Chapter 13
OLIVE
Like a Frosted Cupcake
Margot is polishing the kettle like it’s auditioning for a magazine spread when I pass her in the kitchen.
“Good morning, Olive.”
“Good morning, Margot.” I hover there, struck by the sudden urge to… explain myself.
“Hey, Margot,” I say, too brightly. “Hypothetical question.”
She doesn’t look up. “I’m all ears, dear.”
“Right. So. Hypothetically, if two adults who live here were… reallocating space… at night—purely logistical—would that be, in your professional opinion, disruptive to your workflow?”
Margot sets the kettle down. It gleams. She turns, all tidy bun and calm eyes. “I polish surfaces and absolve no souls,” she says gently. “If you’re asking whether your laundry schedule needs updating, I can advise.”
I blink. Abort. Regroup. “Okay, but also… you may have noticed—actually, you probably haven’t noticed—why would you notice?—that Ash and I are sometimes sleeping in the same room.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Why do I keep talking? My face promptly tries to combust.
Margot’s mouth twitches, just once, and then returns to neutral like a pro. “I haven’t noticed anything,” she says with that immaculate discretion of hers. “I dust the hallway, Olive. I do not audit doorways.”
“Oh.” I nod, rapidly, like a bobblehead that has seen things. “Great. Perfect. Because it’s not—I mean, it is, obviously, because we’re getting married, but even if we weren’t, we’re adults, and it’s very practical? Heat conservation. Pillow allocation. Duvet ratios.”
“Duvet ratios,” she repeats, as if filing it under “Household Mysteries.” “Very wise.”
“And we—well—I just didn’t want you thinking that we were, um…” I make a vague gesture that could mean anything from ‘sharing oxygen’ to ‘committing tax fraud.’ “Showing poor judgment. In the room.”
“Of course,” Margot says soothingly.
Why am I like this.
“I mean, yes, there are… grown-up activities,” I blurt, then clap a hand over my mouth. “Which I will not describe. Because I am not twelve. But just so you know we’re not… doing this recklessly, we have… systems.” I exhale so hard my bangs move. “I’m going to stop talking.”
“An ambitious promise,” she says, eyes kind. She reaches for the tin of tea. “Chamomile?”
“Yes, please.”
Footsteps thud down the hall. Ash appears in the doorway, barefoot, wearing black joggers and a fitted T-shirt that really should not be legal. “Morning,” he says. “Are we conspiring?”
“Always,” I say too quickly.
“Never,” Margot says at the same time. Then, with the smoothness of a diplomat: “We were discussing duvet ratios.”
Ash blinks. “Are they controversial now?”
Just then the doorbell chimes, saving me.
Two seconds later, Nina bursts in, wrapped in a silk trench coat, heels clicking dramatically on the marble like she owns the place. “Okay, this house is so extra I nearly cried in the Uber,” she says by way of greeting. “You have a grand piano?”
“Technically, I don’t have a grand piano. It’s all Ash’s,” I say, grinning as I pull her in for a hug. “Welcome to Casa Ryder.”
Nina pulls back to look around. “This isn’t a house. This is a Bond villain’s lair. Tell me there’s a button somewhere that opens a secret bar.”
“Honestly? Wouldn’t surprise me.”
Ash steps forward to greet her, easy confidence in his stride. “You must be Nina.”
“And you must be the rockstar-slash-husband-slash-supposedly gay fake fiancé,” Nina says, completely unfazed as she sticks out her hand. She missed the talent show yesterday, so this is her first time meeting Ash.
Ash smirks and shakes it. “I see someone’s been briefed.”
“I do my research,” she replies with a wink, then turns to me. “Girl. He’s hot. Like, dangerously hot. You should definitely get with him.”
I freeze. Ash lifts a brow, clearly amused.
“Right,” Nina says quickly. “Sorry. Not my business. Blame the wine I had after work.”
Ash chuckles. “No offense taken.”
“I told you to behave,” I whisper to her as I lead her toward my room.
“You should’ve known better,” she whispers back. “Also, I’m still waiting for someone to confirm this isn’t a movie set. This is really your room?” as she steps into the guest suite like she’s walked into a movie set.
“Technically, it’s my room in Ash’s mansion. Minor difference,” I say, trying to sound breezy and not at all overwhelmed by the life I’m currently fake-living.
The room is still mine, though—fairy lights strung around the headboard, my fuzzy hedgehog pillow Bernard front and center on the bed, and romance novels stacked like sacred texts on the nightstand.
But tonight? It looks like a high-fashion tornado blew through it.
An entire row of designer wedding dresses hangs neatly on a rolling rack that Ash’s Celeste arranged earlier today.
There’s blush satin, crisp ivory silk, lace, tulle, dramatic sleeves, sexy cutouts, enough sequins to blind someone under direct sunlight.
I half expect each one to have its own entourage and spotlight.
