Page 31 of The Fake Affair

“Real connection,” I finish, thinking about how naturally she’d handled the board members last week.

“Exactly!” She turns, beaming up at me. “That’s why digital integration needs to be more intuitive, you know?

I reach out without thinking, brushing flour from her face. “You’re brilliant when you’re passionate about something.”

Color floods her cheeks. “I thought we agreed to keep things professional.”

“Professional doesn’t mean I can’t acknowledge your abilities.” But I step back, putting a safe distance between us. “The pancakes are burning again, by the way.”

* * *

We’re eating slightlycharred pancakes at the breakfast bar, discussing safer topics like tomorrow’s art gallery opening—our first official public appearance since the elevator incident. Victoria’s arranged for several board members and key investors to attend.

“It needs to be convincing,” I remind her.

Bella wrinkles her nose at me. “Yes, dear. I’ll be the perfect girlfriend.” She steals a bite of my pancake.

I catch her wrist before she can steal another bite. “Careful, love. Or I’ll tell everyone about your cooking skills.”

“It was just a one-time mishap. Plus, you wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Her eyes drop to where I’m still holding her wrist. I let go quickly, standing to clear the plates.

“I should get ready,” she says, sliding off her stool. “I promised Audrey I’d help her with something today.”

I watch her leave, still wearing my shirt, and wonder how long we can keep pretending this is just business.

Twenty-four hours later, I’m watching Bella charm the entire board at Sterling Gallery’s newest exhibition. She’s wearing a black dress that walks the perfect line between elegant and alluring, and I’m not the only one noticing.

“Your Bella is so knowledgeable about modern art,” Victoria observes, appearing at my elbow.

My Bella. The words shouldn’t affect me like they do.

“She’s full of surprises,” I say, watching as she explains something about the abstract piece in front of her, her hands moving expressively as she talks.

“The Goldmans are impressed,” Victoria sips her champagne. “They appreciate a CEO with ‘cultured taste.’”

I almost laugh. If she only knew Bella was teaching me about modern art via text messages all afternoon, preparing me for exactly these conversations.

“Babe!” Bella waves me over. “Come look at this one. It reminds me of that story you told me about Edinburgh.”

I’ve told her exactly zero stories about Edinburgh, but she’s creating our history with such natural ease that even I almost believe it.

The painting she’s pointing to is a mess of blues and grays that supposedly represents urban isolation, coastal erosion, or possibly breakfast—modern art isn’t exactly my forte.

“See how the artist uses color to create depth?” She loops her arm through mine, and I catch a whiff of her perfume. “It’s like that view from your old flat, the one you described. How the mist would roll in from the sea...”

She spins a tale of a flat I never had and a view I never saw, but her voice makes it real. I find myself adding details—the old coffee shop below, the creaky stairs, the way the fog would muffle the city sounds.

I almost forget we’re performing.

"Tell me more about Edinburgh," Harrison from the board interrupts, appearing with his wife in tow. "My daughter's considering studying there."

Bella's hand tightens on my arm—the slightest warning squeeze. We haven't prepared for personal questions about Edinburgh.

"The Royal Mile," she starts, her voice warm with fake nostalgia. "That's where we first met. Logan was avoiding some tedious business dinner?—"

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