4. Eliana
Eliana
I was certain I'd misheard him.
I stared at Adrian across the small café table, waiting for the punch line.
There had to be one. Men did not casually ask women they'd known for less than twenty-four hours to become their girlfriends, especially when those men happened to be billionaires whose faces appeared on magazine covers and whose accidental passenger could apparently become national news overnight.
But Adrian didn't laugh.
He simply watched me over the rim of his coffee cup, looking remarkably calm for someone who had just suggested something that sounded like the plot of one of my own novels.
"I'm sorry," I said slowly. "Did you just ask me to be your girlfriend?"
"Yes."
His answer came so easily that I almost looked around to see whether someone was filming us.
"Your fake girlfriend?"
A faint smile touched his lips. "That would be the important part."
I leaned back in my chair and stared at him. "You realize we've known each other for approximately one day."
"Technically, less."
"That isn't helping."
His smile deepened, but he didn't laugh. Instead, he set his cup down and folded his hands loosely on the table. The café's warm lights caught the blue of his eyes, making them appear softer than they had the night before.
"My grandmother wants me married."
I blinked. "That's it?"
"That's not all of it."
"Good, because I was beginning to worry billionaires had the same problems as everyone else."
"We do," he said dryly. "We just have more expensive ways of avoiding them."
Despite myself, I smiled.
Adrian noticed, but this time he didn't tease me about it. He looked almost thoughtful as he continued.
"My grandmother has decided that I've reached the age where being unmarried is no longer charming. Apparently, I'm now a family emergency."
I raised an eyebrow. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to know better than to argue with my grandmother."
That answer made me laugh under my breath.
He leaned back slightly, his expression turning more resigned. "Every family gathering becomes another lecture. Every business dinner turns into an introduction. Someone always knows someone who has a daughter who is beautiful, educated, sophisticated, and apparently desperate to meet me."
"And you aren't interested?"
"Not in being someone's opportunity."
Something in his tone changed.
It was subtle, but I caught it. The amusement remained on his face, yet something colder passed through his eyes before disappearing again.
"Influential families, actresses, models, socialites," he continued.
"It never ends. The moment I'm seen speaking to someone twice, there's an article about our relationship.
If I attend dinner with a woman, people assume I'm considering marriage.
If I don't attend, someone decides I'm secretly heartbroken. "
"Are you?"
His gaze returned to mine.
The question seemed to surprise him.
"Heartbroken?"
I nodded.
For a second, the easy smile disappeared completely.
"No," he said quietly. "Just tired."
I didn't know why that answer stayed with me.
Maybe because he didn't say it like someone complaining. He said it like someone who had grown accustomed to carrying something heavy and had forgotten what it felt like to put it down.
He picked up his coffee again, turning the cup between his fingers.
"I don't need love right now," he said with a faint smile. "I just need everyone to believe I've already found it."
I studied him.
"And you think pretending to date me will solve that?"
"It could."
"Why me?"
His eyes settled on mine.
There was something almost unsettling about how directly he looked at me.
"Because you don't want anything from me."
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
He continued before I could respond. "You didn't recognize me last night. You weren't impressed by my name. You weren't trying to get my attention. You accidentally got into my car, fell asleep, and nearly had a nervous breakdown when you realized whose SUV you'd stolen."
"I did not steal it."
"You've already established your legal defense."
I gave him a look.
His mouth twitched.
Then his expression softened again.
"And because Rebecca gave me an idea."
I groaned. "Oh, no."
"You told her you're writing a billionaire romance."
"Unfortunately, she tells everyone."
"She also told me you haven't experienced the world you're writing about."
I frowned. "She said that?"
"Not in those exact words."
"Of course not."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You've written about billionaires, but you've never been inside their world. You don't know what happens behind the photographs. The dinners, the galas, the business events, the charity functions. The people who attend them. The way they speak to each other. The things they hide."
My attention sharpened despite myself.
He noticed.
"You'd have access to all of it."
I looked down at my coffee.
He was right.
I hated that he was right.
