10. It has Character
IT HAS CHARACTER
DEEPIKA
If I were watching this in a movie, I’d call it fake and rate the movie with one star because it felt so scripted.
But there I was.
Our phones started buzzing, and we pulled them out simultaneously.
Twitter was exploding, making me sigh and him groan.
@CelebInsider: brEAKING: Olympic Swimmer Liam James Proposes to Actress Deepika Sharma After Viral Engagement Party Fight! Enemies to Lovers CONFIRMED! #LIAMIKA
The photos were already everywhere. Liam on one knee, with me crying and my grandma’s ring between us. It looked perfect and so romantic, as if something out of a rom-com movie.
Nothing like the complicated and messy reality.
“Blake is going to kill me,” I muttered.
“Xavier is going to murder me,” Liam said.
We looked at each other. And then, impossibly, we both started laughing. It was hysterical and slightly unhinged laughter that came from a place of pure absurdity.
Because, of course, this happened.
Of course, a moment of genuine apology and reconciliation had turned into an accidental fake proposal that was now viral on social media.
This is our life now.
“We have to tell them it’s not real,” I said, but I was still clutching the ring like he might try to take it back.
“Of course,” he agreed, watching me slide it onto my finger.
It fit perfectly, making me smile.
My phone buzzed again with my smile vanishing.
Blake: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK
Blake: CALL ME RIGHT NOW
Blake: DEEPIKA MAYA SHARMA YOU ANSWER YOUR PHONE RIGHT THIS SECOND
Liam’s phone was doing the same.
“We should probably…” he trailed off.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
Neither of us moved.
The diner staff was still congratulating us, and someone had bought us champagne. An elderly woman at the next table was crying happy tears.
“This is… unbelievable,” I said.
“You should slap me so it looks like you rejected me,” he joked, but I wonder if I should.
I looked down at the ring on my finger, my grandmother’s ring, finally returned after seventeen years, and smiled. A real, soft smile that made my chest do something uncomfortable.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For keeping it safe and for giving it back.”
“You’re welcome.”
And then, because the universe apparently had a sense of humor, someone started playing ‘Marry You’ by Bruno Mars over the diner speakers.
I met Liam’s soft gray eyes, and we both burst out laughing again.
I turned the key in my apartment lock, exhausted from smiling at a camera for six hours while pretending toothpaste was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me.
The hallway smelled like Mrs. Kim’s cooking, garlic and ginger, making my stomach growl, and I could hear my neighbor’s TV through the paper-thin walls.
Home sweet claustrophobic home.
Today had been... weird.
Everyone on set had treated me differently and…
better. The director, who usually barked orders at me, had asked if I needed a break.
The makeup artist who normally rushed through my foundation (making my skin two shades lighter) had taken extra time, chatting about how romantic my engagement was.
Even the PA, who had been cold to me for months, brought me coffee without being asked and without messing up the order.
All because they thought I was dating Liam fucking James.
Olympic gold medalist and America’s spoiled swimming sweetheart. Triple S. The man who had licked my hand days ago just to annoy me.
I didn’t know how to feel about it. The attention was nice, sure. But it was built on a lie, and I had enough of those to last a lifetime.
After the diner disaster, Liam had called a cab and physically shielded me from the paparazzi who materialized around us like vultures.
“Deepika! Is it true?”
“Liam! When’s the wedding?”
“How long have you been secretly dating?”
“Are you pregnant?!”
“What about the cupcake fight?”
“Was it staged?”
Liam had kept his arm around me, steering me through the chaos with surprising gentleness, and we ended up in the back of a cab with me giving directions to my apartment because his place was forty minutes away and the paparazzi were already following us.
He looked around my studio apartment, and I use the term ‘apartment’ generously because it was basically a shoebox with a hot plate and barely concealed horror.
My bed took up most of the space. My kitchen had a mini-fridge and a microwave balanced on a wooden crate, and my entire wardrobe lived in a rack shoved against one wall because there was no closet.
Liam had sat down on my dressing table chair, which was a tiny thing I found at a garage sale, and his knees had practically hit his chest. At six-three and built like a Greek statue, he looked absurd, like a giant trying to use doll furniture.
“Cozy,” he said diplomatically, nodding around.
“Shut up.”
I answered my phone, pacing the three feet of floor space. “Blake, before you say anything—”
“Do not deny it,” she practically yelled, her voice sharp and excited.
“Do you have any idea what your numbers look like right now? You’re trending number one worldwide.
#Deiam has sixty million tweets. And Deepika?
” she paused for emphasis. “The difficult actress narrative is gone. You’re now the woman who tamed the Olympic playboy. ”
I glanced at Liam, who was hunched over his phone, arguing with Xavier in harsh whispers.
“But it’s not real!” I hissed. “We hate each other! This is ridiculous!”
“Deepika. Listen to me,” Blake said, her tone shifting to serious. “Yash is going to be at Kiara’s wedding with Diya. You need to show that jerk and everyone that you’ve moved on. Plus…” She took a deep breath before continuing, “Director Ananya Mehta saw the photos.”
My heart had stopped. The Ananya Mehta? She was one of the most respected directors in the industry, known for intimate character dramas that actually won awards.
“She wants you for the lead in her new romantic drama,” Blake said excitedly. “But—and this is important—only if you’re in a stable relationship. She thinks you’re too chaotic otherwise. Her words, not mine.”
“That’s insane—”
“That’s Hollywood, baby. Just for three months, play the happy couple through the wedding, then break up mutually. Easy.”
Across the room, Liam had ended his call and looked at me with an expression somewhere between panic and resignation.
We both knew, without saying it, that we were trapped.
But instead of addressing the elephant in the room, we waddled around it.
He stood up from my dressing table, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling fan, and surveyed my apartment again.
“You live in a rat hole,” he said flatly.
I shot up from where I was sitting on my bed, arms crossed. “Not everyone has huge sponsors like you, Fish Boy.”
“I’m just saying, I’ve seen pool changing rooms bigger than this.”
“Well, not all of us can afford luxury mansions. Some of us are still proving ourselves.”
“By living in a space that violates at least three safety codes?”
“It has character!” I sputtered.
“It has mold. I can see it in the corner,” he said, pointing at the ceiling and squinting his eyes.
“That’s… uh, vintage water damage, thank you very much.”
He moved toward the door, and I realized with horror how much space he took up. His shoulders nearly touched both walls. If we had sex on my bed—not that we would, obviously, despite what happened at the hotel—he would have definitely broken it.
I shook off that thought violently.
“You should go,” I said, suddenly desperate for him to leave, to stop filling my tiny apartment with his presence and his stupid, perfect face.
“Gladly. This place is depressing.”
“Goodbye, Fish Boy.”
“See you at the wedding, fiancée,” he smirked, waving his fingers, and I wish I had bitten them before I shoved his massive body out of the door.
Now, a few days later, I sat in the same spot on my bed, staring at the empty chair where he had been, looking ridiculous and somehow still attractive.
My phone buzzed, and I rolled my eyes at another interview request and another magazine wanting our ‘love story.’ Our socials had blown up and everyone—even Mrs. Kim’s mother-in-law from South Korea—wanted to know about me and Liam.
I looked down at my grandmother’s ring, now permanently on my finger, and wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into.
My acting career was finally taking off. I had a meeting with Ananya Mehta next week, and finally, people were treating me with respect instead of pity.
All because of a fake engagement to a man I had spent seventeen years hating.