Chapter 17
BEN
The engagement party guests stream in slowly, people from both mine and Freya’s life stepping out of the elevator and onto the rooftop that’s lit up with sparkling lights.
It’s mostly friends on her side. Colleagues on mine.
Strange, I realize, with a shock. Outside of work, is Freya my only friend?
“What are you thinking about?” Freya appears at my side, untouched cocktail in hand.
“Not much.” I plaster on a smile, not wanting to bring down the mood. “How are you?”
“Good.” She clears her throat. Still doesn’t taste her cocktail. It seems she’s got it more to keep her hands busy than anything else.
The last few days have followed the most recent trends. We talk some, go out to be photographed together, discuss details for next week’s wedding, and then she retreats.
Just like I feared, this arrangement is driving a wedge between us. Ruining our relationship.
And do I regret it?
I haven’t really allowed myself to think that deeply about it. Ever since the other night at the family get-together, when I realized that I want something more from this arrangement, I’ve kept my nose to the grindstone, focusing on work and getting through the wedding.
“Ben, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Freya says, touching my arm lightly. The contact sends a familiar jolt through me that I’ve been trying to ignore for weeks now.
She leads me across the rooftop to where a distinguished-looking man in his fifties is admiring the city view. He has the kind of effortless elegance that speaks of years in the art world: expensive but understated clothing, silver hair that’s perfectly styled without looking overdone.
“Ben, this is Ron Gabriel. He’s the director of The Jetson Gallery.” Freya’s voice carries a note of pride that makes something warm unfurl in my chest. “Ron, this is my fiancé, Ben Lawlor.”
Ron extends his hand with a genuine smile. “Mr. Lawlor, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Freya has told me so much about you.”
“Please, call me Ben.” I shake his hand, trying to process this introduction. “And thank you for coming tonight.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it. It’s not often I get to celebrate with one of my most promising artists.”
One of his most promising artists. The phrase hits me with unexpected force. This is really happening for Freya. Her work is being recognized by someone who matters in the art world.
“Ron is featuring three of my pieces in the ‘Emerging Voices’ exhibition,” Freya explains, and I can hear the barely contained excitement in her voice. “It opens next week.”
Next week. The same week as our wedding.
I feel a stab of something that might be hurt—not that she’s having this success, but that she didn’t tell me about it.
When did she meet with Ron? When did this opportunity develop?
We’ve been spending so much time together lately, planning and staging our relationship, but apparently there are parts of her life I know nothing about.
“That’s incredible,” I manage, pushing down the hurt and focusing on what matters. “Freya’s work deserves to be seen by as many people as possible.”
“I quite agree,” Ron says, his eyes lighting up with professional enthusiasm. “Her emotional range is extraordinary. The pieces I’ve selected for the exhibition have a raw honesty that’s quite rare in contemporary work.”
Raw honesty. I think about the painting Freya showed me in her studio, the one about wanting something you can’t have. The irony isn’t lost on me.
“I’ve been trying to convince her to consider a solo show,” Ron continues. “But she insists she’s not ready.”
“I’m not,” Freya says quickly. “This group exhibition is already overwhelming enough.”
“Well, after next week, when she sees the response to her work, perhaps she’ll reconsider,” Ron says with a knowing smile. “Excuse me, I see someone I need to speak with. Ben, it was lovely meeting you. Freya, we’ll talk more soon.”
After he walks away, I turn to Freya, trying to keep my expression neutral. “When were you going to tell me about the exhibition?”
“I…” She looks uncomfortable, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “It all happened very quickly. And with everything else going on…” She gestures vaguely at the party around us, at the whole elaborate production our lives have become.
I want to push the issue, to ask why she felt like she couldn’t share this with me, but this isn’t the time or place. And maybe it’s also not my right to know everything about her and I should stop acting like an entitled brat.
“I’m proud of you,” I say instead, and I mean it completely. “This is huge, Freya. Ron Gabriel doesn’t take chances on artists unless he genuinely believes in their work.”
Her face softens slightly. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“Will I be invited to the opening?”
“Of course. If you want to come.”
“I want to come.” The words come out with more intensity than I intended. “I want to be there when people see how talented you are.”
For a moment, something passes between us—a flicker of the old easiness, the friendship that existed before performance schedules complicated everything. But then Carson appears at my elbow, probably wanting to introduce me to someone important for networking purposes, and the moment dissolves.
