Chapter 2
Savannah
It was official.
Someone, somewhere, was sticking pins into a voodoo doll with my face on it. That was the only possible explanation for the man standing beside my table—hands in his pockets, interest flickering behind those dark, maddening eyes.
“You’re Savannah, right? I'm Jaxon.”
I didn’t answer. I just stared—really stared—at the face that had haunted me through every miserable year of high school. The tattoos were new, curling like black smoke over his forearms, but that smirk hadn’t changed a bit.
Jaxon freaking Cage.
Every buried memory clawed its way back, vivid as a nightmare:
He and his friends shoving my books to the floor in the hallway, laughing as I scrambled to gather them up.
My glasses dangling from his fingers while he teased, “You can run faster than that, can't you?”
His orchestrated plan of asking me to prom, making me save the little I had to buy a dress, only for him to make it painfully obvious to everyone he wouldn't dare be caught dead with Bookworm Bristow.
Eight years later, and my body still remembered the shame.
I exhaled slowly, controlling my tone and building back the brick wall to those haunting memories.
“I already know who you are,” I said, turning my attention to the untouched glass of wine in front of me. “And I’m waiting for someone. So do us both a favor and leave.”
For a second, I thought he might. But instead, the chair across from me scraped against the hardwood floors, and Jaxon dropped into it like he had every right to be there.
“Yeah,” he said, leaning back casually. “About that. I’m actually the one you’re meeting.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Benji couldn’t make it. There's a bit of an emergency with his dad's company. He sent me to meet you instead and…” Then, with a tilt of his head, “Wait, you already know me?”
I blinked at him again, the words colliding with each other in my mind and failing to process. There was no way someone like him knew Benji, right? This was all some sort of twisted joke. I was about to tell him just that when my phone buzzed on the table.
A text from Benji lit the screen.
BENJI
Hey, I'm so sorry to do this, Savannah.
My dad has a work emergency and I have to fly to Japan tonight.
I didn't want to leave you hanging, so I got my best friend to help. His name's Jaxon. He's solid, promise
My fingers tightened around the phone until my knuckles whitened. I read the message over and over again, hoping that they'd somehow change. Best friend?
Of all the men in the city—in the world—why did it have to be him?
“Guessing he messaged you. Listen, he gave me a brief rundown on the situation. Make ex jealous. Attend wedding. Seems easy enough.”
I looked up from my phone, and he was still watching me—curious, a little amused, completely unbothered by the storm gathering behind my eyes.
“You,” I said flatly, “are the last person I would ever do this with.”
He looked taken aback for a fraction of a second, his mouth parting—probably ready to say something cocky and stupid—but I didn’t give him the chance. I stood, grabbed my purse, and headed straight for the door.
“Hey, wait—”
But I didn’t.
Not when my pulse was pounding. Not when every instinct screamed that history had an infuriating way of repeating itself.
The Jaxon I knew wasn’t dependable. He was reckless, arrogant, and smug—the poster boy for bad decisions wrapped in pretty packaging. And despite his irritatingly perfect… everything, he was not the man I wanted to fake anything with.
“Slow down. Hey, just wait a minute.”
His voice trailed behind me as I pushed through the lounge doors into the cool evening air. The click of my heels echoed across the pavement until he caught up and his fingers curled around my forearm.
The touch was electric. A jolt that stopped me in my tracks.
I froze, my breath catching before I could stop it. When I glanced down to his grip, his hand dropped away immediately, like he’d been burned.
“What—”
“I'm not doing this with you, Jaxon.” I tried to side-step him, but he blocked my path.
Narrowing my eyes, I said, “Clearly, this was a mistake. I don't know what game you're playing, but—”
“What? I'm not playing anything.”
“You're always playing something. Always looking for the upper hand.”
“You don't even know me.”
“Don't know you?” I laughed—short, sharp, humorless. “What, suddenly you have a classic case of amnesia?”
He frowned, clearly trying to place me. “Did we meet at a party or something? Friend of an ex? We definitely didn't fuck”—I ignored the way his eyes briefly trailed down my body and the heat it brought—“that, I would remember.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I took a step closer, my voice low and controlled. “You really don’t remember, do you? Ashburn High? You hiding my glasses? Taking my books? That cute little prank where you asked me to prom just so you and your friends could laugh when I showed up?”
