Prologue
Everly
I grip Jorge’s arm like it’s the only thing keeping him from fleeing. Jorge’s bicep tenses under my fingers. He doesn’t want to be here. That makes two of us. The ballroom of the Grand Plaza Hotel stretches before us with crystal chandeliers and white roses. It’s a perfect backdrop for my humiliation.
“Remind me why I agreed to this?” Jorge mutters over the string quartet in the corner.
“Because you’re a good friend and I saved you from that bar fight in Flint three years ago.” I plaster on a smile for the benefit of anyone watching. “And because I promised to buy you dinner for a month.”
The wedding reception is in full swing. My ex-boyfriend’s wedding reception, that is. Round tables are dressed in cream linens. People are laughing, drinking, mingling. It’s normal wedding stuff, but my heart hammers against my ribs like I’m running a marathon.
I smooth down the front of my burgundy dress for the fifth time in two minutes. The silky fabric keeps slipping through my sweaty fingers.
“Do I look okay?” I whisper, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
Jorge glances at me, his response a beat too slow. “You look fine.”
Fine. Great. That’s exactly the ringing endorsement I need when I’m about to face the man who dumped me via text message after four years together.
I spot a server carrying a tray of champagne and snag two glasses, pressing one into Jorge’s hand. “Drink this. And try to look like you’re madly in love with me.”
He takes a large gulp. “How long do we have to stay?”
“Until Mason sees us and realizes what he gave up.” I down half my champagne in one go. “Then we can leave.”
Jorge sighs. He’s only half-committed to this charade, but half is better than nothing. I need him—need someone—beside me tonight. I refuse to be the pathetic ex-girlfriend who shows up alone while Mason marries someone else.
Well, I guess Mason, my ex, is already married since I missed the ceremony, but I can’t very well miss the whole thing! He’d know. And probably think I was crying into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.
“Remember, we met at a coffee shop,” I say, reciting our fabricated history for the third time today. “You spilled your latte on my laptop, bought me a new one, and we’ve been inseparable for eight months.”
“I know the story, Everly.” His voice has an edge now.
“And you’re a software engineer who—”
“I’m actually a software engineer.”
“Right, but you also rock climb and volunteer at an animal shelter on weekends.”
Jorge raises a brow. “Why can’t I just be me?”
“Because the real you doesn’t make Mason jealous.” I check my lipstick in the reflective surface of a nearby silver tray. “The real you plays video games for twelve hours straight and eats cold pizza for breakfast.”
“The ladies love cold pizza for breakfast.”
“Not the kind of ladies Mason would be jealous of.” I straighten Jorge’s tie, my fingers trembling slightly. “Just follow my lead, okay? We only have to convince people for a few hours.”
Jorge and I have been acquaintances for years. When I sobbed to our mutual friend, Sony, about needing a date that didn’t come from Craigslist or Tinder, he suggested Jorge. And here we are.
We make our way deeper into the reception. Each step feels like I’m walking through quicksand. Jorge’s arm is rigid under my hand, his responses to my comments growing increasingly shorter.
“There’s my cousin Bethany,” I say, steering us away from a group near the gift table. “She’ll tell my mom everything. Let’s make it good.”
Sometimes I really hate mid-size towns. They’re not small enough to know everybody, but also not big enough to avoid running into people you’d rather not see.
Jorge finally seems to wake up. He slips his arm around my waist, pulling me close. His fingers press against my hip, warm through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, his breath tickling my ear.
“Perfect,” I whisper back, ignoring the unexpected flutter in my stomach. “Now laugh like I said something hilarious.”
He does, and the sound is so natural that I almost believe it myself. I reach up and touch his face, a gesture that looks intimate to anyone watching. His stubble is rough against my palm.
“Your cousin is watching,” Jorge says, his eyes locked on mine. “Should I kiss you?”
Yes. My breath catches. “No. That’s—that’s not necessary.”
He nods, something unreadable flickering across his face.
We continue our circuit around the room, playing the part of the happy couple. I introduce Jorge to distant relatives and old friends, watching their reactions. Most seem genuinely happy for me. A few look surprised that I’ve moved on so quickly, which is hilarious considering I’m at my ex’s wedding! Either way, it’s exactly the response I want.
“Mason’s at your four o’clock,” Jorge murmurs after nearly an hour of this performance.
My heart stops, then restarts at double speed. I don’t turn immediately. Instead, I count to three, then casually glance in that direction.
And there he is. Mason. My ex. Now someone else’s husband.
He’s wearing a tailored tux that makes his shoulders look broader than I remember. His dirty-blonde hair is freshly cut, his face clean-shaven. He’s laughing at something the person next to him said, the same laugh that used to make my stomach flip.
