The Problem With Pretending Is That Sometimes You Forget It’s Pretending

Harper was halfway through adjusting the straps of her silk top when the photographer clapped his hands for attention. “Okay! Harper, Ethan—intimate shots first. We want soft, warm, natural. Think ‘reconnected lovers rediscovering each other.’” Harper nearly choked. Ethan, leaning against the vanity, raised a brow. “Natural?” The photographer grinned like he genuinely believed this wouldn’t be a disaster. “Yes! Natural! Chemistry! Comfort! You two know the drill.” Ethan’s eyes slid to her. “Do we?” She ignored him, stepping onto the set—an artificially cozy living-room scene built on a studio stage. Everything around them was curated: the soft amber lighting, the plush beige sofa, the vase of white peonies. It was the kind of room meant to sell fantasies. She wondered if that was fitting. Ethan sat beside her, close enough that she could feel heat radiating from his body. His cologne drifted toward her—subtle, darker than she remembered, like sandalwood layered over something more grounded. Seven years had changed everything, including the way he smelled. “Okay,” the photographer called, “Ethan, put your arm around her.” Ethan hesitated for half a second—and then his arm settled across her shoulders like he’d done it a thousand times before. It should have felt familiar. It didn’t. It felt… dangerous. His fingers brushed her upper arm lightly, almost carefully. Harper kept her posture stiff until she felt his breath near her ear. “Relax,” he murmured. “You’re supposed to look like you don’t hate me.” “I don’t hate you,” she said numbly. “I’m just professionally allergic to disasters.” “That’s fair.” His voice was low enough for only her to hear. “But this one is mutual.” She didn’t know why that tugged inside her chest the way it did. “Alright!” the photographer said. “Look at each other. A soft gaze. Like you’ve spent years trying to get back to this moment.” Harper bit back a laugh. Perfect. Delusion as direction. Ethan turned his head first, and she regretted meeting his eyes immediately. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t mocking. He was looking at her like he was actually trying. Something in her stomach pulled tight. His eyes—deeper blue under the warm studio lights—searched her face as if he was relearning it. Or maybe he hadn’t forgotten at all. The photographer exhaled dramatically. “Yes. That’s it. Hold that.” Harper blinked, her breath catching slightly when Ethan’s thumb brushed her shoulder. He wasn’t supposed to do that. It wasn’t in the contract. It wasn’t on the shot list. It wasn’t fake. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t what?” he asked quietly, voice steady but eyes unguarded. “Look at me like that.” A pause. A flicker of vulnerability crossed his expression before he masked it. “Then stop looking back.” Her pulse jumped. She turned her face away sharply—too fast, too obvious. The photographer paused mid-instruction. “Harper, sweetheart, softer! You’re not being kidnapped, you’re being adored.” She forced a smile. Ethan’s soft breath of laughter didn’t help. “Switch to the second pose!” the photographer said. “Harper on Ethan’s lap—” “No,” she blurted. “Yes,” Ethan echoed, but for a completely different reason. She shot him a glare. The photographer clapped again. “Great enthusiasm! Let’s go!” Ethan held out a hand as if she might need help. Which was ridiculous. Harper stepped up without touching him, settling stiffly on his lap, desperately pretending her heart wasn’t pounding loud enough for the entire studio to hear. His hands tentatively touched her waist—guiding, steady, almost gentle. “Too stiff,” someone called. “We need more intimacy.” Harper inhaled sharply when Ethan’s fingers pressed a little firmer, grounding her. “Relax,” he said again. “You said that already.” “And you didn’t listen the first time.” “You don’t get to tell me how to feel.” He looked at her then—really looked, pupils darker than moments before. “I’m not trying to tell you what to feel.” His voice dropped another octave. “I’m trying not to feel anything at all.” Her breath lodged in her throat. That was the moment—right there. Quiet, easily missed if one blinked. The moment Harper realized: They might be pretending. But Ethan wasn’t pretending very well. When the session finally ended, she practically leapt off him, leaving Ethan still seated, tension carved into the line of his shoulders. He didn’t say a word as she grabbed her bag, but before she could escape the studio entirely, he caught up to her in the hallway. “Harper.” She stopped even though she didn’t want to. “You okay?” he asked. “You don’t get to ask me that,” she said, voice low and steady. He flinched. Barely, but she saw it. “And you don’t get to make this harder,” she added. “We have an agreement. A job. That’s all.” His jaw worked for a moment. Then he nodded. “Right,” he said. “A