His expression shifted—cockiness draining into something else. Recognition and… was that guilt?
“Bookie…”
“Don't. Call. Me. That.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat under my hard stare. “Okay. Fuck, I'm—”
“Save it,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “I don’t want or need your apology. What I need is to forget this little meeting ever happened.”
Whatever I thought was going to happen tonight, the sight of Jaxon brought a bitter taste in my mouth.
Back to the drawing board.
I huffed out a breath and walked away from him, but Jaxon's footsteps sounded behind me.
“Savannah, I was an idiot back then, but I’m not that same guy anymore. A lot has changed.”
I kept walking. “Good for you. You've managed some semblance of personal growth. Unfortunately for you, I don’t have the time or interest to participate in your redemption era.”
“Can you just hold on a second? Wait, okay—I'm sorry!”
Against my better judgment, I stopped. My brain was telling me to just walk away, but my feet were rooted in place. I told myself that his apology, no matter how satisfying it sounded, meant nothing to me now. I'd already filed away the bad memories and moved on with my life.
“I'm sorry, alright? I could give you a thousand excuses as to why I was such a dick back then, but it wouldn't change anything for you now.”
I finally turned around to face him, my arms crossed. “You're right, it wouldn't.”
“I was going through a lot back then—which I know doesn't excuse my behavior. I was wrong, and I'm sorry.”
I held his gaze, every part of me screaming to walk away. Nothing good could come from this man. But God, there was something different in his tone. He wasn’t mocking me like before.
He raised his hands as if to plead his innocence, his tone softening.
“Look, Benji just said you needed someone to help out with this wedding thing.
He told me everything, and it fucking sucks that they're both playing you like this. Benji asked, and Benji doesn't ask for anything. He couldn’t make it, so here I am.”
My stare didn't soften.
“This thing that you want to do… it's in three weeks, right? Let me show you how much I've changed.” Then when his lips tugged up, I knew the real Jaxon was back. “Besides, it's not like you've got much of a choice here.”
“Excuse me?” I asked through gritted teeth, my eyes narrowing.
“You’ve got, what, three weeks until the big day? And I'm guessing a shitload of engagement parties, brunches, and whatever the hell else people like that do before getting to what actually matters. It just sounds to me like you're on a bit of a tight schedule with not many volunteers.”
“I'll have you know I had plenty of choices. Dozens.”
“Uh-huh.” He took a step forward. His smirk and the unconvinced look in his eyes made me glare. “And you're going to meet with these dozens of men and, what? Interview them all to see if they'd be the right fit for this plan? Because you have months to work with instead of three weeks?”
I gave him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You think you’re funny?”
Another step.
“I think I’m realistic. It’s a lot of public appearances for one woman on a revenge mission. You’ll need someone convincing enough to sell the lie, and if there's one thing I am—aside from being undeniably attractive—it's good at selling a lie. I'll help you out.”
“You?” A laugh escaped me, low and bitter. “You think I’m going to parade you around in front of my family and ex-boyfriend?”
He tilted his head, grin lazy, confident. “Why not me?”
“Because I'm not in the habit of torturing myself.”
“Just think about it,” he said, taking that final step toward me—close enough that my chest brushed against his.
“Showing up to the wedding with me tells that asshole that you've moved on just as fast as he did. It'll make him feel this small. I'm telling you right now, I’m exactly the kind of man who’d make a guy like that squirm.”
“You’re delusional is what you are.”
“Only on Thursdays,” he said, smirking.
I rolled my eyes.
“Trust me, if you show up with all your attention on me, he won't be able to think straight. You wanted someone who’d make your ex choke on his regrets. That's me.”
“Jaxon,” I said, forcing my voice steady, “you can’t just show up after years of making my life hell and expect me to trust you with this.”
“I’m not asking you to trust me,” he said. “I’m asking you to let me help you screw over the guy who cheated on you and is crazy enough to marry her. I can play the part. I’ll keep my distance, be professional, no strings attached—whatever you want.”
The streetlights washed over his face—shadows flickering across the sharp lines of his jaw, the quiet regret in his eyes. For a moment, I almost believed him. Almost.
