Chapter 5
Five
AVA
After the meeting, I headed down to the hotel bar, regretting everything, and immediately texted my agent, Victoria, like a tattling younger sibling.
Renata’s gone rogue.
She’s fake dating me to Soren Pembry.
Send help or legal fire.
She told me my only option is to smile, nod, and basically do whatever she tells me to.
Her words. Not mine.
Unfortunately, Renata sidled up next to me and saw my text messages. In her sweet, condescending tone, she assured me it’s too late to pull the plug—everything’s been signed, sealed, and delivered to Victoria for approval.
Then she ordered herself a victory drink.
I ordered a chai martini, hoping for something strong enough to taste like fall and mild self-destruction.
I love my publicist, truly—she’s exceptional at her job and wants the best for me. But that doesn’t mean she’s always right. As much as I trust her, I don’t trust this. Not when my name is on the line.
Victoria will fix this. She’s a bulldog in designer heels. A terrifying, whip-smart advocate who shreds contracts for sport.
She’ll do the same to this one.
Except she hasn’t replied yet. What if she agrees with the plan? No, think positive. She’s just super busy sharpening her teeth to find an out for me.
God, please let that be the case.
After two drinks, Fisher joins.
When we move to grab a table, Renata excuses herself.
“Gotta go work on some of the logistics with Camille for tonight’s soft launch,” she says, slinging her purse over her thin, bony shoulder. “Ava, you must be present in the comments. It’s your number one top priority. Understand?”
Nodding, I decide not to tell her that I’m two seconds from Googling “how to fake your own death and disappear before a fake dating contract goes viral.”
As Fisher and I follow the hostess to our table I check my phone again. Still nothing. If Victoria doesn’t answer, Googling might actually become Plan A.
The hotel restaurant is all rustic chic and forced tranquility, featuring cornucopia centerpieces, amber lighting, and instrumental jazz playing overhead; everything is built to convince you that peace can be manufactured.
It’s not working. My chest is tight, my thoughts won’t stop circling, and my stomach feels like it’s hosting a corn maze made of dread. I am not calm. I am not okay.
Sitting here, about to have a perfectly normal meal with Fisher, pretending that I am, feels like I’m throwing thin fabric over something still thrashing underneath.
I’ve spent almost two years carefully cultivating a routine of control and predictability. And now I’ve willingly walked into a stunt designed to implode it all.
Once seated, the waiter takes our orders. Maple-glazed pork chop for me, and Fisher goes full drama with the truffle risotto.
“It pairs well with unrequited love and a chilled rosé.” He drapes a napkin over his lap and takes a sip of said rosé.
I order another chai martini, swallow it down like it might quiet the noise, and gesture for the next. Fisher’s gaze tracks me the way one might watch someone step willingly into quicksand.
Thankfully, the food comes out fast. I need something in my stomach before the chai martinis convince me to start trauma-dumping in public.
Fisher digs right into his. “Delicious.”
Cutting a piece of pork chop, I shovel it into my mouth and grumble.
“What’s wrong?” Fisher asks. “Is it not cooked right?”
“No, it’s perfect,” I whine through a mouthful. “But I can’t enjoy a single bite. All I want to do is crawl under the table, curl up in a napkin cocoon, and cry into a breadbasket. I don’t even need a reason. Just five solid minutes of ugly crying and an emotional support breadstick.”
My assistant rolls his eyes. “Ava, it’s fake dating, not a hostage situation. You’ll survive the comments and a few photo ops. Now eat your feelings like a normal person.”
“This online nemesis thing I have with Soren Pembry was never supposed to turn into something personal.”
“Until it did,” Fisher retorts.
I groan, thinking back to how this all started. I made a tiny throwaway post during a late-night doom scroll. It was a satirical “Dear Fantasy Authors” rant, centered on how some characters from the fantasy genre have the emotional range of a teaspoon.
I never mentioned Soren by name, but if the emotionally-stunted warlord boot fits…
His fans lost it. They mass-reported and ShelfSpace tagged me for “slanderous content.”
Soren responded with a video of him reading a steamy scene from my book, The Lumberjack’s Love Letters, using an overly dramatic gruff voice.
And since humiliation is a layered art form, after that, he followed it up with a second take: suspenders hanging low, shirtless, a ridiculous wind machine blowing through his cheap romance-cover wig as though he was shooting a woodsy Fabio reboot.
The man even had the audacity to rub sawdust across his abs for “authenticity.”
It’s hard for me to admit how my traitorous eyes immediately zeroed in on the trail of hair leading south from his navel, like it was a fucking treasure map.
