A Fake Marriage With The Real Tycoon

The borrowed apron felt stiff against Alayna's neck, the strings digging into the small of her back. Her own uniform was in the wash, stained with coffee from her morning shift. This one smelled faintly of bleach and someone else's sweat.

Her palms were damp as she tied the knot. She hated these gigs. Hated the cloying scent of money and perfume that clung to the air in places like the Northwood Country Club. But her roommate, Phoebe, had come down with the flu, and Alayna needed the cash.

"Heath, let's go." Brendan, the catering manager, shoved a heavy silver tray into her hands. The crystal flutes clinked, a sound like tiny, nervous bells. "VIP suite. And don't drop anything this time."

She tightened her grip, the ornate edge of the tray biting into her flesh. "Yes, Brendan."

The hallway was a sea of noise and expensive fabrics. Her worn-out heels, a size too small, sank into the plush crimson carpet with every step. One of them caught on a seam, and she pitched forward, the champagne sloshing dangerously. She froze, her heart slamming against her ribs, every muscle tensed to keep the tray level. She managed to right herself, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

The VIP suite door, a heavy slab of dark oak, was slightly ajar. From inside, a wave of cigar smoke and deep, rumbling laughter washed over her.

One laugh, in particular, made her stop.

It was a sound she knew as well as her own heartbeat. A low, easy chuckle that always started in his chest. A sound she'd fallen asleep to on the phone more times than she could count.

Caiden.

Her fingers tightened on the tray. It was impossible. Caiden was supposed to be across town, studying for his midterms at the university library. He'd texted her a picture of his textbook an hour ago, and last night, he'd sent his usual goodnight message before she fell asleep.

She leaned forward, her body moving before her mind could object. She peered through the crack in the door.

The smoke was thick, but through the haze, she saw him. He was sitting on a tufted leather sofa, his back partially to her. But it was him. The line of his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his dark hair.

Except everything was wrong.

He wasn't wearing his usual faded jeans and worn-out university hoodie. He was in a suit. A dark, impeccably tailored suit that probably cost more than her entire semester's tuition. A Patek Philippe watch, the kind she'd only seen in magazines, glinted on his wrist as he lifted a glass of amber liquid.

Her breath caught in her throat. The air refused to enter her lungs. This wasn't the Caiden who ate ramen with her on the floor of her tiny Queens apartment. This wasn't the boy who worried about making rent.

"So, Ellis," a voice drawled from a nearby armchair. "Has the little charity case from