Fake Couple, True Love

I framed the shot perfectly—a rugged Brooklyn hipster with just the right amount of five o'clock shadow leaning against a graffitied wall. The golden hour light cast him in amber tones that would make my Instagram followers swoon. Just as I pressed the shutter button, my phone vibrated against my thigh with such persistence that I nearly dropped my camera.

"Damn it," I muttered, fumbling to keep my equipment from crashing onto the concrete while fishing out my phone. My mother's face flashed on the screen—her annual Christmas card photo where she looked more like a senator's wife than my actual mom.

"Stephanie Elizabeth Cole, where are you?" Her voice trembled with a panic I hadn't heard since I'd dyed my hair blue for prom.

"In Williamsburg, working. Why?"

"You need to come home right now." The command was sharp, lacking her usual passive-aggressive sugar coating. "The family is... we're in trouble. Big trouble."

I rolled my eyes, already anticipating another Cole family drama about someone wearing white after Labor Day. "What kind of trouble?"

"We're bankrupt, Stephanie." My father's voice suddenly boomed through the speaker—he must have grabbed the phone from Mom. "Everything's gone. The company, our investments, your trust fund."

The world tilted sideways. "What? That's impossible."

"It's happening to the Whitmans too," my mother chimed in, apparently having reclaimed the phone. "Both our families are going under unless we can secure an emergency loan from First Manhattan."

I leaned against the nearest brick wall, my camera hanging forgotten around my neck. "The Whitmans? As in Jason Whitman's family?" The mere mention of his name sent a familiar surge of irritation through me.

"Yes, and there's only one solution." Mom's voice dropped to a whisper. "The bank will only approve the loan if our families merge assets completely."

A cold dread pooled in my stomach. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means," my father shouted from somewhere in the background, "you need to marry Jason Whitman. Tomorrow."

The phone nearly slipped from my suddenly numb fingers. "Have you both lost your minds? I'd rather live in a cardboard box!"

"Stephanie," my mother's voice hardened, "this isn't just about you. It's about our entire family legacy, our employees, everything we've built. Please, just come home now so we can explain everything."

Two hours later, I stood frozen in our Manhattan penthouse living room, staring at the assembly of people who had apparently gathered to orchestrate my personal nightmare. My parents, Jason's parents, a judge, and a notary all looked at me with expressions ranging from desperation to cool calculation.

And then there was Jason himself—six feet of tailored suit and perpetual smirk—leaning against my father's prized mahogany bookcase like he owned it. The same Jason who'd ruined my white dress with green dye in third grade. The same insufferable Jason who'd competed with me for everything from school awards to parking spaces since we were children.

"Nice of you to finally join us, Cole," he drawled, his steel-gray eyes