Our eyes meet across the room. His smile falters for a split second before he recovers, giving me a small nod of recognition.
Now or never.
I turn to Jorge, laugh loudly at nothing, and place my hand on his chest. “You’re so funny,” I gush, making sure my voice carries. I lean into him, pressing my body against his side.
Jorge, to his credit, plays along. He wraps his arm more firmly around me, his fingers splayed possessively against my back.
“Is he still looking?” I ask through my smile.
“Yes,” Jorge confirms, his lips barely moving. “And now he’s coming this way.”
Noooo.
Panic surges through me, but I force it down. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? To show Mason that I’m fine, better than fine, thriving without him. I am not in love with Mason, still, but I do want to protect my pride.
“Kiss my cheek,” I instruct Jorge quickly.
He bends down, his lips brushing against my skin just below my ear. It’s a simple touch, but it sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
When I glance back, Mason has changed direction, heading toward the bar instead. His back is stiff, his movements jerky.
A wave of satisfaction washes over me. It worked. He saw us together and it bothered him. I wasn’t forgotten after all.
“He’s jealous,” I whisper to Jorge, squeezing his arm. “Thank you.”
Jorge looks down at me, his expression unreadable. “You’re welcome,” he says flatly.
I should feel triumphant. This is exactly what I planned. But as I watch Mason’s retreating back, all I feel is a hollow victory and the weight of Jorge’s increasingly reluctant participation in my petty revenge.
But it’s working. That’s what matters. It’s working.
***
The catered chicken dinner arrives at 5 p.m. Dry white meat, mushy vegetables, and a small slice of banana bread. I’m allergic to bananas. I poke at it with my fork, more focused on maintaining our couple act than actually eating. Jorge, at least, seems to have settled into his role. His leg presses against mine under the table, a casual touch that feels almost natural now. But then his body goes rigid.
One moment we’re discussing whether it’s rude to ask for BBQ sauce to give the chicken some flavor, and the next, Jorge is a statue beside me. His fork stops midway to his mouth. His eyes widen, fixed on something across the room. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, following his gaze.
That’s when I see her.
A woman in a midnight blue dress that clings to every curve stands in the entrance to the reception hall. Her dark hair cascades over one shoulder in glossy waves. Her lips are painted a deep red that somehow makes her teeth look impossibly white when she smiles. And she’s smiling now, nodding graciously as the catering staff points her toward an empty seat.
I’ve never seen her before, but I instantly know who she is.
“That’s Ariel,” I whisper, not really a question.
Jorge doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The way his breath has gone shallow, the slight tremor in his hand still holding the forgotten fork, tells me everything.
“Jorge,” I say, louder this time. “Are you okay?”
He blinks rapidly, like someone waking from a trance. “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”
But he’s not fine. His eyes immediately find her again, tracking her movement across the room. I watch as she navigates between tables with deliberate steps, pausing occasionally to greet people. Each pause seems strategic, angled so that she remains in Jorge’s line of sight.
Mayday, mayday!
“You never told me she’d be here,” he harshly whispers.
“I didn’t know.” And I didn’t. Mason never mentioned inviting Jorge’s ex. Why would he? “How do they even know each other?”
Like I said, mid-sized towns.
Jorge doesn’t answer. His attention is fixed entirely on Ariel as she accepts a glass of champagne from a waiter, her red nails stark against the crystal stem.
“Is that her?” asks the woman seated to my left, a friend of the bride I was introduced to earlier. “The infamous Ariel?”
I turn to her, surprised. “You know her, too?”
She raises a brow. “Everyone knows about Ariel and Jorge. Their breakup was legendary. She destroyed him.”
Great. Just great. Not only is Jorge’s ex here, but apparently their relationship was common knowledge. Which means everyone will be watching this little drama unfold.
I glance around the table. Sure enough, several people are darting curious looks between Jorge and Ariel. A few are whispering behind their hands. One older woman doesn’t even bother to hide her interest, staring openly while sipping her wine.
“Jorge,” I whisper, placing my hand on his arm. “People are staring. We have to save this. You love me, remember.”
He barely acknowledges me, his eyes still locked on Ariel. She’s made her way to a table near the dance floor. We’re close enough that he can see her clearly, but far enough that he’d have to make an effort to speak to her. The perfect distance to torment him.
As if sensing his attention, Ariel turns slightly in her chair. Her eyes scan the room before landing on Jorge. She holds his gaze for a beat too long, then smiles—a small, private smile—before turning away to speak to someone at her table.
She’s toying with him.
Jorge makes a sound like he’s been punched.
“How long were you two together?” I ask, trying to reclaim his attention.
