6. Eliana
Eliana
Our fake relationship became real to everyone except us.
Within days, Adrian Ashford and I were everywhere.
Our photographs appeared across entertainment websites, magazine covers, social media feeds, and newspapers.
Someone had even managed to capture a picture of Adrian opening my car door, and apparently that was enough to inspire an entire article about how the country's most unattainable billionaire had finally found a woman who could make him smile.
The headlines became increasingly ridiculous.
WHO IS ADRIAN ASHFORD'S MYSTERY WOMAN?
FROM LITERATURE TEACHER TO BILLIONAIRE'S GIRLFRIEND.
HAS ADRIAN ASHFORD FINALLY FOUND THE ONE?
I stared at the last one for several seconds before dropping my phone onto the sofa.
"This is insane."
Cookie tilted his head from his perch as if he agreed.
"Thank you."
He chirped.
"I know."
My phone rang again.
Rebecca.
I answered with a sigh. "Please tell me you haven't called to discuss another headline."
"Forget the headlines!" she exclaimed. "Have you checked your book sales?"
I sat up.
"What?"
"Your old books are selling again. People are searching for everything you've ever written."
I stared at the screen.
"You're serious?"
"Completely. And your publisher emailed me this morning. They're suddenly very interested in your upcoming billionaire romance."
I couldn't help smiling.
Rebecca laughed. "See? I told you this would happen."
"This wasn't supposed to be about my career."
"I know. But that doesn't mean you can't benefit from it."
I glanced at the photographs scattered across the internet. Adrian smiling beside me. Adrian holding my hand. Adrian leaning close enough for cameras to make their own assumptions.
"People are fascinated by you now," Rebecca continued. "Use it, Eliana. This might be the opportunity you've been waiting for."
She wasn't wrong.
That was the part I couldn't ignore.
Every photograph, every interview, every appearance meant more attention for my books. More readers. More opportunities.
And maybe, eventually, enough money to buy back my mother's restaurant.
I had promised my father. So I reminded myself of that whenever the cameras became too much. I was doing it for Mom.
And for the little piece of her life that my family had lost.
Adrian, meanwhile, seemed completely comfortable with the sudden attention. He had grown up with it. I hadn't.
The first charity gala nearly terrified me. I stood beside him outside the ballroom, staring through the glass doors at a room filled with people who looked as though they had stepped out of a magazine.
"You're staring," Adrian murmured.
"I'm observing."
"That's what you called staring at me."
I looked at him. He smiled.
"I remember."
"I was trying to decide whether you were real."
"And you've decided?"
"I'm still collecting evidence."
His smile deepened. "Take your time."
Before we entered, he leaned slightly closer.
"The first course will have three forks."
My eyes widened. "Three?"
"Relax."
"What if I use the wrong one?"
"Then use the one I use."
"People will notice."
"They're too busy noticing me."
I glanced at him. "That sounded arrogant."
"Now that I think about it, it was."
I laughed under my breath. His eyes softened for a moment before he offered his arm. "Come on."
I slipped my hand through it. Inside, everything was beautiful and intimidating. Crystal chandeliers hung above the ballroom, musicians played near the far wall, and conversations flowed between people whose names I recognized from newspapers.
Yet Adrian never once made me feel like I didn't belong.
When I hesitated before speaking to someone, he quietly introduced me.
When I couldn't remember which fork I was supposed to use, he discreetly corrected me without making me feel stupid.
When I whispered that I thought I had said something embarrassing, he simply told me nobody cared enough to remember.
"I’m surprised how effortlessly you meet and greet with everyone. You make this look easy," I whispered as we moved through another room.
"It isn't."
I looked at him. For once, he wasn't smiling. Then the familiar brightness returned. "You just get better at pretending it is."
Something about the answer stayed with me. Over the next few weeks, he took me everywhere.
Private art exhibitions. Fundraising dinners. Charity auctions. Events held in houses so enormous I couldn't understand why anyone needed that many rooms.
He introduced me to artists, investors, actors, politicians, and families whose names seemed to carry their own weight.
And somehow, he remembered every little detail about me. Everything.
The first time I mentioned that I liked strawberry cheesecake, I thought nothing of it. A week later, I found a slice waiting beside my coffee after a long charity meeting.
I stared at it. "You remembered?"
Adrian looked up from his phone. "You said you liked it."
