11. Millie
MILLIE
The Metropolitan Museum gala happens on a Thursday. I arrive at the museum alone because LaToya insisted the photographers need shots of me arriving solo, looking elegant and slightly mysterious, before Duncan shows up to complete the narrative.
The dress is custom Givenchy, emerald green silk that catches the light when I move, with a neckline that dips low enough to be interesting without trying too hard.
My hair is slicked back into a low bun, my makeup is dramatic without being costume, and the jewelry is minimal because LaToya said we need to save visual real estate for the ring.
The ring that doesn't exist yet but will by the end of tonight.
Photographers line the steps of the museum, three rows deep, shouting my name in overlapping voices that blend into white noise.
I smile, turn, let them get their shots.
Someone asks who I'm wearing and I tell them.
Someone else asks if I'm here with anyone and I say I'm meeting someone inside, which is technically true if you count a fake fiancé as someone.
Inside, the Great Hall is transformed. White orchids cascade from ceiling installations, string quartets play in corners, and waiters in black tie move through crowds carrying trays of sparkling champagne.
I recognize a museum board member, two fashion designers, and at least five people whose net worth could fund a small country.
LaToya finds me near the Egyptian wing, wearing burgundy and looking calm in a way that means she's already orchestrated tonight down to the minute.
"He's here," she remarks. "Talking to someone from the Guggenheim board. He looks good."
I don't turn to look. "How do I look?"
"Like a woman who's about to get engaged to a billionaire in front of four hundred people." She drops her voice lower. "Remember, this was his idea. He asked you, you were surprised, you said yes because you're in love. Simple story, easy to sell."
"Got it."
"Millie?" She catches my wrist gently. "The ring is going to be perfect. He showed me the specs last week. Emerald cut, platinum band, exactly what you told him you wanted."
My stomach tightens. "He actually listened to that?"
"Apparently." She releases my wrist and steps back. "Now go get engaged."
I take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and move into the crowd.
Duncan is exactly where LaToya said he'd be, wearing a black tuxedo that fits him like it was engineered specifically for his frame.
His hair is shorter than it was at the bodega last week, and when he laughs at something the woman next to him says, I feel my pulse kick up.
He sees me before I reach him. His gaze cuts across the room and locks on mine, and for a second neither of us moves.
Then he excuses himself from the conversation and starts walking toward me, weaving through clusters of people with the confidence that comes from never being told he doesn't belong anywhere.
We meet near a column with hieroglyphics carved into the stone. Duncan stops about two feet away, close enough that I can smell his cologne—cedar and citrus, the same one he wore to my mother's dinner.
"You look incredible," he says.
"I know."
His mouth curves into something that's almost a smile. "Are you ready for this?"
"Are you?"
"I asked first."
I take a sip of champagne that I don't taste. "Let's just get through it."
We move into the crowd together and the shift is immediate. Conversations pause, heads turn, and I can feel the weight of a hundred gazes tracking us across the marble floor. Duncan's hand finds the small of my back, light and brief, just enough to signal familiarity without claiming ownership.
We talk to a board member, a fashion editor, someone who runs a foundation I've never heard of.
Duncan is good at this, better than he should be.
He knows when to defer to me, when to make a joke that lands, when to let silence do the work.
Every time someone asks how we met, he lets me tell the story because he knows I need the control.
An hour in, we end up near the Temple of Dendur with the reflecting pool throwing soft light against the glass walls. Duncan takes my champagne glass and sets it on a nearby table, then takes both my hands in his.
"Millie," he says, and his voice is quiet enough that only I can hear him over the string quartet playing somewhere behind us.
"What are you doing?"
"What we planned."
He drops to one knee.
The room doesn't go silent because that only happens in movies, but I watch conversations stutter and fade as people notice what's happening. Phones come out, cameras appear, and somewhere to my left I hear someone gasp loudly.
Duncan pulls a small velvet box from his jacket pocket and opens it. The ring inside catches the light from the reflecting pool, emerald cut diamond set in platinum, exactly the way I described it to him weeks ago during a throwaway conversation about hypothetical engagement rings.
He actually remembered.
"Millie Harris," he says, and there's something in his eyes that looks too much like the real thing.
"I spent years being too stupid to see what was right in front of me.
You're the most talented person I know, you make me want to be better than I am, and I don't want to spend another day pretending this is temporary. Will you marry me?"