“Three years,” he answers automatically, still staring. “Almost four.”
I do the math quickly. “So you broke up...what? A year ago?”
“Eleven months and seventeen days.”
Shit. He knows the exact count. That’s not a good sign.
“A lot can happen in eleven months,” I desperately say. “Like fall in love with someone else!” Nothing. Jorge is gone.
I watch Ariel laugh at something someone said, her head tilting back to expose the elegant line of her neck. Every movement she makes seems designed for maximum impact. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. How she leans forward slightly when listening to someone speak. The delicate way she brings her champagne to her lips.
She’s deliberate. And she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I wave my hand over his face. “Jorge. Jorge!” His eyes flicker to life. “You never mentioned her before,” I say, an edge creeping into my voice.
Jorge finally tears his eyes away from Ariel to look at me, almost surprised to find me still sitting beside him. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Thanks for asking me to be your fake date, by the way, the love of my life broke my heart and I’m still not over her’?”
His words hit me like a slap. The love of his life. Still not over her. I should have guessed from his reluctance to play the boyfriend role tonight, but I was too wrapped up in my own drama with Mason to notice.
“Would’ve been nice to know,” I mutter, stabbing a piece of chicken.
Jorge doesn’t respond. His attention has already returned to Ariel.
Around us, the whispers grow. I catch fragments of conversation.
“...thought they were finished after what she did...”
“...heard he moved across the country to get away from her...”
“...wonder if they’ll talk tonight...”
I’m no longer the center of gossip. My little show with Jorge, designed to make Mason jealous, has been eclipsed by this unexpected development. We’ve gone from being the fake couple everyone’s talking about to being no one at all. Or rather, I’ve become no one. Jorge is still very much part of the conversation, just not with me.
Ariel stands up from her table, smoothing down her dress. She walks toward the bar, her hips swaying in a way that draws every eye in the room. Including Jorge’s.
“She’s doing this on purpose,” I say, not bothering to keep the irritation from my voice.
Jorge doesn’t deny it. “That’s Ariel,” he says, a mix of resignation and fascination in his tone. “She always knows exactly what she’s doing.”
I take a large gulp of wine, watching over the rim of my glass as Ariel leans against the bar, positioning herself so that Jorge has a perfect view of her profile. She’s smiling at the bartender, but her body is angled toward our table.
“This is ridiculous. It’s almost been a year.”
Jorge finally looks at me, his expression pained. “I’m sorry, Everly.”
I set down my glass harder than necessary. “Don’t be sorry for me. I’m not the one making moon eyes at a woman who apparently ‘destroyed’ me.”
He winces at that, but doesn’t argue. Because it’s true. Everyone in this room can see it’s true. Jorge Magnan is still hopelessly, pathetically in love with Ariel Vorhe.
And my perfect fake date has just fallen spectacularly to pieces.
If Myspace was still a thing, he would so be out of my top five.
***
The band transitions to a slower number. Couples rise from their tables and drift toward the dance floor. The bride and groom have already had their first dance, the cake has been cut, and the night is winding toward its inevitable drunken conclusion. I’m counting the minutes until Jorge and I can slip away without seeming rude. Except Jorge isn’t counting anything. His eyes haven’t left Ariel for the past forty-five minutes.
“We should probably dance once,” I suggest, desperate to salvage something from this disaster of an evening. “Just to keep up appearances.”
I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.
Jorge doesn’t answer. His fingers drum against the table. He keeps glancing between Ariel and the stage where the band plays. Something’s brewing behind those eyes, and I don’t think I’m going to like it. My stomach twists into a knot.
“Jorge?” I reach for his hand, desperate to stop whatever is going on in that brain of his.
But he stands. The movement is so abrupt that his chair scrapes loudly against the floor, drawing several curious glances. Without even so much as a breath, he makes a straight line to the stage.
“What are you doing?” I loudly hiss, but he either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me.
I watch, confusion giving way to dread, as Jorge approaches the small stage where the four-piece band is playing. He says something to the lead singer, who looks surprised but nods and hands him the microphone.
Oh God. Nothing good can come from this.
The music stops. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Dancers freeze on the floor, turning to see what’s happening. All eyes are on Jorge, and by proxy me. Because like a fool, I had paraded him around, acting like we were in love.
Jorge clears his throat. The sound echoes through the speakers, impossibly loud in the silence. I’m pretty sure they can hear him in the parking lot.
“Excuse me, everyone,” he says. “I need to say something important.”
No. Please don’t.
But Jorge isn’t looking at me. His eyes scan the crowd until they find Ariel, standing near the bar with a champagne flute in her hand. She’s watching him with an expression I can’t quite decipher from here—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction.
