Chapter 1
Chapter 1: Morning with Ava
The morning sun slipped through the white curtains of Ava Moreau’s penthouse apartment in the heart of Paris.
The room was spotless—too spotless—like something straight out of a luxury magazine. The marble floor gleamed, her skincare bottles were perfectly aligned on the vanity, and even her fluffy white cat, Coco, walked as if she was scared to leave a paw print anywhere.
Ava stirred awake in her king-sized bed, wrapped in silk sheets the exact shade of champagne. She didn’t just get up—she rose like royalty. No yawning, no sleepy eyes, just a calm stretch and a glance at the clock.
7:00 AM. On. The. Dot.
Sliding into her robe, she tied it with a perfect bow and headed to the bathroom. Everything was already in place: her electric toothbrush, cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer—lined up in the order she liked best.
“Today will be perfect,” she whispered to herself with a satisfied smile.
Then it began—the routine. She brushed, cleansed, applied, dabbed, and sprayed, every step as smooth and precise as a luxury ad campaign. Her blow-dryer was already plugged in. Her robe didn’t wrinkle. Her coffee would be ready in exactly eight minutes, just as she had programmed the machine the night before.
But perfection was fragile.
When Ava walked into the kitchen, her sharp eyes landed on a detail so small—and yet so unforgivable. Her favorite vanilla candle was gone. In its place sat a tacky, orange-scented one.
“Where is my Diptyque candle?” she demanded.
Her housekeeper, Elodie, popped her head in with a feather duster, looking instantly nervous.
“M-Madame Ava, I thought this one was finished. So I put this one instead—”
“You replaced my signature scent with citrus?!” Ava’s eyes narrowed. “Do I look like a fruit basket to you?”
“I… thought you wouldn’t mind…” Elodie stammered.
“You thought? That’s adorable.” Ava stepped closer, her voice sharp and cold. “But next time, try thinking less. In fact—don’t think at all. Just follow instructions. It’s not that hard.”
She picked up the candle like it was radioactive and tossed it straight into the trash, wiping her hands as if she had touched filth.
Elodie opened her mouth to apologize again, but Ava lifted her hand. “Save it. Light the right candle. Brew another espresso. And for the love of fashion—don’t touch my vanity tray.”
The housekeeper nodded frantically and rushed away. Coco, the cat, let out a soft meow and rubbed against Ava’s leg.
“At least you understand perfection,” Ava muttered, scooping her up and pressing a kiss to her head.
Coffee in hand, she walked into her spotless walk-in closet. Outside her window, Paris stretched in all its beauty and mess. But in Ava Moreau’s world, everything stayed under control.
Or so she thought.
By the time Ava Moreau steps out of her penthouse, she looks like she’s walking straight out of a Vogue cover shoot.
Hair: flawless. Skin: glowing. Lipstick: the perfect shade of rich-girl red. Sunglasses: black Yves Saint Laurent, naturally.
Her heels are towering Louboutins that could double as weapons. Her Hermès Birkin, pristine cream leather, costs more than the average intern makes in a month.
Her driver opens the door of her sleek, jet-black Bentley. Ava glides in without breaking stride, silk outfit uncreased, legs crossed elegantly.
Forty minutes later, the Bentley rolls to a stop in front of Maison Moreau—her flagship luxury fashion store.
Inside, the staff calls her "La Reine de Glace." (The Ice Queen.) Not to her face, of course.
The moment she steps through the door, the air shifts. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Fabric samples get folded faster. One poor assistant actually ducks behind a clothing rack to avoid her gaze.
Ava’s heels click against the marble floor like a countdown to someone’s doom. And today, she’s still fuming about the candle incident.
Then she spots him.
A fresh-faced intern, probably still in university, carefully steaming a couture gown. Or at least, he thinks he’s being careful.
Her eyes narrow.
“Oh. My. God.”
The steam wand trembles in his hand as she stalks closer.
“Are you pressing silk?” Her voice is sharp enough to cut glass. “With actual steam?”
The boy swallows hard. “I—I thought it would—”
“You thought?” Ava’s laugh is humorless. “Adorable. But silk and steam go together about as well as Crocs and the red carpet.”
A few employees whisper from behind the racks.
“Poor guy, he’s dead.”
“Another victim of La Reine de Glace.”
Ava hears every word. She smirks. Let them talk.
Before the intern can combust from sheer panic, Camille sweeps in. Petite, chic, and—more importantly—the only human alive who can poke the Ice Queen without losing her job.
“Ava,” Camille says sweetly, slipping between them. “Before you actually murder the poor child, may I borrow you for… oh, I don’t know… work?”
Ava folds her arms, glaring. “Do you know what he almost did to that gown? It’s worth more than his tuition.”
“Yes, and I’m sure his spirit is priceless,” Camille replies lightly. She turns to the intern. “Go on, Lucas. We’ll talk about proper fabric care later. Preferably without trauma.”
Lucas nods like his life has just been spared and scurries into the stockroom.
Camille and Ava walked toward Ava’s office at the back of the store, their heels clicking in perfect rhythm.
“You know,” Camille said, glancing at her, “you could try being nice for a change.”
Ava arched a brow. “I was nice. I didn’t throw the steam wand at him.”
Camille gave her a look. “Your kindness is overwhelming.”
Ava smirked. “Well, darling, it’s a gift.”
Camille sighed. “Ava, you can’t keep terrorizing every new intern. We’re running out of people willing to work here.”
“Terrorizing?” Ava scoffed, flipping her hair. “Please. I was educating. There’s a difference.”
“Educating?” Camille shot her a sharp look. “You practically bit his head off.”
“It’s called quality control, darling.” Ava shrugged, unapologetic.