The words are perfect. Too perfect. We workshopped this speech three days ago over coffee, testing different phrasings until we found the version that balanced sincerity with performance.
But the way he's looking at me right now, like he's actually nervous about my answer, that wasn't in the script.
I'm supposed to say yes. Cry a little, let him slide the ring on my finger, kiss him while the photographers capture the moment. Simple story, easy to sell.
Instead I stand there with my hands in his and my heart beating too fast, searching his face for evidence of the performance I know we're both supposed to be giving.
"Yes," I finally say, because there are four hundred people watching and I can't blow this now.
Duncan stands and slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly, which means he asked someone for my size. The diamond is heavy, exactly the cut I wanted even though I only mentioned it once.
He kisses me.
The kiss is brief, appropriate for public consumption, his mouth warm against mine for three seconds before he pulls back. But there's a moment, right before he steps away, where his hand comes up to cup my jaw and his thumb brushes my cheekbone, and that wasn't in the script either.
The room erupts. Applause, cheers, someone whistling from the back.
Photographers rush closer, shouting questions about when we're getting married and how long we've been planning this.
Duncan keeps his arm around my waist and answers with the ease of someone who's spent his entire life performing for cameras.
"We haven't set a date yet. We're just enjoying this moment."
"How did you know she'd say yes?"
He glances at me, and there's something in his expression I can't immediately read. "I didn't. But I hoped."
LaToya materializes at my elbow twenty minutes later, pulling me aside under the pretense of fixing my dress. "That was perfect. You looked genuinely surprised."
"I was."
"By the proposal? We've been planning this for weeks."
"By how real it felt."
She studies my face for a beat too long. "Millie, it's supposed to look real. That's the entire point."
"I know. I just—" I stop because I don't have language for what I'm trying to say. "Never mind. I'm fine."
She doesn't push, just adjusts the strap of my dress and steps back. "You've got thirty more minutes of circulating, then we can get you out of here. Duncan's staying longer for some donor meetings, so you'll leave separately."
I nod and move back into the crowd. People congratulate me with the enthusiasm of strangers who think they know my life, asking about wedding plans and venues and whether I'll wear custom or vintage.
I smile, deflect, say we're taking our time and enjoying being engaged before we think about logistics.
Duncan finds me near the coat check as the crowd is starting to thin. "You okay?"
"Fine. Why?"
"You've been quiet since the proposal."
"I'm always quiet."
"Not like this." He shifts his weight, hands in his pockets. "Did I do something wrong?"
Yes. No. I don't know.
"You went off script again," I say finally.
"When?"
"The whole thing. The way you looked at me, the hand on my face, the part about hoping I'd say yes. We didn't rehearse any of that."
He's quiet for a moment. "Would you have preferred I stick to the script exactly?"
"I would have preferred knowing what you were going to do."
"Millie." He takes a step closer, drops his voice. "If I'd stuck to the script word for word, everyone in that room would have known it was fake. I had to make it look real, which means adding moments that felt spontaneous."
"It looked too real."
"Isn't that the point?"
I stare at him, searching for the angle, for the part where this is still just performance. But all I see is a man who just proposed to me in front of four hundred people and is now standing in the coat check area of the Met looking at me like he actually meant every word.
"I have to go," I say.
"Wait—"
"My car's here. LaToya will handle the rest of the press." I grab my coat from the attendant and walk toward the exit before he can say anything else.
Outside, the air is cold enough to make me shiver. The photographers have mostly dispersed, just two left who snap a few shots as I walk down the steps toward the black sedan waiting at the curb. I slide into the back seat and the door closes behind me, muffling the noise of the city.
The driver pulls into traffic and I lean my head back against the leather seat, closing my eyes. The ring is still on my finger, heavy and perfect and exactly what I asked for.
I'm engaged to Duncan Ellington.
Fake engaged, then I'll fake marry him. For the next four months. Until the Oscars are over and we can quietly announce a split that no one will question because celebrity relationships fall apart all the time.
I pull out my phone and look at the photos that are already flooding social media.
Duncan on one knee with the ring box open, my face caught in an expression that looks like genuine surprise because it was.
The two of us kissing while people applaud in the background.
A close-up of the ring on my finger, emerald cut catching the light.
The comments are overwhelmingly positive. People calling us relationship goals, saying we're proof that redemption arcs are real, that love can grow from the most unexpected places.
If only they knew.