Then I remembered the laughter. The humiliation. The way my heart cracked in that gymnasium years ago when I realized I was nothing but a joke to him.
I stepped back, putting space between us. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want your apology. And I sure as hell don’t want to see you again.”
He flinched—barely—but enough for me to notice.
“Savannah—”
“Goodbye, Jaxon.”
I walked away before he could say another word, my heels striking sharp against the pavement.
Behind me, I could feel his gaze—heavy, unreadable—but I didn’t look back.
I’d made enough mistakes letting men like him close.
And I wasn’t about to start again.
Two days.
Forty-eight hours of scrolling through profiles that all blurred together—perfect smiles, curated bios, promises of brunch and ambition. Every single one looked promising on paper, and every single one made me want to hurl my phone into traffic.
The engagement party was tonight.
Tonight. Saturday, November 8. Six p.m. sharp.
My laptop glowed from the edge of my bed, Lori's last condescending email still open along with the intricate digital design of the engagement party invite. And beside it, my phone—where Benji’s last text stared at me with unnerving patience.
BENJI
How'd things go okay with Jaxon?
Here's his number just in case.
I’d ignored it for two days, hoping the universe would hand me a better option. Spoiler: it hadn’t.
I almost threw up when one guy told me he'd do it if I paid him and slept with him first.
Needless to say, I had run out of options.
I capped the marker, stepping back to assess my own insanity. The whiteboard mounted above my desk—the one usually reserved for case outlines and exam prep—now had a different purpose. Now, in neat handwriting, it read:
FAKE BOYFRIEND: PROS & CONS
PROS:
– Optics (appear confident, over it, thriving.)
— Physically attractive (annoyingly so)
– Confident enough to sell the fake relationship
– Avoid family pity
– Reclaim power
– Would definitely make Chase jealous
CONS:
– Potential emotional damage
– History of being an ass
– Untrustworthy
– Could publicly humiliate me again
– Jaxon Cage
– Jaxon Cage
– Jaxon Cage
Clearly, the cons outweighed the pros here.
My eyes narrowed at the repetition of his name, as if that would erase him from my life.
Every rational part of my brain screamed no.
No to the tattoos.
No to the cocky smile.
No to the history.
No to the man who once made me the joke of senior year.
And yet—there was that image of Chase and Lori flashing through my mind again, the smug tilt of his smile as he slid that ring onto her finger. Her need to rub it in my face that he chose her and wanted nothing to do with me.
That image blurring with one where I sat at that engagement party, drink in hand, sitting by myself, didn't help matters. Not to mention all the questions I'd probably get from friends and family of Chase’s who knew we'd been together. I'd look lonely, depressed, and desperate.
Going alone was not an option.
I paced the small length of my bedroom, the sound of my heels clicking against hardwood merging with the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“You’re not calling him,” I muttered. “You don’t need him. You’re a strong, intelligent black woman who can absolutely handle a social event without a man-shaped prop. You don't need him.”
My phone chimed, the screen lighting up with a new notification: One hour until event.
“Perfect,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “Maybe I can fake my own death instead.”
But when I looked back at the whiteboard, my gaze snagged on the last line of the Pros column. Would definitely make Chase jealous.
I exhaled sharply and snatched my phone off the table.
“You’re not doing this for him,” I told myself as I tapped on the number. “You’re doing it for you. Optics. Damage control. A well-executed plan.”
When the message bar came up, my fingers hovered there for a moment. The rational part of my brain begged me to stop, but it was fighting against my pride and losing.
Finally, I typed:
SAVANNAH
Don’t make me regret this.
Meet me at Ruxbury in an hour.
I hesitated. Then added,
SAVANNAH
Please wear something that's fitting for an engagement party.
There it was—the decision made. Irrevocable.
“Are you happy now?” I mumbled to the universe. “Message sent. Now, stop torturing me.”
I tossed the phone face-down on the bed like it was radioactive and prayed this would go off without a hitch.
It was only three weeks.
I could pretend to like Jaxon for three weeks, right? Then I'd go back as if he didn't exist. This was merely an agreement between two reasonably-minded people. Nothing more, nothing less.
Except nothing could explain the fluttering in my stomach when my phone dinged.
JAXON
I'll be there.