Noah Reyes stood in front of a three-way mirror, shirtless, arms raised as a stranger poked a tape measure under his armpit.
"This one slouches," muttered the tailor, a tiny man with half-moon glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His voice was sharp, accented, and disappointed.
"Sorry?" Noah asked, glancing down at him.
"Spine like a question mark," the man said with a click of his tongue. "Do you want to look like a hired extra or a man worthy of Miss Langford's attention?"
"I mean, technically, I am a hired extra."
The tailor froze, narrowed his eyes at Noah in the mirror, then pulled the tape measure tighter around his chest.
"Less talking. More posing."
Noah sighed and tried to square his shoulders.
They were in a private fitting room tucked inside a bespoke tailoring studio that probably cost more per visit than his entire monthly rent. The lighting was clinical, bright, and very unforgiving. A rack of tuxedos stood nearby—black, midnight blue, charcoal gray. All custom. All intimidating.
Kuroda sat on a sleek leather chair in the corner, watching with the dead-eyed focus of a bodyguard in a mafia movie. He wore a suit so sharp Noah was afraid to breathe near it.
"Lift your chin," Kuroda said. "You'll be photographed from every angle tonight. Paparazzi love chin shadows."
"You say that like it's a normal sentence," Noah muttered, complying.
The tailor reached for a pin, adjusting the shoulder seam of the jacket Noah was trying on. "He's not hopeless," the man finally declared. "But we'll need grooming. Eyebrows. Neckline. Possibly a haircut."
"I just got a haircut," Noah said, wincing.
"Then you got the wrong one."
Kuroda stood. "We have four hours until the gala. You'll be groomed, styled, and briefed on your social script before 5:30. Car picks you up at 5:45 sharp. If you're late, Miss Langford will notice. And she does not tolerate tardiness."
Noah turned to face him. "Do I get any say in what I wear?"
"You're being paid to not have opinions."
"I should've charged more," he muttered.
The tailor grinned, just a little. "First-timers always say that."
Kuroda stepped forward with a sleek folder, holding it out like it was a classified file.
"This is your cheat sheet," he said. "Inside you'll find basic facts about Celeste Langford—her birthday, family details, favorite wine, preferred pet charity, fake relationship history, and a list of things you are never allowed to joke about."
Noah flipped it open and raised a brow. "'Do not mention ice, snow, skiing, or Elsa from Frozen'?"
"Trust me," Kuroda said. "You'll thank me later."
A knock came at the fitting room door.
The stylist entered—tall, fabulous, dressed in a fashion-forward tracksuit and holding a tray of products that glowed like high-end alchemy.
"Oh honey," they said, taking one look at Noah. "We have our work cut out for us."
45 Minutes Later…
Noah stared at himself in the mirror.Was that... him?
The man reflected back wore a tailored black tuxedo with silk lapels and a pocket square that had been folded with surgical precision. His hair was trimmed, styled, and slightly tousled in that effortless "I don't care" way that took four professionals and seventeen hair products to achieve. His face had been subtly touched up — not makeup, exactly, but something that made him look more awake, more confident. Less... desperate.
"You look expensive," the stylist said with satisfaction.
"I feel like a fraud."
"That is the look."
Kuroda checked his watch. "Time's up. Script review in the car."
As Noah stepped out into the hallway, walking differently now because apparently he had a "bad stride," he caught his own reflection again.
He didn't look like himself. Not the broke student scraping by on scholarships and side gigs. Not the guy who counted every dollar in his bank account.
He looked like someone who belonged in her world.
That thought chilled him.
The black luxury car rolled to a stop in front of Langford Tower just as the sun dipped below the skyline. The building's rooftop glittered with golden lights, its glass panels gleaming like polished ice.
Outside, a thin velvet rope barely held back a crowd of paparazzi, socialites, and curious onlookers. Photographers swarmed the edge of the red carpet, shouting names, hoping for a headline.
From inside the car, Noah stared through the tinted window.
"Welcome to the wolves' den," Kuroda muttered, thumbing through his earpiece. "Remember: don't blink too much. Don't sweat. Don't fidget. And whatever you do—smile like you mean it."
Noah adjusted the cufflinks on his tux. "You make it sound like I'm walking into a battlefield."
"You are."
The car door opened, and the noise hit him like a wave.
Flashbulbs exploded. Voices shouted. A thousand tiny cameras locked onto him, blinking, watching.
Noah stepped out onto the carpet.
And then he saw her.
Celeste Langford, standing just a few feet away, was everything the cameras wanted her to be—and everything Noah hadn't prepared for.
She wore a sleek crimson gown that fit like a second skin, high-slit on one side, diamonds at her ears and collarbone. Her hair was swept back into an elegant twist, not a single strand out of place. Her expression was unreadable: regal, distant, cool as marble.
For a split second, her eyes flicked to him.Just a glance. A test.Then she held out her hand.
Noah took it.
The crowd's noise surged.
Click-click-click. "Celeste! Over here! Who's your date?"Flash. Flash. Flash."Celeste, is this your boyfriend? Is this official?"
