Chapter 19
BEN
I’m on my fiftieth push-up when I lose count, my arms burning as I push against the polished hardwood floor of my office. Sweat drips onto the expensive wood, and I can’t bring myself to care.
I haven’t been able to focus on anything this morning.
Not the quarterly reports sitting unopened on my desk, not the contract revisions that need my approval, not the three voicemails from potential investors.
Every time I try to concentrate on work, my mind drifts back to last night’s almost-kiss outside Freya’s apartment.
So I’ve resorted to an impromptu workout, hoping that physical exhaustion might quiet the mental chaos.
Fifty-one. Fifty-two.
The way she looked up at me on her doorstep, her lips slightly parted, her eyes fluttering closed in anticipation. The way every instinct I had screamed at me to close the distance between us, to finally do what I’ve been wanting to do for months—years, if I’m being honest with myself.
Fifty-three. Fifty-four.
And the way I pulled back at the last second, like the coward I apparently am.
I collapse onto the floor, breathing hard, and stare at the ceiling. The memory of the confusion and hurt that flashed across Freya’s face when I stepped away is burned into my brain, playing on repeat like some kind of torture device.
My phone sits silent on the desk. No texts from Freya. No calls. Nothing.
She’s putting distance between us again, and I can’t even blame her. If I were in her position—if I’d been leaning in for a kiss only to have the other person back away at the last second—I’d probably be mortified too.
But what was I supposed to do? Kiss my fake fiancée and complicate an already impossible situation? Ignore the boundaries we both agreed on? Risk destroying our friendship for the sake of a moment of weakness?
I roll over and start doing sit-ups, counting under my breath. Anything to stop thinking about the way she smelled like vanilla and paint, or how soft her skin felt under my thumb when I touched her face.
Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.
A knock on my office door interrupts my self-flagellation. I jump to my feet, grabbing a towel from my gym bag and trying to look somewhat professional.
“Come in.”
Carson bursts through the door, his laptop tucked under his arm and his face lit up with the kind of excitement that usually makes me nervous. He stops short when he sees me standing there in workout clothes, sweating.
“Oh. I didn’t realize you were… exercising.”
“Needed to clear my head,” I say, wiping sweat from my forehead. “What’s got you so excited?”
He seems to shake off his confusion and sets his laptop on my desk, angling the screen toward me. “The engagement party coverage is everywhere. You need to see this.”
The screen shows a collection of photos from last night—Freya and I talking to guests, laughing at something her sister said, standing close together with the Chicago skyline twinkling behind us. We look happy. We look in love.
We look like everything I wish we actually were.
“Look at these numbers,” Carson continues, scrolling through what appears to be a social media analytics dashboard. “The photos have been shared thousands of times across all platforms. The engagement hashtag is trending on Twitter and Instagram. People are calling you two ‘relationship goals.’”
“Relationship goals,” I repeat, the words tasting bitter.
“And the comments…” Carson clicks to another tab, his excitement palpable. “Listen to this: ‘Finally, a billionaire who seems like an actual human being.’ ‘She’s perfect for him, you can see how much he adores her.’ ‘This is what real love looks like.’ ‘I want what they have.’”
This is what real love looks like. If only they knew that half of the couple they’re admiring spent the night regretting not kissing the other half.
I grab a clean shirt from my desk drawer and pull it on, trying to process what Carson is showing me. “How many people are we talking about?”
“The engagement hashtag has over a million interactions in the past twelve hours,” Carson says, barely able to contain his enthusiasm.
“I’ve had fashion bloggers asking about Freya’s dress, lifestyle magazines wanting to feature your penthouse, and three different wedding planners offering to donate services just for the publicity. ”
I close the laptop screen, suddenly unable to look at any more photos of Freya and me pretending to be something we’re not. “That’s great, Carson. Really.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
“I’m excited. It’s just… a lot.”
Carson studies my face with the sharp attention that makes him good at his job, and I can see him cataloging details—the fact that I’m working out in my office at 10 AM on a Tuesday, the tension in my shoulders, the way I keep glancing at my phone even though it hasn’t made a sound.
“Ben, is everything okay? You seem off today.”
“Everything’s fine. Just wedding nerves, I guess.”
“Wedding nerves are normal,” Carson says, but his tone suggests he’s not entirely buying my explanation.
“The good news is that after Saturday, the hard part will be over. You’ll be married, the public will love you even more than they already do, and you can go back to focusing on business with a significantly improved image. ”
After Saturday. Right. After Saturday, Freya and I will be legally married, bound together by a contract that has nothing to do with love and everything to do with mutual benefit.
She’ll get her compensation and her art career boost. I’ll get my wind turbine deal and my improved public image.
We’ll live in the same house but have completely separate lives.
Everyone gets what they want, except I’m starting to realize I don’t actually know what I want anymore.
“There’s something else,” Carson says, pulling out his phone. “I’ve been monitoring the online conversation about your relationship, and there’s been a shift. People aren’t just interested in your business success anymore. They’re invested in your personal happiness. Look at this.”
He shows me his phone screen, which displays a blog post titled “Why Ben Lawlor and Freya Hull Give Us Hope for Love.” I don’t want to read it, but Carson starts reading aloud anyway.
