Chapter 5 - OLIVE #2
Liam groans and drags a hand through his hair. “You two are going to kill me.”
Ash, of course, looks calm. Unfazed. “Let’s talk terms,” he says coolly. “We’ll start with the money, since that’s important.”
“Go on,” Liam says, suspicious and grudgingly satisfied all at once.
Ash folds his hands. “There’s a monthly stipend. Generous, on purpose. Direct deposit on the first, handled by my business manager. A retainer up front so Olive isn’t out of pocket. I’ll cover all daily living expenses.”
Then he names a number that makes the room tilt.
“That,” I manage faintly, “is too much money. You’ll go broke.”
“It’s fair compensation,” Ash says evenly, his eyes locking on mine. “For your time and energy. For us being public. For the invasion of your privacy. You’d be living out of your comfort zone for a while. It’s not nothing.”
I worry my lip, thinking. “How public?”
“Public enough to work,” he says. “Some events. Photos, definitely. A couple of interviews where we look like we actually like each other—” one corner of his mouth curves, then straightens again. “And there’s a completion bonus.”
I stare. “Completion of… what, exactly?”
“As I said,” Ash replies patiently. “This would be a one-year marriage contract. When we part ways, you’ll receive another lump sum of five hundred thousand dollars.”
Liam cuts in, jabbing a finger at both of us. “Okay. If you do this—if you actually go through with this insanity—then there are rules.”
Ash raises a brow. “Rules?”
“No funny business,” Liam says sternly. “No feelings. No kissing. No looking at each other weird. Got it? If one of you catches feelings, I’m out. I swear, I’ll murder someone.”
Ash’s lips twitch like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Understood.”
“Dead serious,” Liam adds.
Ash turns to me, face serious though his eyes give away the faintest glint of amusement. “I don’t want a serious relationship. I just want the optics of one. This is about appearances, nothing more. I don’t do feelings. I don’t swing that way when it comes to women.”
There’s a pause.
A heartbeat where everything goes still.
Liam rolls his eyes and Ash gives him a knowing wink—casual, teasing, like this is some long-running inside joke between them.
What does that mean? No, hang on—-
I glance between them. The wink. The comment.
Is Ash… maybe not into women like that?
I mean, yeah, we kissed. He seemed into it. But maybe he kisses a lot of people. Correction: I’m sure he kisses a lot of people. He’s a rockstar, for god’s sake.
Probably kisses men. Women. Fans. PR reps. Whoever. Oh god. I completely misread it.
My cheeks burn—not the flirty kind of heat, but the full-body please-let-this-couch-swallow-me kind.
I sink back into the cushions, trying to act normal.
Chill. Unbothered. I still haven’t said a word about his proposal.
And just when I should finally tell Ash to go to hell… his phone buzzes on the coffee table.
He picks it up, glances at the screen, and mutters, “Give me a sec.” Then he stands and walks toward the hallway, already answering as the door swings shut behind him.
And just like that, it’s just me and Liam again.
The silence feels louder without Ash in the room.
I sip from my tea, even though it’s gone lukewarm, and try to get my thoughts to settle into some kind of order.
Spoiler alert: they won’t.
Because I still can’t believe this is happening. That he asked me. That out of all the perfectly polished women in his world, Ash Ryder wants to fake-marry the slightly rumpled, occasionally sarcastic kindergarten teacher who once flash-bombed him with a bath mat.
My gaze flicks toward the hallway.
I exhale slowly. “I just… didn’t expect him to offer that. I mean… to me. I’m not exactly his type.”
Liam, half-scrolling through his phone, snorts under his breath. “Ash doesn’t really do types.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No?”
He waves vaguely, still distracted. “Not unless you count his weird love affair with his manager back in the day. Honestly, I think he’s sworn off the entire species at this point.”
I blink.
Manager?
Love affair?
That... wasn’t what I was expecting to hear.
The pieces slide into place so fast it’s like my brain finally catches up.
Ash’s line earlier—“Don’t worry. I don’t swing that way when it comes to women.”The casual smirk. The wink from Liam. Now this—some mysterious manager he may or may not have been in love with?
My stomach dips.
Just as I open my mouth to ask a follow-up, Liam’s phone buzzes and he stands with a groan. “Crap. I have to take this—soundcheck issue.”
He disappears down the hall, leaving me blinking on the couch.
Alone. Again.
And now—I’m convinced I’ve cracked the code.
Ash Ryder isn’t into women.
This whole fake marriage thing? It’s not about me specifically. I’m not some charming exception. I’m not some quirky romance movie plotline.