She turned to the cameras, her lips curling into a perfect, practiced smile.
"This," she said, leaning ever so slightly into Noah's side, "is Noah."
Her voice was soft and dangerous, like a velvet scalpel.
He smiled—trying to keep his eyes from betraying the panic climbing up his throat—and slid his arm around her waist. Her body was tense against his, like steel wrapped in silk.
Celeste leaned closer and whispered, "Smile correctly, or I'll have you replaced by dessert."
Noah blinked. "You're joking."
She didn't respond.
Kuroda gave him a subtle nod from the side of the carpet. Noah straightened his posture and followed Celeste's lead, walking with her up the stairs and into the building's glass lobby.
Inside, the atmosphere changed instantly.
Muted music floated down from a live string quartet. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Champagne sparkled in delicate flutes. The guests—clad in black tie and dripping wealth—were already mingling, laughing, posing.
This wasn't a party. It was a performance.
Celeste didn't stop walking. She moved like gravity bent to her will, pulling people's eyes wherever she went. Noah stayed by her side, keeping time with her heels, resisting the urge to wipe his hands on his pants.
"Head up," she murmured. "You look like you're following me into an exam room."
"I feel like I am."
"Relax. Everyone here lies for a living. You're just getting paid for it."
They approached a silver-haired man holding court near the champagne tower—surrounded by sharp suits and stiff smiles. He turned as they approached, offering a curt nod.
Mr. Langford.
He was tall, composed, with a presence carved from stone and old money. His eyes flicked to Noah, taking his measure in one second flat.
"So this is the boy," he said. Not a question.
Celeste offered a slight smile. "Father, this is Noah Reyes."
Mr. Langford extended a hand. Noah shook it, firm but polite.
"Noah is a pre-law student at Queensbridge. Top of his class."
"Is he?" Mr. Langford asked, eyes unmoving. "I assume he's read a contract before."
"I've read...a few," Noah said, keeping his tone respectful.
Langford's gaze narrowed just slightly, then moved on.
"I hope you're prepared. Celeste's last...companion wasn't."
"That was different," Celeste cut in smoothly. "He thought I was an accessory."
Langford chuckled once. "And this one?"
"I pay attention," Noah replied before he could stop himself.
Langford raised an eyebrow—slightly impressed, or maybe amused.
Celeste glanced at Noah, her mouth twitching like she might smile—but didn't.
Then another voice broke in. Sweet and laced with poison.
"Well, well. Isn't this charming."
Noah turned and came face to face with Vivian Langford—Celeste's stepmother.
She was radiant in a deep emerald gown, champagne flute dangling between two perfectly manicured fingers. Her smile was as warm as an open freezer.
"And you must be the flavor of the week."
"Vivian," Celeste said evenly.
Noah extended a hand. "Noah Reyes. A pleasure."
"Oh, I'm sure it is," she replied, barely brushing his fingers.
Celeste slid an arm through his and turned back toward the ballroom. "If you'll excuse us. It's our turn to circulate."
As they walked away, Noah leaned in and muttered, "She's...friendly."
"Vivian smiles like that when she's planning to set you on fire," Celeste said. "Be glad she didn't offer you a drink."
Noah chuckled under his breath, then caught her watching him out of the corner of her eye.
Just for a moment, her expression softened.
Then it was gone.
Back to business.
Noah had never felt more like a prop in his life.
The ballroom gleamed with gold-trimmed columns and walls of crystal glass, the skyline of the city twinkling around them like they were dancing in the middle of a snow globe. Strings played some elegant classical piece he didn't recognize, and everywhere he turned, someone was laughing too loudly or whispering just barely out of earshot.
He kept a glass of champagne in his hand—not drinking it, just holding it. Celeste had warned him earlier: "Never drink at a Langford event. They'll use it against you."
She hadn't been joking.
"Smile at the next couple who approaches," she whispered through gritted teeth. "That's the Reinhardt family. Old friends of my father. They'll ask you invasive questions under the guise of polite interest. Nod and deflect."
"And what if I mess up?"
"Then we both become tomorrow's headline."
Sure enough, the couple approached—a balding man with a heavy watch and his glamorous wife, all cheekbones and fake interest.
Celeste smiled on cue.
And Noah… played the role.
He deflected questions about his finances with casual jokes. He dropped in just enough knowledge about law school to sound credible. He said "yes ma'am" without sounding like a waiter. And when Mrs. Reinhardt leaned in too close, he smoothly slid his arm tighter around Celeste's waist like he had every right to do it.
She didn't flinch.
By the time the couple left, Celeste looked sideways at him. "Not bad."
Noah sipped the untouched champagne. "High praise, coming from someone who threatened to replace me by dessert."
"You've lasted longer than I expected."
"Oh? What was the over-under?"
"Half an hour."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. It was gone before it could become real.
Before he could reply, the music shifted.
The string quartet slid into a sweeping waltz—slow, romantic, the kind that turned every head in the room.
Celeste froze.
