CHAPTER 3
POPPY
Morning comes with regret and a headache.
Seventeen notifications. Three from Sage, worried about my silence. Five from brands—smaller ones, the kind I would’ve ignored a year ago. Two from my agent about a skincare partnership.
Seven from Spellbound.
My stomach flips.
The first email is professional. Receipt confirmed. Terms and conditions. NDA longer than my lease.
The second one:
Your request has been matched. Profile attached. Please review and confirm interest within 24 hours.
I open the attachment.
The photo loads slowly.
“Oh my...” I bite my lower lip—he’s not what I expected.
Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes that look black, but might be deep brown or hazel. He’s wearing a suit that fits like it was made for him—probably because it was. There’s something old-fashioned about the way he holds himself. Something that makes me think of old movies.
The profile is sparse. No name, just “J.”
Name: J
Age: 32
Height: 6’2”
Education: Private
Occupation: Private
Languages: English, German, French, Czech.
Special skills: Extensive experience with high-profile events. Comfortable with media presence. Excellent conversational skills. Ballroom dancing. Classical music knowledge. Wine pairing.
Who lists wine pairing as a skill?
A note at the bottom:
J. has reviewed your request and is interested. His rate exceeds your stated budget. Adjusted quote attached.
I open the quote.
The number has gained a zero.
I should close the app. Delete my account. Pretend this never happened. I mean, I can show up alone, right? There’s no reason why I can’t smile through Preston’s pity and Serenity’s condescension, or even Mom’s comments about my biological clock.
I’ve been fine for eight months.
My thumb hovers over decline.
Then I think about standing in an emerald green bridesmaid dress, watching Preston slow dance with someone else, explaining to relatives that I’m not seeing anyone right now.
I think about my notes app, and stare at what I wrote: dignity intact.
I hit confirm.
The response comes in under a minute.
Excellent. J. will contact you within the hour. Please sign and return the NDA. Welcome to Spellbound Dates.
I sign without reading. Another mistake for the list.
Forty-two minutes later, my phone rings. Unknown number.
My heart tries to exit through my throat. I let it ring twice—I’m not a complete disaster—then answer.
“Miss Gable?” The voice is deep. Unhurried. Like honey poured over gravel. “This is Julian Blackthorne. I believe we have a wedding to attend.”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Julian Blackthorne. Even his name sounds like it belongs on a leather-bound book or a bottle of expensive scotch. Meanwhile, I’m sitting on my couch in yesterday’s sweatpants with coffee breath and unwashed hair.
“You’re real,” I finally manage. “I thought maybe this was an elaborate scam. Or a fever dream. Or both.”
“I assure you, I’m quite real.” There’s something almost amused in his tone. “Shall we discuss arrangements?”
“Yes. Right. Arrangements.” I scramble for the notebook I’d fallen asleep holding. Papers scatter everywhere. “I made a list. Several lists. And a spreadsheet. And a presentation deck.” I wince. “I might have a problem.”
“I appreciate thoroughness.” He says with no judgment. If anything, he sounds pleased. “Send me everything. I’ll review it before we meet.”
“We’re meeting?” It comes out in a way that is embarrassing—climbing half an octave like I’m fifteen and my crush just looked at me. “Like, in person? Before the wedding?”
“Unless you’d prefer to introduce a stranger as your boyfriend without any prior interaction.” A pause, perfectly timed. “Though I suppose that would add authenticity to the desperation narrative.”
I laugh, surprising myself. “Oh my gosh. You made a joke. I wasn’t expecting jokes.”
“I am a complex man, Miss Gable.”
“Poppy. Please. Miss Gable makes me sound like a Jane Austen character.”
“Noted. Poppy.” Something about the way he says my name makes my skin prickle. Like he’s tasting it. Filing it away somewhere important. “I’m available to meet this week. What’s your availability?”
“My schedule is embarrassingly flexible. Influencer hours mean I can work anytime, which means I’m working all the time, but also never working? It’s complicated.”
Why am I explaining my job to this man? Why can’t I stop talking?
“Thursday evening. Seven PM. I’ll pick you up.”
I blink. “Pick me up? Like... from my apartment?”
“That is typically how one picks someone up, yes.”
“But—” I look around my living room. The ring light in the corner. The stack of PR packages I haven’t opened. The general chaos of a life lived mostly online. “You don’t have to do that. I can meet you somewhere. A restaurant, or—”
“Poppy,” he says patiently, almost gently. “If we’re going to convince your family that we’re in a relationship, we should probably arrive together. And I don’t intend to have our first meeting in a parking lot while you’re trying to find your keys.”
“I wouldn’t—” Who am I kidding, I absolutely would. “Okay. Fine. Thursday at seven. I’ll text you my address.”
“I already have it. It was in your file.”
Of course it was. Of course this mysterious stranger, with a voice that sounds like he’s from old money, already knows where I live. This is fine. Everything is fine.
