Under the spotlight
1046 Words
Harper
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Sitting in the sleek, intimidating lobby of Cole Enterprises, I tried to focus on my notes for the press interview. But all I could hear was Alexander’s voice behind me, low and insistent:
“Don’t let them get under your skin.”
“I can handle a simple interview,” I muttered.
He glanced at me, gray eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you sure?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”
He didn’t answer. He never did when he was irritated, but the tension radiating off him was impossible to ignore. I’d thought this arrangement would be simple: play the part, get the money, survive six months. Easy.
I was rapidly discovering that pretending to be Alexander Cole’s fiancée was anything but easy.
The press room was chaos: cameras, lights, reporters pushing microphones forward, all eager to capture the newest power couple in Manhattan. My stomach twisted into knots, but I reminded myself to breathe.
Alexander arrived a few minutes later, looking impossibly calm in his tailored suit. The contrast between him and the frenzy around us was ridiculous — like a shark moving through a pond of goldfish.
He caught my eye, just briefly, and I could swear he was watching not the crowd, but me. My chest tightened. I hated admitting how much I cared about his attention.
The first question came:
“Mr. Cole, your fiancée looks stunning tonight. How long have you two been together?”
I felt the eyes of the room on me and stifled a laugh. “We met a few months ago,” I said, keeping my tone professional.
Alexander’s hand brushed mine on the table — subtle, but deliberate. I flinched.
“Can you tell us a little about the proposal?” another reporter asked, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
I cleared my throat. “It was intimate, personal… very much us.”
Alexander leaned toward me, lips near my ear. “That’s not the story you should tell.”
I swallowed, my pulse quickening. “I—”
“Just answer them honestly,” he whispered. “No embellishment.”
I obeyed, though my hands were shaking.
After the press left, I stepped into the private hallway, hoping for some quiet.
Alexander followed. “You did well,” he said softly.
I couldn’t help but smirk. “Thanks. I’m a natural at lying.”
His expression darkened slightly. “Not lying. Performance. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, please,” I said, laughing nervously. “Is this jealousy I detect?”
He froze. “Jealousy?”
“Yes, don’t pretend you didn’t see that Matthews guy staring at me today.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened. “I saw.”
“You… care?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
“I don’t care,” he said, but his voice was lower, rougher than before. “Not in the way you think.”
I tilted my head. “Oh? And in what way?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, invading my personal space just enough to make my heart race. “In the way I don’t like feeling like you belong anywhere else but here. Right now.”
The words hit me like a jolt of electricity. My chest tightened. My pulse skyrocketed. I wanted to step back, but I couldn’t.
“Alexander…” I whispered, the name leaving my lips like a secret.
“I didn’t mean to… make you uncomfortable,” he said quickly, but the tension didn’t leave his posture, didn’t leave his eyes.
“Good,” I said, voice shaking slightly. “Because you did.”
He stared at me, lips parted, as if he wanted to argue but didn’t know how.
Later that night, I sat in my temporary suite, trying to make sense of the storm that had become Alexander Cole. I should have been thrilled — after all, he was paying me a fortune to act as his fiancée.
And yet…
I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his hand lingered near mine, the sharp edge in his eyes when anyone dared look at me, the heat of his voice when he whispered.
It was intoxicating. Dangerous. Confusing.
And it was real, in a way I hadn’t expected.
He wasn’t pretending in all of this. Not entirely.
The next morning, I woke to the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the curtains. I stretched and checked my phone. Dozens of new headlines about our engagement, more social media frenzy.
Alexander was already up, sitting on the balcony with his coffee, staring at the city.
“You awake?” he asked without turning.
“Barely,” I said, walking over.
He glanced at me. “You handled yesterday well.”
I shrugged. “You think I had a choice?”
“Yes,” he said, eyes scanning mine. “But you didn’t just handle it. You owned it.”
“Don’t overdo the compliments,” I warned, leaning against the railing beside him. “They might go to your head.”
“Impossible,” he muttered.
We stood together in silence, watching the city. And then he did something that made my stomach flip: he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from my face.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked softly. “This—what we’re doing—it’s temporary. It’s fake.”
He hesitated, thumb lingering near my cheek. “Because it’s easier to pretend when you feel something real.”
The words struck me dumb. My chest was tight. My pulse raced. He was inches away, but it was enough to make my mind spin.
I wanted to step back. I wanted to tell him this was dangerous, that nothing good came from getting too close.
And yet, I didn’t.
Because I wanted to see how close he’d let me get.
Because I wanted to see if he’d admit he wanted more.
Because I wanted him.
By the end of the week, the line between pretend and reality had blurred. Every glance, every accidental brush of skin, every quiet word in the hallway made it impossible to deny the truth: Alexander Cole was as real as he was impossible.
And I was falling.
- Writer