My novel had been stuck for weeks. I'd written pages about wealthy men whose lives I had constructed from articles, interviews, and imagination. I knew how they were supposed to behave on paper. I knew what their penthouses looked like because I'd searched for them online.
But I didn't know what it felt like to sit beside one.
"You'd actually let me use your life as research?"
"My life is considerably less interesting than the newspapers suggest."
"That sounds exactly like something an interesting person would say."
He smiled.
"Maybe you can decide that for yourself."
I looked at him again, trying to figure out whether he was serious.
He was.
"It's a business arrangement," he said. "You help me escape the matchmaking. I help you finish your book."
"And everyone thinks we're together."
"Exactly."
"How long?"
"Until my grandmother stops worrying."
"And how long does that usually take?"
"With my grandmother?" He paused. "Possibly the rest of my natural life."
I laughed softly, shaking my head.
This was absurd.
Completely absurd.
And yet, sitting there across from him, I could already imagine the pages I'd write.
The thought should have excited me.
Instead, something about the arrangement made my chest feel strangely tight.
Adrian seemed to notice the hesitation. He didn't push.
He simply leaned back and gave me space to think.
"Besides..." His gaze met mine again, and that familiar hint of amusement returned. "By the time you finish writing, I'll probably have found the woman I'm actually supposed to marry."
My heart gave a sudden thud.
It was barely there. A tiny, ridiculous ache that made no sense.
Why would I care?
I'd known the man for one day.
"That's good," I said, hoping my voice sounded normal.
"Is it?"
I looked at him.
He was smiling again, but there was something unreadable behind it.
"I suppose," I said.
He held my gaze for another moment before glancing toward the window.
Outside, Richmond moved beneath the evening lights, people passing beneath umbrellas and cars slipping along the wet streets. The ordinary world continued around us while my life seemed to have taken a sudden turn into one of my own novels.
I finally exhaled.
"I can't give you an answer tonight."
"I wasn't expecting one."
"You aren't going to try convincing me?"
"No."
His answer came without hesitation.
That surprised me more than the proposal had.
He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small black card, sliding it across the table toward me.
"My number."
I looked at it but didn't pick it up immediately.
"Think about it," he said. "And if you decide I'm completely insane, you can forget this conversation ever happened."
I finally took the card between my fingers.
"And if I say yes?"
His smile returned, slow and effortless.
"Then we'll have to convince the entire world."
I slipped the card into my purse.
"That sounds like a terrible idea."
Adrian stood, reaching for his coat.
"Most memorable ones are."
I watched him walk away, the words following me long after the café door closed behind him.
For the first time in a long while, I had absolutely no idea what I was going to write next.
And somehow, I suspected Adrian Ashford was going to have something to do with it.
* * *
On the way home, I couldn't decide whether Adrian Ashford was the most ridiculous man I'd ever met or the most convincing.
His proposal kept circling through my head, refusing to settle into either category.
A fake relationship with a billionaire sounded absurd enough to belong in one of my novels, yet the more I thought about it, the more tempting it became.
That was the problem.
It was tempting.
I had spent years writing about people like Adrian without ever knowing what their world actually looked like.
His offer could give me everything my manuscript was missing: access, experience, inspiration.
It could even give me the chance to understand the kind of man I'd been trying to create on paper.
But trusting a billionaire I'd known for barely two days felt like the beginning of a story that could end very badly.
By the time I reached my house, I'd managed to argue with myself at least twenty different times.
Cookie greeted me the moment I stepped inside, fluttering excitedly around his perch as though I'd been gone for a month instead of an evening. I smiled despite myself and walked over to him, rubbing the top of his head gently with my finger.
"You're the only man in my life who doesn't come with complications," I murmured.
Cookie tilted his head.
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don't look at me like that. I'm serious."
He chirped.
"Should I take the deal?"
Another chirp.
I sighed. "That's what I thought."
I carried him closer and rested my cheek briefly against his soft feathers. "You're terrible at giving advice."
He nipped lightly at my finger.
"Ow."
I pulled my hand away, staring at him.
"Fine. I'll take that as a no."
Cookie turned away from me with all the dignity of someone who had just ended a very important conversation.
I smiled and put him back on his perch, but the smile didn't last.