“We’ll go to dinner,” he continues. “Discuss expectations. Review your materials. I’ll have you home at a reasonable hour.”
“That sounds very...” I search for the word. “Gentlemanly.”
“I find that first impressions matter. I’d like ours to start properly.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. I squash it immediately. This is a business arrangement. He’s being professional, not romantic.
“About your rate,” I start. “It’s—”
“Non-negotiable.” Firm but not unkind. “But consider it an investment. If we’re going to sell this relationship, we need to sell it. That requires time, preparation, and commitment. The rate reflects that.”
Well, there goes my savings account. The sponsorship money I’ve been hoarding. Anything else I’ve scraped together. Gone.
The voice in my head that sounds like my mother is asking if this is really the best use of my resources.
Then I think about Preston’s face when I show up with Julian Blackthorne on my arm.
“Okay.” I exhale. “Okay. Thursday at seven. Try not to judge my apartment too harshly. Or me. Or my spreadsheets.”
“I would never judge someone for being thorough, Poppy.” That voice again. That honey-gravel voice. “It’s one of my favorite qualities.”
The line goes dead.
I sit there, phone pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. My heart is doing something irregular. Probably just anxiety. Definitely just anxiety.
My phone buzzes. A text from Sage.
SAGE: You’ve been radio silent for 14 hours. Either you’re dead or something happened. Please confirm which.
I stare at the screen. My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
ME: Not dead. Did something stupid.
SAGE: Scale of 1-10? 1 being “bought another plant you’ll kill,” and 10 being “got back together with Preston”
ME: Solid 7. Maybe 8.
SAGE: I’m coming over.
ME: No don’t
ME: It’s not that kind of stupid
ME: It’s more like... hired-a-fake-boyfriend-for-the-wedding kind of stupid
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
SAGE: I’m sorry WHAT
SAGE: You WHAT
SAGE: Poppy Rose Gable
SAGE: EXPLAIN IMMEDIATELY
I send her the screenshot of Julian’s profile. The one with the sharp jaw and the dark eyes and the suit that costs more than my car.
The dots appear for a very long time.
SAGE: Oh
SAGE: Oh no
SAGE: He’s HOT hot
SAGE: This is worse than I thought
ME: It’s a business arrangement
SAGE: Sure
ME: He’s a PROFESSIONAL
SAGE: A professional who looks like he walked out of a gothic romance novel
SAGE: This is going to end in disaster
SAGE: I’m so excited
ME: I hate you
SAGE: You love me. When do you meet him?
ME: Thursday. He’s picking me up at 7.
SAGE: PICKING YOU UP???
SAGE: Like a DATE???
ME: Like a BUSINESS MEETING
SAGE: Poppy
SAGE: Babe
SAGE: You’re already in trouble
I toss my phone onto the couch cushion and press my palms against my eyes. She’s wrong. She has to be wrong.
This is a transaction. A service. I’m paying Julian Blackthorne to pretend to be my boyfriend for four days, and then he’ll disappear back into whatever mysterious world he came from, and I’ll go back to my regular life of ring lights and sponsored content and pretending I’m fine.
I pull up his photo again. Those dark eyes stare back at me, giving nothing away.
“Who are you?” I whisper like the photo of Julian was going to somehow answer back.
Nope. No surprise there. The photo didn’t respond.
I spend the next three hours perfecting my presentation deck.
I add talking points for every possible relative.
I create a fake relationship timeline—how we met (through mutual friends, vague enough to be unverifiable), when we started dating (four months ago, recent enough to explain why no one’s heard of him), why he’s not on social media (values his privacy, which tracks with the whole mysterious vibe).
By the time I’m done, I have forty-seven slides, color-coded tabs, and the beginning of a stress migraine.
I email everything to the address Spellbound provided. Then I stare at my closet for twenty minutes trying to figure out what to wear. I mean, what do you wear to a fake-dating business dinner with a man who looks like that?
Thursday. Seven PM. My apartment.
Four days to convince myself this isn’t insane.
My phone buzzes one more time.
SAGE: For the record, I’m going to need updates. Constant updates. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to either of us in months.
ME: Nothing interesting is going to happen. It’s BUSINESS.
SAGE: Sure babe
SAGE: Keep telling yourself that
I don’t respond. Instead, I pull up my notes app and add a new entry under the wedding checklist:
Don’t fall for the fake boyfriend.
I stare at the words. Laugh at myself. Delete them.
As if that’s even a possibility. Julian Blackthorne is a service I’m purchasing, nothing more.
A very expensive, very attractive service with a voice like sin and a mysterious job he won’t tell me about.
A man who insists on picking me up like we’re in a 1950s movie.
A man who says things like “I find that first impressions matter” without a trace of irony.
This is a business arrangement. I’m going to remember that.
I’m definitely going to remember that.