Chapter 3
Charlie
I stare at the blank whiteboard mounted on the wall, the words "Harborlight Winter Campaign" written in neat block letters across the top. Below them? Nothing. A white expanse of possibility, or failure.
"If I lose this, I lose it all," I whisper to the empty room.
It's not just dramatic thinking. Miranda made it crystal clear yesterday after my meeting with Sebastian Sinclair: the Harborlight account isn't just another client. It's the future of our agency's hospitality division. My future.
"Did you actually propose marriage to our biggest client?" she'd demanded, cornering me at the elevator. Her perfectly manicured nails had dug into my arm, her voice low but intense. "Are you insane?"
I'd lifted my chin, summoning confidence I didn't entirely feel. "It's a strategic partnership. Temporary and controlled. And he's on board."
Miranda's eyes had narrowed. "If this backfires, Charlie, you won't just lose the account. You'll be toxic in this industry. No agency will touch you." She'd released my arm, smoothing her blazer. "But if it works... well, let's just say the partner track would suddenly look much more attainable."
The stakes couldn't be higher. I cap and uncap my marker, the clicking sound mingling with the rainfall. The document Sebastian Sinclair's lawyer is drawing up waits in my inbox, forty-eight pages of legal language that will bind us together for eight weeks.
Eight weeks to save my career. Eight weeks pretending to be Mrs. Sebastian Sinclair.
The magnitude of what I've proposed hits me in waves.
I've pitched bold ideas before, campaigns that pushed boundaries, concepts that made clients nervous before they saw the results.
But never anything that required me to legally bind myself to a client.
To share a living space. To pretend to be in love.
With a man I barely know.
I force myself back to the whiteboard, uncapping the marker with purpose this time. The Harborlight campaign can't just be about our ‘marriage’, that's the hook, the story that gets attention. But beneath it needs to be substance, a cohesive brand identity that will outlast our eight-week charade.
I draw a mind map, starting with three nodes: "Cozy," "Community," and "Luxury." Branches extend from each, connecting ideas. Local artisans featured in rooms. Weekly events that bring townspeople into the spaces. High-end experiences that still feel authentic to Starlight Bay.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mireille: Did you sleep at ALL? Saw your email timestamp (3:42 AM?!). Whatever you're planning, I'm both terrified and here for it.
I smile despite myself. Mireille doesn't know the details yet, I'm not sure I'm ready to share this particular career gamble, even with her. But her unfailing support is exactly what I need right now.
Working on something big, I text back. Will fill you in soon. Keep your calendar clear for a town hall visit...
That's vague enough to intrigue without revealing too much.
I toss my phone aside and turn back to my laptop, tabbing through Pinterest boards I created overnight instead of sleeping, ice skating scenes on the harbor, fireplace gatherings with artisan hot chocolate, couples wrapped in cashmere blankets watching the snow fall.
Visuals that say, ‘this is where memories are made.’
But it's not quite right. Not yet. Something's missing.
I crumple another draft sheet, tossing it toward the overflowing wastepaper basket. It lands on top of one that reads ‘Worst holiday flop EVER’ in frustrated all-caps. I squeeze my eyes shut, massaging my temples where a headache threatens to bloom.
What am I doing? This isn't just another campaign. This is my life, eight weeks of it, anyway. Am I really prepared to legally marry a man I've met exactly twice? To share his space, to be seen publicly as his wife, to convince everyone we're madly in love.
To look into those storm-gray eyes every day and remember this is just business?
I think back to our meeting at Bayfront Beans, the way Sebastian, Bash, as he told me to call him, had studied the contract with such careful attention.
He's methodical, strategic to his core. This arrangement makes sense to him because the numbers make sense.
The projections I included show a clear ROI on our ‘marriage’ investment.
It's just business to him. It needs to be just business to me too.
But there had been a moment, just one, when our fingers brushed as I passed him the preliminary sketches for the holiday decorations. A spark of something that wasn't purely professional had passed between us, and for a heartbeat, I'd forgotten this was all a fabrication.
That's dangerous thinking. Sebastian Sinclair isn't the kind of man who falls for women like me. He dates models and socialites, women who move through his world with practiced ease. Not marketing directors who stress-eat cookie dough at midnight and own more blazers than cocktail dresses.