"That was weeks ago."
He smiled. "I listen."
It was such a simple answer that I didn't know what to say. Another evening, I was too nervous to eat before an auction. By the time we reached the venue, Adrian quietly handed me a small box.
I opened it. A dessert. I looked at him.
"You haven't eaten."
"How do you know?"
"You get quiet when you're hungry."
I blinked. "I do?"
"Very."
I smiled despite myself. He noticed.
Then there were the reporters. That part never became easy.
One evening, after another crowded event, Adrian and I were making our way toward the exit when a reporter suddenly stepped in front of us. His microphone appeared inches from my face before I could even react.
“Eliana, are the rumors true? Are you and Adrian actually together, or is this another publicity arrangement?”
“I—”
“Give her some space.”
Adrian stepped between us before I could finish. His expression remained pleasant, almost relaxed, but something in his voice made the reporter immediately take a step back.
Adrian didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
“She's answered enough questions for tonight.”
The reporter hesitated, then lowered his microphone. Adrian waited until there was enough space between us before turning toward me.
“You all right?”
I nodded. “I'm fine.”
He studied my face for another second, as though deciding whether I meant it. Then he simply held out his hand.
“Come on.”
I slipped my hand into his, and he guided me through a side entrance. Within seconds, the noise of the crowd faded behind us, replaced by the quiet hum of an empty corridor.
When we reached the car, he opened the door for me and waited until I was seated before walking around to the other side. The moment he got in, he loosened his tie and leaned back with a quiet sigh.
I watched the city pass through the window as the car pulled away.
“Do you ever get tired of this?” I asked.
“Of what?”
“Everyone watching you. The questions. The cameras. People thinking they know everything about you.”
He was quiet for a moment. The reflection of passing streetlights moved across his face.
“Sometimes.”
There was something different in his voice. Not the confident billionaire everyone seemed fascinated by. Just a man who sounded tired of being observed.
I turned toward him, studying his reflection in the glass. His blue eyes looked distant for a moment, almost sad.
Then he caught me watching. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He smirked. “You're getting better at lying.”
I smiled. “And you always were.”
He looked at me for a moment longer than necessary. Neither of us spoke after that. His hand rested loosely beside him, close enough that our fingers occasionally brushed whenever the car turned. Neither of us moved away.
Outside, Richmond slipped past in a blur of lights. And for the first time since this strange arrangement began, I wondered if pretending to be Adrian Ashford's girlfriend was becoming a little too easy.
* * *
A week later, Adrian called to tell me we had another event to attend.
"A charity gala," he said, as though that explained everything. "A lot of important people will be there."
I was sitting at my desk, trying to finish a paragraph for my novel. "How important?"
"Important enough that you should let me worry about it."
I frowned. "That doesn't sound reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to. See you soon."
Before I could ask anything else, he ended the call.
The next afternoon, Walter appeared at my house carrying a long black garment bag. He looked unusually serious until Cookie flew toward him from his perch, landing on the back of the sofa and studying him with open suspicion.
Walter stopped in the middle of my living room. "And you must be Cookie."
Cookie stared at him.
Then, without warning, he chirped, "Stupid."
I covered my mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway.
Walter slowly turned toward me. "Did he just insult me?"
"I think he did."
He looked back at Cookie. "We've only just met, Mr. Parrot."
Cookie fluffed his feathers. "Stupid."
Walter sighed deeply. "Wonderful. Like boss wasn't enough to call me stupid. Now the bird too."
“Don't mind him, he says random words at random times.” I laughed harder as he placed the garment bag on the sofa. "Mr. Ashford asked me to deliver this to you. Apparently, you are expected to wear it tonight."
I unzipped the bag and stared.
Inside was a breathtaking red gown from Carolina Herrera. The deep crimson fabric was elegant without being too dramatic, with a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt that looked as though it belonged in a ballroom rather than my closet.
"There has to be a mistake," I said.
"There isn't."
"He can't just keep buying me things."
Walter gave me a tired look. "I've tried explaining that to him."
"And?"
"He reminded me that he owns half the things I'm standing near."
I looked at him.
Walter shrugged. "It's difficult to argue with a billionaire."
Attached to the hanger was a small envelope.
I opened it and found a handwritten note.
Wear the red tonight.
Let the room fade around you.
Some things deserve to be seen,
but I'd rather be the one looking.
I read it twice.