Marrying Him Was Easy, Loving Him Was Hell

Ivy

There's a very specific kind of panic that hits when you realize you just lied on a government grant application. Not a tiny fib like adjusting your weight on your driver's license. No, I'm talking about a full-blown, bold-faced lie with consequences, signatures, and potential jail time.

I, Ivy Monroe, PhD in psychology, neurotic overthinker, and rule-follower extraordinaire, just told the Midlake Arts & Wellness Institute that I am married.

Spoiler alert: I am not.

It started innocently. I was scrolling through my academic email while chewing on a stale protein bar and avoiding grading ten research papers on attachment styles. And then-bam. There it was. An email titled: CONGRATULATIONS! Welcome to Midlake's Summer Creative Couples Residency!

I blinked.

Then I blinked again.

The email said I'd been selected for a two-month, all-expenses-paid retreat in the mountains. Just me, my "partner," and our shared creative journey. A $50,000 grant for couples who want to blend art and therapy.

I'd applied on a whim, inspired by a late-night rerun of Eat, Pray, Love and one too many glasses of red wine. I figured they'd never pick a nerdy psychologist whose idea of a wild night was reorganizing her spice rack. But they did.

And there, in neat bold letters, it said:

"Note: This retreat is for couples only. No singles permitted. All selected applicants must arrive with their partner or forfeit the grant."

My stomach flipped.

I reread the line at least twenty-three times, as if it would suddenly change to, "Just kidding! Singles welcome! We love lonely intellectuals with control issues!"

But no.

I was stuck.

I mean... it was just a small lie, right? I wasn't hurting anyone. And it was for a good cause-my research on emotional intimacy in long-term relationships. I needed this grant. I needed peace. I needed the space. I just... needed a fake husband.

So I did what any sane, rational adult woman would do.

I panicked.

First, I called my best friend, Elise. She's an ER nurse, always calm in a crisis. Except she laughed so hard, she dropped her phone into a bedpan.

"Wait-you told them you were married? Ivy! You haven't even dated since... what? Brian-the-Barista?"

"It was one date. And he kept quoting Fight Club. It doesn't count."

"Girl, you need help."

Yes. Yes, I did.

Because with just six days until the retreat, I had one choice:

Find a fake husband, or give up the biggest opportunity of my career.

The solution came in the form of Lake Hart.

Well, more like he barged into my life like a leather-jacket-wearing hurricane with stupidly nice cheekbones and a reputation for being allergic to rules.

I met him once at a university networking event. I was there giving a talk on trauma resilience. He was there filming a documentary on academic burnout. He drank whiskey straight, told inappropriate jokes, and stared at me like I was an alien. I called him arrogant. He called me uptight. We haven't spoken since.