Page 76 of Pretend To Be Mine

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

“Language, dear,” a voice said from one of the seats.

I turned to find an elegant woman with silver hair watching me with amusement. She had Adrian’s bone structure, but her eyes were a striking blue that reminded me of⁠—

“Dash,” I said without thinking. “You have Dash’s eyes.”

Her smile widened. “And you must be Elizabeth. I’m Mimi Blackwell, Adrian’s mother.”

Oh God. His mother. I was meeting his mother while saying “holy shit” about their private plane.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Blackwell.” I moved forward, trying to summon some dignity.

“Mimi, please.” She extended her hand for a handshake. “Welcome aboard.”

Adrian guided me to a seat across the aisle from his mother.

As the plane prepared for takeoff, I studied Mimi when I thought she wasn’t looking. She was impeccably dressed in what I recognized as Blackwell Couture—an elegant pantsuit that probably cost more than six months of my rent. Her makeup was subtle but perfect, her jewelry understated but clearly expensive.

And she was treating me like an employee. She shook my hand.

She wasn’t rude or mean, but there was a professional distance in her manner. A formality that made it clear she knew exactly what I was and wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. I knew she knew because a mother would greet her future daughter-in-law with a hug, right?

I wasn’t really her son’s fiancée. The reminder stung more than it should have.

The plane took off, and I gripped the armrest until Adrian’s hand covered mine. “Nervous flyer?”

“First time on a private jet. Didn’t want to embarrass myself by screaming.”

“You could never embarrass me.” He said it simply, like it was obvious fact.

Once we were at cruising altitude, Adrian turned to me with his tablet. “Have you seen the response to last night?”

“I’ve been avoiding social media. Figured I’d just stress myself out reading comments.”

“Don’t avoid these.” He pulled up article after article, all praising the show.

And me.

“Elizabeth Laramie’s surprise appearance was the highlight of the evening,” Adrian read. “The genuine joy on both their faces reminded us why we fell in love with love in the first place.”

“They think we planned it,” I realized.

“They do. They think having my fiancée walk in the show was a strategic masterstroke. A way to prove that Blackwell isn’t just a business—it’s family.” He set the tablet aside. “You made a good event great, Elizabeth. Thank you.”

He leaned over and kissed me.

Whoa. I wasn’t expecting it. I liked it obviously. But that felt real. There was no one to put on a show for. He kissed me because he wanted to.

But with his mother six feet away, pretending to read a magazine but definitely listening, I couldn’t help but feel like we were still performing. Did he kiss me for her benefit? Maybe she didn’t know the whole thing was fake and he was trying to convince her.

“I’m hungry,” Mimi announced, standing. “Let’s have dinner. It’s technically Sunday now, and this is the only family dinner I’m going to get this week.”

She gestured to a flight attendant, who began setting up the table with what looked like a full meal. Mimi directed Adrian and me to sit, then sat across from us.

“So, Elizabeth,” Mimi said as food was served using actual china, actual silverware, actual gourmet food at thirty thousand feet. “Adrian tells me you’re a designer.”

“Yes. Well, I hope to be. I went to the Fashion Institute.”