“Everly and I aren’t dating,” Jorge announces, his voice echoing through the venue.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I grip the edge of the table, the white tablecloth bunching under my fingers.
“We never were,” he continues. “It’s all been fake.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Heads turn. Eyes find me, sitting alone at our table, my face burning under their collective gaze.
But Jorge isn’t done. He plunges the knife deeper.
“I have no interest in her what-so-ever!”
The words hang in the air, terrible and final. My throat closes up. My vision blurs. I want to disappear, to sink through the floor, to be anywhere but here. I catch Mason’s gaze who clearly has the look of “Ouch” written across his face. The kind of second-hand-embarrassment you see in television shows. This can’t be real life.
Jorge’s eyes never leave Ariel as he continues, his voice softening. “I’m still in love with Ariel. I’ve always been in love with her. To be clear, I’m in love with Ariel. Not Everly. Everly means nothing to me.”
Not him repeating himself for emphasis. We get it, Jorge!
The room spins around me. I can feel every eye on my face, sense every whispered comment. My humiliation is complete, public, and inescapable.
I sit frozen, unable to move, to speak, to breathe.
Across the room, Mason stands with his new wife. His expression is a mix of shock and something worse—pity tinged with smugness. Like he always knew I’d end up alone, making a fool of myself.
Near our table, an older woman leans toward her companion. “How embarrassing,” she whispers, not bothering to lower her voice. “Poor thing.”
“I told you they didn’t look right together,” another guest says. “He was clearly not into her all night.”
“Who announces something like that at someone else’s wedding?” someone else murmurs.
But the worst reactions aren’t the whispers or the stares. They’re the pitying looks, the awkward glances away when I accidentally meet someone’s eyes, the subtle shuffling of feet as people create distance between themselves and my humiliation, as if it might be contagious.
Jorge steps off the stage. He doesn’t look back at me, doesn’t acknowledge the scene he’s created. His steps are purposeful as he walks directly toward Ariel, who’s watching him with a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
I think of all the nights I lay awake after Mason dumped me, wondering what was wrong with me, what I lacked. I think of how carefully I planned tonight, how desperate I was to show him I’d moved on. And now here I am, more pathetic than before, exposed as someone who had to fake a relationship.
Jorge reaches Ariel. He says something I can’t hear. She laughs, touching his arm lightly. They look right together, both beautiful, both cruel.
The band, unsure what to do, begins playing again. The music feels like it’s coming from underwater, distant and warped. Some couples return to dancing, though many remain watching the drama unfold.
“Everly?” A voice breaks through my haze of shame. It’s Bethany, my cousin, standing beside my table with concern written across her face. “Are you okay?”
But as I stand on shaky legs, I realize there’s nowhere to hide. Everyone has seen. Everyone knows. The story of this night will spread through our social circles by morning.
Everly Jo, so desperate after being dumped that she hired a fake date, only to be publicly rejected by him, too.
I take one step, then another. Each movement requires immense effort, like walking through deep water. The bathroom is only thirty feet away, but it might as well be miles.
Behind me, I hear laughter. I don’t turn to see if it’s directed at me. It doesn’t matter. In this moment, all laughter feels like it’s at my expense.
I make it to the hallway outside the reception hall before the tears start. Hot, humiliating tears that blur my vision and streak my carefully applied makeup. I press my back against the cool wall, struggling to breathe.
This is worse than being dumped. Worse than coming alone. This is public execution of whatever dignity I had left.
And somewhere in this building, Jorge and Ariel are together, not giving me a second thought.
--
**Author’s note:
First couple of chapters are free, but the reader polls will be for subs only. This is especially important because I’ll have votes to count for Ream and Inkitt, too. (All three platforms have exactly the same benefits; they’re just different user interfaces. Patreon has the most members, but all votes will be pooled together).
**I’ll open the poll Tuesday Feb 3rd, and it’ll close on Wednesday 11:59 a.m. Eastern.
FIRST POLL QUESTION WILL BE: 1 year later, how has Everly protected her heart?
A) The Ice Queen: She’s a high-powered professional who treats dating like a business transaction with zero emotion involved. Her personality is snappy, slightly cold, to the point. Dating and relationships have turned into a “what can you do for me?“, otherwise she’s not interested.
B) The Recluse: She rarely goes out and has a strict “no-dating” policy that her friends are desperate to break. She’s guarded, but she’s still kind.
C) The Heartbreaker: She dates plenty, but she’s the one who leaves first. She never stays long enough to develop genuine feelings. Her personality is easy-going, but avoidant after a handful of dates. She does not like to get emotionally close to anyone.
