Page 16 of Pretend To Be Mine

“When have I ever complicated things?”

“Do you want the chronological list or the alphabetical one?”

I flipped him off and headed back toward my office.

Elizabeth was exactly where I’d left her, sitting in the same position, staring at her hands. For a second, I wondered if she’d moved at all or if she’d been frozen in place by sheer terror.

She looked up, fear in her eyes. Like I was a lion, and she was trying to figure out if I’d already eaten or if I was still hungry.

I sat down and spread the documents across the desk. “This is straightforward stuff. The first document is a nondisclosure agreement. You can’t discuss the nature of our arrangement with anyone—not friends, not family beyond Chris, not anyone. If you breach the NDA, there are significant financial penalties.”

She leaned forward slightly, looking at the papers but not touching them. “So Chris can know?”

“Chris already knows. But he’s bound by the same rules. He can’t discuss it with anyone else either. I’ll have him sign his own NDA.”

“Okay.”

“The second document is the contract itself. It outlines the expectations.”

“Like what?” she asked quietly.

“Well, you’ll attend all Fashion of Love Week events with me, do press appearances, post on social media, essentially play the role of my fiancée in all public settings. In exchange, you’ll receive fifty thousand, paid in full after the final show in New York, plus a guaranteed position at Blackwell Couture starting the Monday after Love Week concludes.”

Her eyes widened at the number. “Fifty thousand? Dollars?”

“Is that not enough?”

“No, that’s a lot of money.”

“It’s compensation for your time. And this is important.”

She was reading through the documents now. I watched her eyes move across the pages, occasionally lingering on certain clauses. She was actually reading it, not just skimming. Smart.

But watching her read was also making me aware of how quiet she was. How she had barely asked any questions. How she seemed almost afraid.

Maybe Briggs was right to be concerned.

If Elizabeth couldn’t handle a private conversation in my office, how was she going to handle a press conference? A photo shoot? Standing on stage in front of thousands of people?

I pushed the doubts away. She’d be fine. She just needed time to adjust.

“Do you have any questions?” I asked.

She looked up from the papers. “What if people don’t believe us?”

“They will.”

“But what if they don’t? What if I’m not convincing enough?”

There was something vulnerable in the question.

“Elizabeth.” I waited until she met my eyes. “If you agree to this, I’m trusting you to make it work. Can you do that?”

She swallowed. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

She picked up the pen I’d set out and signed the documents. I signed where I needed to, then gathered the papers and put them back in the folder.