It is practical, she said. Close to the office, secure. It did not feel practical to me. It felt like a glass box in the sky. She slid a thick binder across the counter toward me. “Read this tonight,” she said. “Memorize as much as you can.” Quote. I opened it and blinked. The first page was labeled public behavior guidelines. There were bullet points on everything.
How to stand beside her at events, where to put my hand for photos, what to say if someone asked how we met. There was even a note about how to hold a wine glass. This is intense, I said. It has to be, she replied. My brother is waiting for any crack he can find. We cannot give him one. I flipped to the next section.
History. Our fake story was laid out in simple lines. We met at a charity event in Aspen 6 months ago. We hit it off instantly. We kept things quiet because we did not want office gossip. We had a small private ceremony out of town. Only close family knew. “You already told your family?” I asked.
“Some of them?” she said. “I told my mother I met someone serious. She was surprised but pleased. The rest will expect to see proof soon.” I looked up. “And what about my mom?” “You tell her what you are ready to tell her,” Luna said. “But understand this, if this blows up, it hurts both of us. You are not just a prop in my life. You are tied to it.
” There was a small pause on that last part. It made something twist in my chest. “Any questions?” she asked. I wanted to ask how she slept at night with this much pressure on her shoulders. I wanted to ask if she was scared. Instead, I said, “Not yet.” That first night felt strange. I unpacked in the guest room that was now my room.
The bed was huge. The sheets were crisp and smelled like detergent. There was a walk-in closet with more empty space than I had ever had in my life. I lined up my worn shirts like they had to prove they belonged. Dinner was takeout she ordered on her phone. Sushi and neat boxes on the long dining table.
She ate while answering emails. I picked at my food and stared at the city lights. We made small talk about work like we were just co-workers who happened to share a table. By 10:00, she said good night and disappeared into the master bedroom at the other end of the hall. I lay awake for a long time, listening to the quiet hum of the building.
No creaky pipes, no neighbors yelling through thin walls, just silence and the distant sound of traffic below. The next few weeks fell into a rhythm. In the mornings, we rode the elevator down together. In the lobby, she would step a little closer, her hand brushing my arm, playing the part if anyone was watching. In the office, we kept our distance.
She stayed, Luna Sterling, VP, sharp and focused. I stayed Adam from copy, the guy in the cubicle who wrote lines and tried not to stare at his fake wife in meetings. At night, we often arrived home at different times. Some days, she would beat me there, heels already off, blazer draped over a chair.
Other days, I would walk into the sound of her on a call, pacing the living room, voice low and fierce in a way I never heard at the office. Our first big test came at a company gala in a downtown hotel. She had a dress delivered to the penthouse for herself and a tailored suit for me. I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