My mother's restaurant came to mind.
It always did when I thought about money.
Mom had built that place from almost nothing. I'd spent half my childhood there, doing homework in a corner booth while she rushed between tables, laughing with customers and complaining about the kitchen staff. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't famous. But it was hers.
It was home.
I had no idea that, by the end of the night, I'd be thinking about it differently.
I was halfway through changing for bed when my phone started ringing. Dad was calling.
"Hey, Dad."
For a few seconds, there was only silence on the other end.
"Eliana?"
His voice was quieter than usual.
I sat down on the edge of my bed. "What's wrong?"
He exhaled slowly.
"I should've told you sooner."
The uneasiness I'd felt all evening returned.
"Told me what?"
Another pause.
"The bank took the restaurant today."
I stopped breathing for a second.
"What?"
"They finally seized it."
I stared at the floor.
Dad's voice grew rougher as he continued. "I tried to keep it going. I thought I could fix things before you found out. I thought maybe we'd get another chance, but the debt kept growing."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you already had enough to worry about."
My eyes burned.
"That restaurant was Mom's."
"I know."
His voice cracked on the words.
"I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I couldn't save the last thing she left us."
A tear slipped down my cheek.
I wiped it away quickly, as though Dad could somehow see me.
"Don't apologize."
"I should've?—"
"No." I swallowed hard. "Don't."
The room blurred.
I looked toward the old photograph sitting on my nightstand, the one of Mom standing outside the restaurant with flour on her cheek and the biggest smile I'd ever seen.
"One day," I whispered, "I'll buy it back."
Dad went silent.
"I don't care how long it takes," I continued, wiping another tear from my cheek. "I'll buy it back, Dad. I promise."
"Eliana..."
"I mean it."
He didn't argue with me.
Maybe he knew I wouldn't listen.
After we hung up, I stayed on the edge of my bed for a long time, staring at Mom's photograph.
That restaurant had been her dream.
I couldn't let it become just another thing we lost.
The next morning, Rebecca arrived with coffee and a stack of manuscript notes, completely prepared to dissect my novel chapter by chapter. She barely made it through the door before she noticed my expression.
"What happened?"
I told her.
For once, Rebecca didn't immediately offer a solution. She sat beside me and listened, her expression softening as I explained what had happened to the restaurant.
When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
Then she placed her coffee on the table.
"Eliana, I'm not going to tell you what you should do with Adrian."
"Good."
"But I am going to tell you something you don't want to hear."
I looked at her suspiciously.
"Opportunities like this don't come twice."
I sighed.
"Rebecca..."
"Listen to me." She leaned forward. "You're a writer. You need your book to be seen. Adrian doesn't just have money. He has attention. Millions of people are already interested in him, and now they're interested in you because they think you're dating him."
"I don't want to use him for publicity."
"I'm not saying you should."
She reached for my hand.
"I'm saying you don't have to pretend this arrangement only benefits him."
I looked down at our hands.
"He gets freedom from his family's matchmaking. You get access to the world you've been trying to write about. And whether you like it or not, being associated with him could put your name in front of readers who would never have found you otherwise."
I hated how reasonable she sounded.
"And the restaurant?" she asked gently.
I looked away.
"You could save enough to buy it back."
That was the sentence that stayed with me.
For the rest of the day, I thought about Adrian's proposal from every possible angle. I thought about the risks, the lies, the attention, and the possibility that I was stepping into a world I knew nothing about.
But I also thought about Mom.
By evening, I'd made my decision.
The arrangement wouldn't be love.
It wouldn't be real.
But perhaps it could save something that mattered to both of us.
For Adrian, it could mean freedom.
For me, it could mean my book, my career, and eventually my mother's restaurant.
For the first time, the fake relationship didn't feel like a lie.
It felt like an opportunity neither of us could afford to lose.
That evening, I sat on the edge of my bed with Adrian's number open on my phone.
My thumb hovered over his name.
I took one slow breath and pressed call.
He answered before the first ring finished.
"Eliana."
His voice was warm, almost amused.
I closed my eyes.
"I've made my decision."