This probably explains why he never took off my shirt when I asked him. The mortification of that burns.
He’s just looking for a beard—someone to marry him so his sexual orientation doesn’t become public. Someone low-drama, low-maintenance. Public enough to polish his brand, private enough to leave his actual life untouched.
And I fit the profile perfectly.
It makes sense.
It really, really makes sense.
So why does it feel like someone just pressed a thumb into the center of my chest and held it there?
I lean back into the couch cushions, eyes drifting toward the hallway where Ash disappeared.
It’s fine. This is good.
No messy feelings. No overthinking. No stakes.
Just business.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I just feel... small.
***
The construction paper is fighting me.
Or maybe it’s the glue stick.
Or maybe it’s just the fact that my brain is currently not participating in the task of assembling next week’s Very Hungry Caterpillar bulletin board.
I stare at the wiggly googly eyes and half-finished fruit cutouts spread across the coffee table. I’m supposed to be making a cheerful visual aid about portion control for five-year-olds.
Instead, I’m thinking about Ash Ryder’s mouth.
I drop the apple cutout and flop back on the couch with a groan.
It’s like my brain has been hijacked. Every time I try to focus on gluing a banana to a strip of cardstock, I’m ambushed by:
Ash’s lips.
The little growl in his voice when he’s amused.
The way he looked at me—really looked at me—like he wanted to devour me.
My toes actually curl.
I sit up straight. “Stop it,” I mutter out loud.
I pace the living room.
“He’s gay, Olive,” I say, pointing a glue stick at myself like it’s a wand of truth. “Stop making everything about you. Gay men can have good bone structure too.”
But oh God, the bone structure.
And the voice.
And that mouth.
Ash and Liam left together not long after the call, probably once they realized they weren’t getting much out of me. So now I’m alone in Liam’s apartment.
Ash had said it kindly: “I know it’s a lot to ask. But I’m willing to pay you very good money. It would be an arrangement we both profit from. Think about it and let me know.”
And then—because I’m apparently a masochist—I think of him saying my name again.
That low, gravelly “Olive” that slides down my spine like it belongs there.
I groan.
Tomorrow, I’ll be normal.
Tonight?
Tonight I’ll just be an over-caffeinated mess covered in glitter glue… dreaming about a man who absolutely, definitely, probably doesn’t want me.
Eventually, I give in to the spiral.
I grab my phone, drop onto my bed, and type into the search bar:
Ash Ryder and manager
The results load fast. Faster than I’m ready for.
The first article that pops up is from two years ago. There’s a photo attached—Ash, in a tux, grinning with his arm slung casually around a tall, stylish man with designer stubble and a dazzling smile. The caption reads:
“Ash Ryder’s Secret Romance? Music’s Bad Boy Gets Cozy with Manager at Afterparty”
I stare at the screen, heart doing something complicated in my chest.
They’re hugging. Kind of intimately. And the way Ash is leaning in, laughing, all warmth and easy charm… yeah.
Okay.
That could definitely be read as romantic.
My gut twists with something I can’t name. I’m not even sure why it matters.
Part of me is still in shock that he asked me of all people to fake-marry him. And part of me… thinks I understand why.
It must be exhausting.
Living with that kind of spotlight on you. The constant pressure to perform, to sell a version of yourself the world approves of. Especially if who you really are isn’t something the public—or your industry—wants to see.
I think about what hiding your sexuality from the world must feel like.
He must be so tired.
And then there’s me. Sitting here in cat-print pajama pants, stressing about rent and lesson plans and whether I have enough felt for next week’s craft hour.
My life is messy, but at least it’s mine.
I get to be myself. Loudly. Softly. Stubbornly. And he... doesn’t.
Maybe this is the one thing I can do for him.
Help him breathe a little easier. Give him space to be who he is, without having to explain or defend it. Let the world believe whatever version of him they want, while he gets to step offstage for once.
And yeah, I need the money.
But this feels like something else. Something bigger than my rent.
This feels like the right thing to do.
I glance at the clock. 11:42 p.m.
I grab my phone. Hesitate.
And then I type:
Olive:
Let’s do it.
Simple. Direct. Contractual.
I hit send.
And then immediately sit bolt upright.
OH. MY. GOD.
Not like that.
Not like that.
What have I done?!
"Let’s do it"? REALLY, OLIVE?
I throw my phone across the bed like it personally betrayed me and faceplant into my pillow with a groan.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling, mortified.
This is fine. This is totally fine. No one’s ever died of accidental innuendo via text, right?
…Right?