“It’s called being scary. And rude. And—”
“Bitchy? Demanding? Fabulous?” Ava cut her off with a smirk.
Camille groaned, long-suffering. “Impossible.”
Ava tilted her head, batting her lashes innocently. “Careful, Camille. Keep lecturing me and I might have to fire you.”
“Oh, shut up,” Camille shot back. “You can’t survive without me. No one else on this planet would tolerate you for more than three hours.”
Ava pretended to think. “Hmm. True. I do need you. But don’t get smug about it.”
The two of them laughed—the rare, genuine kind that only slipped out when it was just the two of them.
Then Ava’s phone buzzed on her desk. She glanced at the screen. Maman. Her jaw tightened. She immediately hit ignore.
Not even a minute later, it rang again. And again.
“Persistent,” Camille observed.
“Ignore her,” Ava muttered, scrolling through her emails. “She’s on her usual mission to drag me into my sister’s wedding circus.”
Seconds later, Camille’s phone lit up. Ava froze.
Camille smirked as she swiped to answer. “Bonjour, Madame Moreau! How lovely to hear from you.”
The French on the other end was sharp and rapid. “Camille! Où est Ava?!” (Where is Ava?)
Camille’s eyes darted to Ava, who was shaking her head violently, slicing a hand across her throat in a don’t you dare gesture.
“She’s… um… in a very important meeting,” Camille lied.
“Bullshit!” Madame Moreau snapped. “I know she’s ignoring me!”
“I’ll… pass along the message.”
“You tell her to call me back tout de suite.” The line went dead.
Camille lowered the phone slowly. “Your mother is scarier than you. And I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Told you,” Ava muttered. “I learned from the best.”
Ava’s phone buzzed again—Maman.
She groaned, dragged a manicured hand down her face, and reluctantly answered.
“Bonjour, Maman! How’s my favorite woman in Paris?” Ava asked, voice dripping with charm.
“Cut the charm, Ava,” Mrs. Moreau snapped immediately. “Why are you avoiding my calls? Don’t tell me you’re busy—you’re never too busy for your mother.”
“I… was in meetings,” Ava tried weakly.
“Meetings. Pfft.” Mrs. Moreau’s voice rose. “Busy? Busy?! Your sister is getting married in two months and you are acting like a ghost!”
Ava rolled her eyes at Camille, mouthing kill me now. Camille muffled her laugh behind her hand.
“Maman, I designed her dream wedding dress,” Ava said flatly. “My part is done.”
“That’s it?!” Mrs. Moreau practically shrieked. “You think a dress is enough? She is your sister! You should be helping, celebrating, participating—” She didn’t pause to breathe. “Anyway. This weekend is the family dinner. You will be there. No excuses.”
“Yes, I—”
“And,” Mrs. Moreau cut her off sharply, “you will bring your boyfriend.”
Ava froze. “…My what?”
“Your boyfriend! The one you mentioned a few months ago.”
“Oh… that guy.” Ava winced, remembering. The one she broke up with three weeks ago. “Well, about him—”
“No excuses!” Mrs. Moreau thundered. “You’re in your early thirties, Ava. Your little sister is getting married before you. Do you want people whispering? Do you want them thinking you’ll grow old alone with nothing but your handbags? Do you want to die surrounded by forty cats?”
“Cats don’t sound so bad,” Ava muttered.
“You should be thinking about your own future instead of terrorizing your poor employees—”
“Maman—”
“—and if you don’t bring him,” Mrs. Moreau plowed on, “I’ll set you up with Charles.”
Ava’s blood ran cold. “Not Charles. No.”
“Yes, Charles. Very handsome, very rich—”
“He told me my shoes were too modern for my face!” Ava shot back.
“So? He has manners.”
“He chews with his mouth open. He smells like boiled cabbage. He calls everyone my dear like a creepy butler. And he once explained cryptocurrency to me for three hours!”
“Enough! Boyfriend or Charles. See you Saturday.”
The line went dead.
Ava stared at her phone like it had betrayed her.
Camille grinned. “So… Charles?”
“If you ever say that name again, you’re fired.” Ava tossed her phone onto the desk and groaned. “Oh god, Camille. I need a boyfriend. ASAP. Before this weekend.”
Camille blinked—then burst into laughter. “Oh my God. Ava, you are in deep shit.”
Ava’s glare could slice marble.
“Alright, alright, no laughing,” Camille said quickly, setting her cup down. “But Ava… it’s practically impossible to get a boyfriend in four days. You’re… you.”
“Yes, I know I’m me,” Ava snapped. “Which is exactly why this is a disaster. What do I do? I can’t magically get one that fast.”
Camille leaned back, thinking. Then her face lit up. “We don’t need a real one.”
“…Excuse me?” Ava narrowed her eyes.
“We just get you a fake one.”
“…A fake one?”
“Yes.” Camille whipped out her phone and shoved the screen in Ava’s face. Bold pink letters glowed: Rent-a-Bea.
Ava blinked. “Are you—? Camille, this is real life, not a Netflix rom-com.”
“It’s fast, it’s easy, and no commitment. Just a man on your arm for the evening. You pick the height, the hair, the suit—it’s like ordering clothes. Only… a human.”
Ava stared at her. Then smirked. “Why do you even have this app on your phone?”
“Don’t judge me. A girl has needs.”
Ava burst into shocked laughter. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous… but right.”
“Fine. I’ll rent one.”
Camille gasped theatrically. “Did Ava Moreau just agree to something I suggested?”
“Don’t push it,” Ava warned, though her laugh gave her away.
Will Ava actually find the perfect fake boyfriend? Or is this about to turn into a total disaster?
To be continued…