“‘In a world where celebrity relationships seem calculated and fleeting, Ben Lawlor and Freya Hull remind us that real love still exists. Their story—childhood friends who found their way back to each other—feels authentic in a way that’s increasingly rare. Watching them together, you can see the genuine affection, the easy comfort, the way they look at each other like they can’t quite believe their luck. ’”
He looks up at me expectantly. “Do you see what this means? You’ve transcended being just a business figure. You’re becoming a symbol of authentic love and commitment. That’s incredibly powerful from a brand perspective.”
“I should get back to work,” I tell him, gesturing vaguely at the papers scattered across my desk.
“Of course. But Ben? This is really working. Whatever you and Freya are doing, keep doing it. The public is completely invested in your story.”
After Carson leaves, I sit down at my desk and try to focus on what I need to, but the words might as well be hieroglyphics. All I can think about is the way Freya looked last night when I stepped away from her, and the silence from her phone today.
If I had it to do over again, would I make the same choices? Would I still think that business considerations outweigh everything else? Would I still convince myself that protecting our friendship is more important than exploring what we might be together?
I’m still brooding over these questions when another knock interrupts my thoughts. Anthony enters with his usual buttoned-up composure, but I can tell from his expression that this isn’t a routine check-in.
“Do you have a minute?” he asks, closing the door behind him with more care than usual.
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
Anthony rarely looks uncertain, but he does now, fidgeting with the tablet in his hands. “I wanted to talk to you about the wedding. And about why you’re doing calisthenics in a three-thousand-dollar suit.”
“I changed clothes.”
“The point stands. Ben, I’ve worked for you for three years. I’ve seen you go through a lot, and you don’t get rattled easily.”
“I’m not rattled.”
“You’re working out in your office because you can’t focus on actual work. You’ve been staring out the window for twenty-minute stretches when you think I’m not looking. And you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
Well, that about sums it up. I should have that partial glass wall replaced.
I want to deny it all, but Anthony’s observational skills are one of the reasons I hired him. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that I’ve never seen you like this, and I’m worried you’re in over your head.”
“Anthony…”
“It’s not too late to back out,” he says quietly, settling into the chair across from my desk. “I know this deal with Red Dawson is important, but there have to be other ways to secure it. Other landowners, other opportunities.”
I lean back in my chair, studying his concerned expression. He’s one of the few people in my life who knows about the fake engagement, and he’s been uncomfortable with it from the beginning.
“You think I should call off the wedding just days before it happens?”
“I think you should consider whether this arrangement is worth what it’s costing you.”
“What’s it costing me?”
“Your peace of mind, for starters. Your friendship with Freya, possibly. And maybe your integrity.”
The words hit harder than they should because they’re true. This whole situation has been eating at me for weeks, and it’s only getting worse as we get closer to the wedding date.
“The wind turbine deal alone is worth fifty million annually,” I say, falling back on the business case that got me into this mess. “That’s not including the potential for expansion, the technology licensing opportunities, and the industry partnerships it could lead to.”
“And is that worth losing Freya?”
The question stops me cold. “I’m not going to lose Freya.”
“Aren’t you? When’s the last time you two had a normal conversation? When’s the last time she called you just to talk, or you hung out without some agenda or appearance to manage?”
I want to argue, but I can’t. Anthony’s right. Somewhere in all the planning and performing and careful image management, I’ve lost the easy friendship that was the foundation of everything else.
“She hasn’t contacted me at all today,” I admit.
“Can you blame her? You’re asking her to fake the most important relationship of her life for the sake of your business deal.”
“She agreed to it. She’s being compensated.”
“Ben.” Anthony’s voice is gentle but firm. “Do you really think Freya cares about the money?”
“Then why did she agree to this?”
“You’d have to ask her that. But I suspect it has more to do with caring about you than caring about financial compensation.”
The possibility that Freya agreed to this charade because she cares about me—not because of what she’ll get out of it, but because she wants to help me succeed—makes my chest tighten with an emotion I don’t want to examine too closely.
“What are you suggesting I do?”
“I’m suggesting you think about what you really want here. Not what’s best for business, not what will improve your public image, but what will actually make you happy.”
“What makes me happy doesn’t matter. I have responsibilities.”
“To whom? Your shareholders? Your board of directors? What about your responsibility to yourself? To Freya?”
I stand up and walk to the window, looking out at the Chicago skyline. From up here, everything looks manageable, controllable. But I know that’s an illusion. Some things—like feelings, like friendship, like love—can’t be managed or controlled no matter how hard you try.
“I can’t back out now,” I say finally. “Too many people are counting on this.”
“Including Freya?”
I turn back to face Anthony. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, have you asked her what she wants? Really wants, not what she’s willing to do for you?”
I think about my silent phone, about the fact that for the first time in weeks, Freya hasn’t reached out to me at all today. Usually, we’re in constant contact about wedding details, logistics, and appearances. Today, nothing.
“She’s not talking to me,” I admit.
Anthony reads something in my expression. “It’s not too late, Ben. It’s never too late to choose happiness over obligation.”
But as I look at my phone—silent, accusatory—I realize that maybe it is too late. Maybe I’ve already lost the most important thing, and Saturday will just be the formal conclusion of something that ended the moment I pulled away from her last night.
Maybe some mistakes can’t be undone, no matter how much you want to try.
“I need to get back to work,” I say, though we both know I won’t be able to concentrate.
“Think about what I said,” Anthony replies, heading for the door. “And maybe next time, hit the actual gym instead of doing push-ups on your office floor.”
After he leaves, I sit alone with the emails I can’t read and the phone that won’t ring, wondering how I managed to turn the best thing in my life into the most complicated.