and they sat in the back in a silence that was not entirely uncomfortable. She was thinking about the evening—about Lyra's pointed questions, about Catherine's polite hostility, about all the moments where she had felt like she was walking a tightrope between performance and reality.
"Thank you for tonight," Sebastian said as they pulled up to her building.
"Thank you for—" She paused, not sure how to finish the sentence. "For the opportunity to wear this very expensive dress and pretend to be your girlfriend."
He laughed. It was a real laugh, surprised and genuine, and it made her feel something that she immediately categorized as dangerous.
"You're welcome," he said. "Though I should mention—you looked—"
He stopped.
"I looked what?"
"Like you belonged there." He met her eyes in the dim light of the car. "You did belong there. That's not a performance. That's just the truth."
She got out of the car before she could say something she would regret.
She went upstairs to her apartment and sat on her couch in the dark and tried to figure out why her heart was still beating so fast.
She was supposed to be pretending.
She was not supposed to actually feel anything.
So why did it feel like she had just been handed something fragile and precious, and been told to be careful with it?
She did not have an answer.
She was beginning to suspect she did not want one.
She went to bed without taking off the dress, too tired to deal with the logistics of undressing, and she fell asleep thinking about mint-green eyes and burgundy dresses and the sound of Sebastian's real laugh.
It was, she told herself, just a performance.
She was almost beginning to believe it.
Almost.
But not quite.
Not quite yet.
