Page 113 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
"For yelling at your mom."
"She asked for it."
"She's going to hate me even more now."
"It's fine. You're the one who wanted her to like you. I told you, she doesn't need to. She just needs to believe the engagement's real—which she clearly does."
"But—"
"But nothing." His tone softens. "The show must go on."
"Alright," I murmur, swallowing hard and forcing myself back to the cold, practical truth. "You're right. It doesn't matter. Because that's all this is, right? A show."
I'm not sure if I'm saying it for him—or to convince myself.
But as he stares down at me, he doesn't answer.
CHAPTER 32
Grayson
My mother invites us over for another dinner that weekend. I have no fucking clue why—especially after her fight with Jenna—but when I bring it up, she's surprisingly apologetic, practically begging us to come.
Despite my assurances that we don't have to, Jenna insists we show up.
"I don't want her to think she's intimidated me," she says. "Besides, maybe she really has changed her mind. Maybe this is her way of offering an olive branch."
I seriously doubt it. More likely she's just changed tactics, and this dinner is part of some new scheme to push Jenna out of my life. Still, I'm curious to see what she's planning. One thing's for sure—if she tries to humiliate Jenna again, she'll meet a side of me she's never seen before.
Eventually, I give in to Jenna's pleas—but only after making one thing clear.
"We're leaving the first time anyone crosses a line," I warn. "Doesn't matter who it is. She might be my mother, but I'm not letting anyone disrespect my fiancée. Not again."
"Your fiancée?" Jenna smirks. "Forgot this is fake, did you?"
No, I haven't. Neither have I forgotten our unfinished conversation. It's for show, she said. I still don't know who she was trying to convince—me or herself.
Everything starts out fine. George and Marina are there, Stephanie too, so seven of us sit down to dine, just like before. Mother's on her best behavior—polite, smiling, the picture of civility. Pops doesn't say much, just watches me quietly. When Mother glances between George and me with thinly veiled tension, she suggests we all agree not to discuss business at the table. Fine by me. We keep to safe topics, conversation as bland and polished as the china.
Still, I can't help watching George. I haven't confronted him yet—I'm not sure he's behind what happened—but I'm studying him, waiting to see how he reacts to my scrutiny. Does he flinch? Look guilty?
So far, no. He just looks confused and mildly uneasy, which for George is basically normal. He's always been shifty and bad at eye contact; I can't tell if it means something or nothing.
"So," my father says, breaking Mother's own rule, "George, how was your meeting with Ali—the Dubai prince?"
"It went well," George replies smoothly. "We're finalizing a multibillion-dollar deal. He drives a hard bargain, but it's all doable."
"It's a waste of time," I say. "He's dangled that contract in front of me for years, then pulls back at the last minute. The senior agents call him the Prince of Blue Balls."
George chuckles. "Maybe things are different this time. He sounded serious, and we're close to signing."
I resist the urge to laugh. "Sure you are."
"Perhaps you should sit in on the meetings too, Grayson," my father suggests.
"Over my dead body."
"Boys," Mother says sharply. "This is a family dinner. We agreed—no business talk."