At that moment, I was a sinner. A fraud. A woman two seconds from licking her screen and renouncing every opinion she’d ever had about fantasy authors and their egos. Or at least, this particular fantasy author.
That post was a declaration of war.
Then, he took it too far.
In order to make me homicidal, he capped it all off with a black-and-white “dramatic reading” reel—lit similar to a poetry slam, jazz music in the background, one eyebrow raised as though he was interpreting Tolstoy instead of a five-page ode to cabin fever and creative use of furniture.
“Some say love is a fire,” Soren read, “but in the woods… it’s a slow burn.”
My book was trending within the hour, along with his six-pack. And that’s when viral rivals Bell and The Blade were born. Dueling hashtags and all.
“You’re chewing like someone just served you a side of roasted octopus dick,” Fisher’s voice slices clean through my spiral.
I realize I’ve been mauling my maple-glazed pork chop. “No, I’m chewing like someone who agreed to fake-date her rival. For two months.”
Across the table, Fisher looks effortlessly elegant as he stirs his cocktail with the cinnamon stick garnish.
“What?” I snap.
“You’re overthinking.”
“So what?”
“So, regret isn’t exactly your best shade, Luv,” Fisher says with glittering judgment.
“You’re right.” I blow a stray curl out of my face, sit up straighter, summoning whatever scraps of composure I have left, and stab my pork chop with my fork. “I am in control. This is a strategic career move.”
“Ah.” Fisher tilts his head. “Is that going to be your new daily mantra, or are we still pretending the reason you’re this worked up isn’t because he gets under your skin?”
My fork freezes mid-air.
“You don’t hate him, Ava. You’re curious. And curiosity, my dear, is foreplay’s favorite cousin.”
“He doesn’t get under my skin,” I deny it. “I told you already. I loathe him.”
“Loathing is simply another brand of lust?” Fisher seems pleased with himself. “Call it strategy all you want, but we both know this isn’t about exposure or clicks. This is about curiosity.”
“Curiosity over what, exactly?”
“Soren Pembry’s flesh sword, of course.”
My eyes narrow on him. “This scheme has nothing to do with that.”
“Mhm.” Fisher takes a bite of his food. “You’re telling me you’ve never thought about it?”
“Not. Once.”
Lie. That’s a lie. I’ve imagined it. More than once. If a particular scene in The Boyfriend Deadline reads suspiciously close to a fantasy involving a hot tub and a man whose likeness resembles Soren Pembry… well, all I can say is creative minds pull from the strangest places.
Fisher arches one perfectly plucked brow. Busted.
“Even if I have, I can’t act upon it. That would be a disaster waiting to happen. One with unfairly broad shoulders and the potential to tank my career.”
Fisher shakes his head at me, his dark skin radiating under the golden light. Long, tightly woven dreads are pulled back into a half-up style that makes his cheekbones even more mysterious. “I have a feeling this is going to be exactly what you need.”
“What? Public humiliation?”
“A personality exfoliant.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ava, you are layers upon layers of self-control and perfectly paced romance. Fall scented candles, color-coded bookshelves, and repressed sexual tension. You need a sledgehammer. Well, congratulations, you have been granted a fantasy fuckboy whose bone structure, and I mean bone structure, was blessed by the gods. Soren’s aura radiates with the promise that he could destroy your vagina, with said sledgehammer, and you’d beg for seconds, maybe even thirds, with his hands still cupping your ass and your morals left in the sheets. ”
My jaw falls open. “First of all, eww. Second of all, I thought you were on my side.”
“Of course I am,” he says, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “But your dry spell is longer than the runtime of Titanic. And right now, you get to be your very own Enemies-to-Lovers trope in public with a man who probably smells like bergamot and leather.”
“He smells like trees and sweat.”
“Even better.” Fisher takes another bite of his food.
“How is that better?”
Fisher swallows, sips his water to wash it down. “The man looks like he was hand-forged by those same gods in a thunderstorm—he’s gritty, and built to last. If you get what I’m sayin.”
I stare at him. “Okay, calm down.”
Fisher shrugs. “Hey, if Thor’s morally gray cousin wants to rail you into inner peace, who am I to stand in the way?”
“Fisher!”
“What? Maybe a little swordplay—literal or otherwise—will loosen you up.”
I slap a napkin over my face and groan.
“You’d better conquer that man like he’s the last enchanted keystone holding the gate to total satisfaction.”
“Lower your voice,” I hiss as a pair of authors walk past our table.
He ignores me. “I wonder if he moans while reading sexually charged scenes out loud when he’s writing?”
“Fisher.”