The rest of the evening passes too slowly, social events being something I’ve never enjoyed.
I shake hands with Freya’s college friends, most of whom seem genuinely delighted by our engagement news.
I chat with colleagues about market conditions and upcoming projects.
I smile for the photographer Carson hired to document the event.
But through it all, I’m acutely aware of Freya.
She moves through the party with natural grace, making everyone she talks to feel like the most important person in the room. When she laughs—really laughs, not the polite laugh she uses for strangers—the sound cuts through all the other noise and finds me wherever I am.
I’ve spent years training myself not to notice these things about her.
Not to think about the way she unconsciously tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, or how her whole face changes when she’s talking about something she’s passionate about.
I’ve built careful walls around those observations, filed them away as inappropriate thoughts about a friend.
But tonight, watching her charm Ron Gabriel and his art world connections, seeing her confidence as she talks about her work, those walls are crumbling.
This is the woman I fell for when we were seventeen, before I learned that wanting something too much was dangerous. This is the girl who climbed through my bedroom window and forced me to live a little, who saw through every defense I built and chose to stick around anyway.
And she’s beautiful. Not just in the obvious way that everyone can see, but in the way she cares about people, the way she fights for her dreams, the way she’s willing to help a friend even when it complicates her own life.
I want her. Not just as a business partner or a fake wife, but as the person I come home to every night.
I want to hear about her gallery meetings and her artistic breakthroughs.
I want to support her dreams, not because it’s written into a contract, but because her happiness matters to me more than my own.
I want what we’re pretending to have.
This isn’t new. These feelings aren’t a product of our fake engagement or the intimacy of our current situation. They’ve been there all along, buried under years of careful self-control and focus.
I’ve been in love with Freya Hull for most of my life, and I’ve been too afraid to admit it even to myself.
“You’re staring.” Carson appears beside me with a knowing smirk. “Good. The photographer is getting some great candid shots of you looking completely besotted.”
Besotted. If only he knew how accurate that assessment is.
“Just making sure she’s having a good time,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“She seems to be. This was a good idea, having the party here. Very romantic, very aspirational. The photos are going to be perfect for the wedding coverage.”
Wedding coverage. Right. Because that’s what this is all about—content for our public romance, evidence for the narrative we’re selling.
“Ben?” Freya appears at my side again, and I realize the party is winding down. “I think I’m going to head out soon. I have an early morning tomorrow.”
“Of course. I’ll walk you down.”
We ride the elevator down in comfortable silence, both of us probably exhausted from an evening of performance. In the lobby, she turns to face me, and for a moment we just look at each other.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says. “The party was beautiful. Ron was really impressed.”
“I’m glad. He seems like a good connection for you.”
“He is.” She hesitates, then adds, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the exhibition earlier. Things have been so busy, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up with everything else going on.”
“You don’t owe me explanations about your career, Freya. I just want to know what’s happening in your life, that’s all.”
“I know. And I want to tell you. It’s just…” She trails off, looking uncertain.
“Just what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” She forces a smile. “I’ll see you for the final dress fitting?”
“Actually, I think that’s just you and Bella. Grooms aren’t supposed to see the dress, remember?”
“Right. Traditional superstitions and all that.” Her laugh sounds hollow. “I’ll call you after, let you know how it goes.”
“Sounds good.”
She starts to leave, then turns back. “Um… hey. Are you happy? With all of this, I mean. The way everything’s turned out?”
The question catches me completely off guard.
Am I happy? I’m about to marry the woman I love, even if she doesn’t love me back and we already have our divorce planned.
I’m securing the biggest deal of my career.
I’m finally getting the public image of stability and commitment that my business needs.
I should be ecstatic.
Instead, I feel like I’m slowly losing the most important person in my life.
“I’m happy you’re getting the recognition you deserve,” I say finally. “Your exhibition will be incredible.”
It’s not an answer to her question, and we both know it. But it’s the only honest thing I can say without revealing more than I’m ready to admit.
“Good night, Ben.”
“Good night, Freya.”
I watch her walk away, then return to the empty rooftop where the catering staff is cleaning up the remnants of our engagement party.
In a week, we’ll be married. In a year, we’ll be divorced.
And somewhere in between, I’ll have to figure out how to go back to being just friends with the woman I’m realizing I can’t live without.
Assuming our friendship even survives what’s to come next.