This is a transaction, nothing more. A mutually beneficial arrangement with a clear end date.
I return to my mind map, forcing my thoughts back to strategy. What's missing is the sensory element. The taste, touch, smell of a Starlight Bay Christmas.
Then it hits me.
The candles from Harbor Arts Collective. Marigold's wreaths. The way the scents transformed the space, made it feel like Christmas distilled into pure sensory experience.
I pull up a mockup program on my tablet, fingers flying as I sketch.
A candle-pouring event exclusive to Harborlight guests, using Marigold's signature scents.
Each guest creates something to take home, a physical embodiment of their Starlight Bay Christmas.
Exclusivity wrapped in experience. Memory made tangible.
Energy surges through me as the concept takes shape. This could work. This could actually work.
I spend the next hour fleshing out the concept, adding similar sensory experiences. A partnership with Lil's Sweet Treats for exclusive hot chocolate tasting flights. Custom glass ornament workshops at Sea & Shard Studio. A midnight harbor cruise with local carolers on the winter solstice.
The campaign materializes under my hands, stronger and more comprehensive than anything I've created before. The fake marriage is still the hook, the story engine that drives publicity, but beneath it is something authentic, a genuine connection between the Harborlight and the community it serves.
When I finally pause for breath, the rain has stopped, and weak winter sunlight filters through my window. My coffee has gone cold beside me, forgotten in the creative flow.
My phone buzzes again, an email from James Peterson, Bash's lawyer. The subject line reads simply: Marriage Contract - REVIEW REQUIRED.
My stomach drops as I open the attachment. Forty-eight pages of detailed clauses outlining every aspect of our arrangement. Appearance schedules. Media obligations. Living arrangements separate bedrooms within the shared Harborlight penthouse suite, with reasonable accommodation for privacy.
It's all so clinical. So precise. Every potential interaction between us is cataloged and regulated.
Until I reach page thirty-seven.
Section 24.3: Physical Intimacy. "While physical intimacy between parties is not required under the terms of this agreement, it is not expressly forbidden, provided both parties consent.
Any physical contact necessary to maintain the appearance of a genuine marital relationship (e.g.
, handholding, brief kisses, embraces) is considered within the scope of required performance. "
Heat rises to my cheeks as I read the clause, imagining Bash dictating these terms to his lawyer. Did he blush? Did he maintain that cool, analytical demeanor while discussing the possibility of kissing me?
Did he, like me, find himself wondering what it might be like?
I close the document, unable to continue reading. This is ridiculous. I'm a professional. This is a business arrangement. The fact that Sebastian Sinclair is devastatingly handsome with unexpected depths behind those calculating eyes is irrelevant.
Completely irrelevant.
I force myself into the shower, letting hot water wash away the exhaustion of an all-nighter. As I dress in a crisp blazer and pencil skirt, armor for the day ahead, I rehearse my mental boundaries.
This is a strategy, not a relationship. Eight weeks, not forever. Publicity, not passion.
But as I apply my lipstick in the bathroom mirror, a treacherous thought whispers: What if it could be more?
I silence it immediately. Men like Sebastian Sinclair don't fall for women like me. They marry women like me temporarily for publicity stunts, then return to their real lives once the campaign ends.
Back in my office, fortified with fresh coffee, I open a new document to work on my vows. Because of course we need vows, carefully crafted lines that sound personal enough to be convincing but don't cross into territory that might make either of us uncomfortable.
"Sebastian," I type, then delete it. "Bash," I try instead. Better. More intimate.
"Bash, I promise to be your partner in all ventures, great and small."
Professional but warm. Good.
"I promise to remind you of the view when you're lost in spreadsheets."
A gentle tease, acknowledging his workaholic tendencies without being too personal.
I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I contemplate the final line. It needs to sound authentic, to convey commitment while maintaining our established boundaries.
"I promise to choose us, every day that we have."
I stare at the words, a chill running down my spine despite the warmth of my apartment. "Choose us." As if we're a real couple making a real commitment. As if there's something to choose beyond a temporary business arrangement.
Why does that line feel so much more significant than it should?