Chapter 1 #2
● Engagement Party Location Details.pdf
● Dress Code.pdf
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Blinding. Rage.
Alcohol couldn’t dull the sound of her voice in my head—bright, sugary, self-satisfied.
He loves me, after all.
Don’t worry if you don’t have a plus one!
My grandmother. My mother. Every boundary erased in a single email. I shut my eyes, counted to ten, and still saw red.
I took another swing of the bottle. God, she was such a bitch. Heartless, spineless bitch. Trembling hands moved to shut the laptop when an ad appeared to the right of the screen. The background was a deep plum purple with the messy drawing of the large outline of a heart in sizzling, hot pink.
Qupid
Meet Your Match.
The stupid ad had been popping up everywhere I turned for weeks. One accidental click, and now the algorithm was haunting me with dating apps—as if I needed the reminder that I was now single.
In flashing lights, the slogan blinked back at me:
Because soulmates are only a click away.
I almost laughed.
Almost.
But as the wine hummed in my veins and my pulse slowed into something dangerous, the idea took shape.
I didn’t want a soulmate.
I wanted a show.
I wanted Chase to see me with someone who made him choke on his regrets. I wanted Lori to think I had the treasure when all she got was the trash. Someone irresistible. Charming. Parent-approved. Someone who looked at me like I was the only woman in the world—or the best mistake they ever made.
My fingers hovered over the trackpad. Was the wine clouding my judgement? Yes. Was I going to go through with this anyway? Also yes.
After that email—after the viral video—there was no way in hell I was showing up to that wedding alone.
One click. Just one.
“Don't worry, Lori,” I whispered, clicking on the ad with much-renewed focus. “Looks like I'll use that plus one after all.”
Waking up with the worst hangover of my life was a harsh reminder of why I didn’t drink. Still, I didn't have any regrets that morning; especially after reading that email again.
Between classes and caffeine, I’d gone through the app’s profiles with the same precision I used to analyze everything—logic, emotional detachment, and my trusty whiteboard.
And logic narrowed my selection down to one man: Benji Won.
Clean-cut. Confident. The kind of man who looked like he belonged on a university brochure or the front page of Forbes Under 30. His pictures were curated perfection:
— crisp cream suit with a smile like polished marble in a glass office;
— tanned and windswept on a yacht somewhere in Santorini;
— laughing with friends over whiskey;
— and one shirtless gym photo that screamed, I do charity work but also have abs.
He was safe, presentable; exactly the kind of man who’d make Chase seethe.
We messaged through the day, arranging the details and getting to know each other. If I was in a different head space, maybe things could’ve been different between us. But for now, there was a need for revenge inside me—a monster that needed to be fed.
He understood the assignment: play the devoted, loving boyfriend at my cousin’s wedding—and for the next three weeks of this rehearsal nonsense—then disappear afterward.
Simple. Clean. No complications, expectations, or strings attached.
And no sex—I made that point abundantly clear. He was nice enough to laugh about it the third time I brought that up, then insisted again that he was happy to help me out.
Now, I sat in the same lounge as before, nerves coiled tight beneath my polished composure. We agreed to dinner at seven sharp, mainly to go over the deal again and set some ground rules, but the time was approaching seven-twenty.
I checked my phone again—no new messages. My wine sat untouched. My reflection in the glass looked too composed to be abandoned.
Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I was delusional to think that I could beat Lori at whatever game she was playing. Usually, I would never stoop this low, but the faint touch of perfume couldn't cover the humiliation I felt.
Frowning, I opened Benji’s profile again, scanning his smiling face for reassurance.
Reliable. Charming. Not a complete sociopath. He had to show up, right? I wasn't cursed with some sort of bad luck, right?
My thumb hovered over the message bar.
SAVANNAH
Hey, just checking you’re still—
“Savannah?”
The voice came from in front of me—low and rough around the edges—pulling my gaze away from the phone. I was expecting a tall, clean-cut, handsome man with the easy grin from Benji’s pictures.
The man who stood before me couldn't have been further from that.
Tattoos trailed up his muscular forearms, black ink against tanned skin, then disappeared under his dark blue crew neck shirt.
A silver chain hung around his neck with a jellyfish pendant in the middle.
His light brown hair was a mess of careless waves, both sides faded low.
A dark stubble created a shadow on his jaw, and his expression was unreadable.
And those eyes—a shade between burnt umber and caramel that was utterly, painfully familiar.
And then it hit me like a gavel.
Jaxon Cage.
My high school nightmare. The resident bad boy and former hockey god who used to make me flinch, now standing in front of me with a smirk that hadn’t aged a day.
This could not get any worse.