job.” But the way he looked at her didn’t match the words at all. Not even close. CHAPTER 4 — People in Glass Towers Shouldn’t Throw History Two nights later, Ethan stood on the mezzanine of Hartwell Tower, swirling a glass of whiskey he wasn’t drinking. The investment-round mixer was polished, understated elegance—hundreds of millions of dollars in the room yet somehow everyone still acted like they were starving for more. Harper had warned him that New York’s elite events felt like going into battle with better lighting. She wasn’t wrong. When she finally walked in, the room reacted before he did. Harper was wearing deep midnight blue silk, the kind that slipped around her body like liquid shadow. Her hair was swept back, exposing the slim line of her neck, the single diamond at her ear catching light with every turn. She didn’t look approachable. She looked untouchable. Someone beside him whispered, “No wonder the internet’s obsessed with them. This woman could ruin me with a glance.” Ethan didn’t disagree. Harper spotted him a moment later, weaving past clusters of investors and CEOs with the kind of controlled smile that said I’d rather be anywhere else, but I’m here because it matters. He admired that about her—always had. She never tried to belong; she simply earned her place. “Are we late?” she asked softly once she reached him. “No,” Ethan replied. “But we’re about to wish we were.” She followed his gaze. A cluster of older men approached them—the kind of people who’d smile at you as they handed you a loaded gun. “Ethan,” one said, clapping him on the back. “Good press lately. The girlfriend helps stabilize your image. Investors love stability.” Harper stiffened beside him. He reached for her hand without thinking— and she let him take it without thinking. “One question, though,” the man added casually, swirling his glass. “What happened between you two the first time around? Someone said it was… dramatic.” Harper froze. Ethan felt it instantly. He answered fast. Too fast. “Water under the bridge.” “Hm,” the investor hummed. “Funny, because the rumor was she tried to use you to climb the corporate ladder. That true?” The air in Harper’s lungs went razor sharp. Ethan’s blood went cold. Someone had dug up that? He felt Harper go still, her palm no longer warm in his. She wasn’t just uncomfortable—she was spiraling. He would know; he’d seen it happen once before. Before he could speak, the man chuckled, not picking up on the tension. “Well, whatever it was, glad you sorted it out. These events get boring without a little scandal.” He walked away. Harper didn’t. She was rooted to the floor, gaze unfocused, breath shallow. He’d seen that look seven years ago—the night everything blew apart. He took a step closer. “Harper.” She didn’t answer. “Harper,” he said again, much softer. This time she looked up—and the hurt in her eyes was a stab straight through him. Not anger. Not annoyance. Old wounds ripped open. “I didn’t know people were still talking about that,” she whispered. He swallowed. “They’re not. He’s just repeating old—” “Old lies?” she cut in. The words hit like shrapnel. “Yes,” he forced out. “Lies. Harper, I didn’t know it followed you.” She laughed a brittle, breaking laugh. “Of course you didn’t know. You never looked back.” The accusation wasn’t cruel. It was simply true. And he had no defense. “Harper,” he said carefully, “that night—” “Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “Don’t rewrite it. You believed them.” He opened his mouth to deny it. To say he’d been confused, pressured, overwhelmed—anything but malicious. But that didn’t matter now. She was looking at him like she was standing in the wreckage all over again. “You didn’t protect me,” she whispered. “I know.” “You didn’t even ask.” “I know,” he said, voice quieter. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.” Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with something sharper. “You were the only person I trusted,” she said. “And the person who ruined me most.” He had no idea how to hold that, how to fix something that had shattered years ago. So he spoke honesty he’d never planned to reveal. “I was a coward,” he said. “And I’m sorry I hurt you.” For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Harper took her hand back slowly—deliberately. “We’re finishing the contract,” she said. “But after that… we’re done.” He felt the words like a punch, even though he’d seen it coming. “Harper—” “No.” She stepped back, keeping her voice composed, professional. “You don’t get to play the good guy seven years too late.” He exhaled shakily. “And you don’t get to run,” he murmured. She glared. “Watch me.” She turned and walked toward the bar, shoulders rigid, expression immaculate—every inch the polished, untouchable Harper Collins again. But Ethan saw the truth. He always had. She wasn’t untouchable. She was still breakable. And he was still the one who broke her.