“Oh. My. God,” Nina breathes, spinning toward me with wide eyes. “You didn’t tell me Vera freaking Wang was living in your bedroom.”
“I think there’s also Elie Saab and Oscar de la Renta,” I admit sheepishly, already sweating. “Apparently a dress from Target won’t cut it.”
Nina arches a brow. “There’s a difference between a nice wedding dress and runway masterpieces that cost more than my car.”
I shrug, helpless. “Fake husbands, am I right?”
We both burst out laughing—nervous, giddy laughter that bounces off the pristine walls. And then I feel it. Not just the weight of the dresses, but what they mean. This whole wild, glittering charade.
A wedding that’s not supposed to mean anything. A marriage that isn’t real.
So why does my stomach flip when I imagine walking down the aisle?
“Okay,” Nina says, already rolling up her sleeves. “Let’s try on some couture, shall we?”
I reach for the first dress hanging on the ornate gold rack, the satin catching the light like a promise. It looked beautiful on the model—elegant, timeless, with just a hint of sparkle. Maybe this is the one.
Nina whistles low. “That’s a lot of dress.”
“I know,” I breathe, a little dazed. “It’s like the gown version of a Disney princess.”
I step behind the folding screen to undress and shimmy into the gown, which has about forty hidden clasps, a corset lining that might’ve been designed by medieval armorers, and a skirt the size of a Smart car.
“Uh… Nina?” I call, arms flailing. “I’m going to need assistance before this becomes a cautionary tale.”
She rounds the screen, already laughing, and hoists the bodice while I try not to trip on the train.
“Okay, we got this,” she mutters, tugging one side and smoothing down the lace. “Hold still. I think I found the zipper.”
“Is it… going up?”
A beat. “Define ‘up.’”
“Oh no.”
She tugs again, then winces. “This thing was definitely made for a mannequin with no lungs.”
“I knew that second cupcake would come back to haunt me,” I mumble, trying to breathe as she shimmies the zipper higher. “Do I look bridal yet?”
Nina steps back, eyes narrowing as she surveys me. “See for yourself.”
I turn to the mirror, nerves and anticipation tangling in my stomach—then I see myself.
“This looked way better on the model,” I mutter, tugging at the lace sleeves that are somehow both too tight and sliding off my shoulders like they’re trying to make a break for it.
The skirt swishes like it’s meant to be elegant, but I feel like a toddler raiding her grandma’s attic. My boobs look weirdly flat, the waistline hits at the worst possible spot, and the color makes me look like I’ve been living in a basement.
“You know,” I say, fumbling with the zipper that’s already turning on me, “I had such high hopes for this one.”
“It’s only the first,” Nina says, patting my shoulder. “You’re allowed a few fashion casualties before the fairytale moment.”
“Right,” I sigh. “One down, twelve to go.”
“Atta girl.”
I slip into the next one, and my optimism takes a nosedive.
“I look like a sentient wedding cake,” I deadpan.
Nina snorts from her spot on the bed, sipping sparkling water like she’s a judge on a reality TV show. “You look like a very expensive wedding cake. But yeah, it’s giving pastry.”
“I hate it,” I mutter, trying not to trip over the crinoline as I turn. “Why is it so… poofy?”
“Because it’s couture,” Nina says, waving one perfectly manicured hand. “Couture thinks poof equals value.”
“Well, I feel like I’m about to be wheeled out on a dessert cart.”
I waddle—yes, waddle—back behind the folding screen and peel it off with Nina’s help. The next dress is tighter. Sexier. Plunging neckline. Backless. Slit up to there.
“Okay, this one is for someone who isn’t terrified of a wardrobe malfunction,” I say, stepping out again.
Nina raises an eyebrow. “Wow. I mean… if you want to seduce your fake husband into ripping it off, this one’s your winner.”
I glare at her. “Not helping.”
I study myself in the mirror. The dress is objectively stunning. But it’s not me. Not the me who reads romance novels under a fuzzy blanket and works with glitter-sticky kids all day. I tug at the neckline and sigh.
“Next.”
We go through four more.
Too itchy. Too much beading. Too naked. One looks like it belongs at the Met Gala, not a small ceremony. Another makes me look like a Victorian ghost with boundary issues.
By the time I wriggle out of dress number six and into number seven, I’m sweaty, over it, and mildly homicidal toward satin. This one’s strapless with a mermaid cut and a bodice that’s doing absolutely nothing for my boobs or my dignity.
“You look like a rejected Bachelor contestant,” Nina offers helpfully from her perch on the bed, sipping wine.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “I’ve always wanted to look like someone who gets dumped in episode two.”
I yank my hair up in a messy bun and stalk off toward the kitchen in full bridal regalia. I need water. Or wine. Or possibly an exorcism.
I’m still muttering about itchy tulle when I turn the corner—and come to a screeching halt.