And then Mr. Langford's voice rang out from across the floor.
"Celeste! A dance with your young man, surely?"
The crowd followed his gaze. Cameras hovered. Smiles turned predatory.
Noah felt Celeste's fingers tighten ever so slightly on his sleeve.
"Your call," he whispered under his breath.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she turned and led him silently to the center of the floor.
The Dance Begins
Noah had taken exactly two dance classes. In high school. To pass gym.
But Celeste moved like this was second nature to her. Every step, every turn, calculated elegance. She didn't speak as they danced. Didn't smile. Just… moved.
Noah followed her lead, keeping his posture straight, his movements minimal. He wasn't perfect—he knew that. But he didn't trip, didn't step on her dress, didn't make a scene.
And slowly, Celeste looked at him.
Really looked.
"You're not completely incompetent," she murmured, almost grudgingly.
"I try to exceed expectations."
She turned in his arms, her voice dropping low. "You do understand this is war, right? Every eye in this room is watching to see if I slip. If I lose face. If I fall in love."
Noah hesitated. "And which one of those would be worst?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she held his gaze—something flickering there. Not quite vulnerability, but the edge of it. Like she was daring him to see through the marble mask she always wore.
Noah's fingers flexed slightly on her back.
And then—
Click.
A photographer caught the perfect angle: Celeste in Noah's arms, her red dress flaring slightly, their eyes locked. A moment that looked like love, even if it wasn't.
She noticed.
He felt her inhale, just slightly.
Then she stepped back with practiced poise as the song ended, offering a graceful nod to the applauding crowd.
The illusion complete.
Noah leaned in and said quietly, "How'd I do?"
Celeste's lips barely moved. "You'll live."
And with that, she turned, her heels clicking softly against the marble as she walked off into the crowd.
Noah followed, champagne still untouched, heart beating just a little too fast.
The gala had thinned out.
The orchestra had switched to lighter melodies. Guests filtered toward the balcony or trickled down to the valet stand. The social predators had gotten their quotes, their photos, and their gossip for the week.
Noah leaned against the balcony rail of the Langford Tower's rooftop garden, exhaling for the first time in hours.
Below him, the city blinked in a thousand lights.
He loosened his collar just slightly—still in costume, but the mask was slipping. For a moment, he wasn't anyone's fake boyfriend or social puppet. He was just… Noah again.
"Don't get too comfortable."
He turned. Celeste stood a few feet away, silhouetted by the skyline, a second glass of champagne in her hand.
For the first time all night, she looked… tired.
Not the kind of tired that came from dancing or smiling for the cameras—but the bone-deep fatigue of constantly holding a fortress together.
"You survived," she said softly, offering him the second glass.
He took it, still unsure if he was supposed to drink it or just carry it like an accessory.
"You didn't trip," she added. "Didn't spill. Didn't flirt with my enemies or stammer when Vivian baited you."
Noah smiled. "All the basics of high society survival."
Celeste turned, resting one manicured hand lightly on the railing. "Most people crumble the first night. They say the wrong thing, overplay the act, forget they're not the star of the story."
"And what am I?" he asked, more curious than defensive.
"A prop. A placeholder. A rumor in the making."
Ouch.
"But," she added, looking at him sideways, "you might be a little more than that. Eventually."
Noah tilted his head. "Eventually?"
Celeste sipped her champagne, eyes scanning the glittering skyline like it held answers.
"I don't trust people easily," she said. "Everyone in my world wants something. Some want power. Some want my money. Others want to break me just to say they did."
Her voice didn't waver, but Noah heard it anyway—the weariness threaded just beneath her words.
"And me?" he asked carefully.
Celeste looked directly at him.
"I don't know yet."
They stood in silence.
Then she straightened, all vulnerability disappearing in a heartbeat.
"Our contract begins tonight. Officially. You're to attend three social events per month, post with me on curated platforms, and behave as if you're falling for me—but never actually do."
He arched a brow. "That last part seems... subjective."
"Not to me."
She stepped closer, just enough that he could smell the faint perfume on her skin—cool, floral, expensive.
"This is performance art, Noah. We'll hold hands when necessary. Kiss only in public if forced. You'll attend rehearsed dates, wear what you're told, and smile like I'm everything you want."
"And when do I get to be myself?"
"You don't."
That landed like a gavel.
But then—something softer.
A flicker of doubt. A sliver of honesty.
"If you do this right, I'll pay off your tuition, clear your family's hospital debt, and write you a letter that gets you into any law firm in New York."
Noah blinked. "You know about—?"
"I know everything I pay for."
He swallowed the instinct to protest. To defend his pride. To say he didn't need saving.
Because maybe… just this once… he did.
Celeste held out her hand.
"Do we have a deal?"
Noah looked at it.
At her.
At the glass tower around them, the sky full of city noise and stars too distant to matter.
He took her hand.
"Contract signed," he said.
Her fingers tightened for just a second. Then let go.
"Good. You start tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"We have brunch with my mother."
"Of course we do."
Celeste smirked.
And walked away.