Marla’s POV
What the fuck. That was my first thought as I stepped into Ives Mercer’s townhouse. If a house could judge you, this one absolutely did. It was all glass and cold metal, black-on-black furniture, and a silence so sharp it felt like walking into a threat. No shoes by the door, no photos, no signs that anyone actually lived here, just curated minimalism and surfaces that probably cost more than my entire college education.
Then he grabbed my wrist. I opened my mouth, ready to say this had gone too far, but the way he looked at me stopped the words cold. His grip wasn’t cruel, just firm.
“You signed the contract,” he said, his voice low and certain. “You’re desperate for money, right? Deal with the consequences.”
My stomach twisted. I froze, heart racing. What the hell had I gotten myself into? But he was right. I was desperate. I yanked my hand back, the skin beneath his fingers burning. He didn’t apologize. Didn’t even blink. He just turned away like I was a task he’d already checked off and said over his shoulder,
“Dinner’s at seven. Start pretending.”
By seven, the table was set. Two plates, perfectly portioned. Probably delivered, because I refuse to believe this man knows how to boil water. We sat across from each other. No music in the background, no small talk, just chewing and awkward glances. After a full five minutes of silence, he finally dropped it.
“I printed the engagement script.”
I blinked. “The what now?”
He pulled out a stapled packet like we were prepping for a school play. “Our story. How we met. First date, favorite food, song, vacation, and proposal. You need to memorize it.”
I flipped through it. “You really typed all this out?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The man had clearly rehearsed emotional manipulation like it was a board meeting.
“Okay, so... our first date was sushi in the West Village,” I read aloud. “You told me I had seaweed in my teeth, and I laughed, and we bonded over the fact we both hated jazz.”
“Your delivery’s flat,” he said.
“Sorry, I’m not Meryl Streep.”
He stood, walked around the table, and handed me a glass of wine. “You need to relax.”
“Oh yeah? Wine and lies. That’s your method?”
He ignored me and stepped closer. “You freeze up every time I get near you. You’re going to need to get used to being touched.”
My heart skipped. “I-I’m fine.”
“You’re stiff.”
“I’m literally sitting,” I muttered.
He didn’t answer. Just reached out and let his fingers graze the inside of my arm—light, deliberate.
I flinched.
“We’re supposed to be selling a love story,” he said softly. “No one’s going to buy it if you tense up like I’m about to bite you.”
Then he stepped in front of me. Close. Too close. Close enough to count his heartbeats if I pressed my ear to his chest. He looked down at me, head tilted.
“Close your eyes.”
“What? No.” He didn’t budge.
I rolled my eyes. “Seriously?” Still nothing.
With a dramatic sigh, I gave in and closed my eyes. I could feel the warmth of him almost instantly. Then his fingers brushed my cheek, the tip of his nose skimmed mine. Foreheads touched, and his breath mingled with mine.
It was soft and careful, like he was waiting to see if I’d bolt. I peeked one eye open, which was a huge mistake. His face was stupidly perfect. Like, airbrushed-magazine-cover perfect. Strong jaw, annoyingly long lashes, lips that looked too good for someone so emotionally unavailable. His skin had that kind of glow you only got from expensive moisturizers and good karma.
My brain promptly stopped working. Then he leaned in, just a fraction. And I panicked. “Okay, I’m a virgin!” I blurted.
Silence. Like, actual silence. You could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing. My eyes flew open. His expression? Blank, stunned, and processing. I wanted to melt into the floor, or spontaneously combust, or both.
His brows lifted. “What?”
I stepped back so fast I almost tripped. “I just- I thought you were gonna kiss me or something, and I panicked, and yeah. So. That’s a thing. Moving on.” He blinked once. Then twice. And then, he smirked. Smirked.
“Oh. That explains a lot.”
I gawked at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Just... explains the tension.”
“The tension is because you’re insufferable, not because I haven’t been naked with anyone.”
He crossed his arms. “You’re really defensive for someone who just dropped a full-on plot twist in the middle of a fake engagement.”
“Well, maybe don’t treat my life like a joke?” I snapped, heat rising in my voice.
He didn’t even flinch. “You made it a joke the second you yelled ‘I’m a virgin’ like it was a courtroom confession.”
I stared at him, disbelief bubbling in my chest. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re dramatic,” he shot back, maddeningly calm.
“Oh, screw you,” I muttered, turning away before I said something worse. I grabbed my wine glass, then decided not to throw it. Instead, I stormed down the hall in search of literally any room that didn’t have his face in it.
“Bedroom’s to the left,” he called.
“I hope your pillow’s flat,” I shot back.
“I hope you remember your lines.” I slammed the door behind me. Heart racing. Face burning. Brain still short-circuited from the forehead thing. This was not dinner, this was an emotional whiplash.