Falling For My Fake Fiancee

Realizations

Harper

I couldn’t breathe.

Not in the literal sense — though my chest did feel tight — but because every fiber of me was aware of Alexander Cole standing inches away, his presence overwhelming, his eyes claiming mine in a way that was impossible to ignore.

We hadn’t kissed. Not yet. But the closeness, the quiet heat between us, was almost unbearable.

I tried to focus on the reason I was here — pretending, surviving, getting the money — but his voice, low and rough, made that impossible.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said softly, leaning closer.

I forced a laugh. “I am not.”

“Your body disagrees,” he murmured, tilting his head, studying me.

I opened my mouth to reply, but no words came. He was right. My body did betray me — the heat that had nothing to do with the spring air, the quickened pulse that had nothing to do with exertion.

“Harper…” His voice was velvet and steel all at once. “Why do you fight me?”

“Because I can,” I whispered, more to convince myself than him.

He exhaled sharply, frustration and longing mixing in a way that made the air between us sizzle. “Stop pretending this is just business. Stop pretending you don’t feel it too.”

I looked down, because if I met his gaze, I might lose every shred of self-control I had left. “I’m not pretending,” I said softly. “I just… I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Fall for you,” I admitted, voice barely audible.

He closed the distance just slightly, just enough that his warmth brushed against mine. My knees went weak. His eyes, storm-gray and impossibly intense, searched my face, as if reading every thought I tried to hide.

“Do you think I can’t see how you look at me?” he asked, his hand hovering near mine.

I swallowed. “Alexander…”

“I don’t want to hide it anymore,” he said, a whisper, a growl, a plea all rolled into one. “You’re mine, Harper. And I don’t care if it’s dangerous.”

I wanted to pull back, to retreat into logic and sanity. But my body betrayed me again, inching closer, drawn to him in a way that made no sense and yet felt inevitable.

Our foreheads touched lightly, and I could feel his breath mingle with mine. Heat pooled low in my stomach. My hands itched to reach for him, to anchor myself against the tension that threatened to shatter me.

“Alexander…” I whispered, my voice trembling.

“I can’t help it,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t feel this… not with you. But I do.”

His confession, soft and raw, broke something in me. It wasn’t the contract, or the plan, or the fake engagement. It was him. The real him, underneath the billionaire armor, staring at me like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.

I tilted my head, lips almost brushing his, and for a heartbeat, the world disappeared. The city below, the press, the contracts, the fake engagement—all irrelevant.

He hesitated, just long enough to make my heart slam. Then, carefully, deliberately, he closed the last inches. Our lips didn’t meet fully — not yet — but the proximity, the warmth, the electricity, was enough to make me tremble.

“Stop teasing me,” he whispered against my lips. “Just this once.”

“I can’t…” I breathed, torn between wanting to surrender and wanting to run.

He cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and I leaned into him. Just slightly. Enough to feel the steady thrum of his pulse against mine.

The moment stretched, endless and fragile, until I realized that pretending was impossible. Not because of the contract, not because of the board, not because of Manhattan itself. But because Alexander Cole had become real. Too real.

And I was falling.

Later, I lay in the guest suite, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing from the encounter on the balcony. Every nerve in my body hummed with anticipation and longing.

I shouldn’t want him.

I shouldn’t crave the warmth of his hand, the tension in his voice, the closeness that made me feel alive in ways I hadn’t felt for years.

But I did.

I wanted him.

And somehow, I feared what would happen when the pretense finally ended — because then, I would have to decide if I could trust myself with the man who had become the center of my world.

The next morning, Alexander was already in the kitchen when I got there, coffee in hand, impeccably dressed as always.

“Good morning,” he said, voice calm, eyes sharp.

“Morning,” I replied, trying to steady my racing heart.

He studied me over the rim of his mug. “Last night,” he began carefully, “was… complicated.”

“You mean intense?” I said lightly, though my voice betrayed me.

“Intense,” he agreed. “And dangerous.”

I tilted my head. “Dangerous how?”

His eyes softened just slightly. “Because it’s real. What we’re feeling… it’s not fake anymore.”

I blinked, caught between fear and exhilaration. “Then what do we do?”

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming in the small kitchen. “We figure it out. Together. But carefully.”

“Carefully,” I repeated, smiling despite the thrum of heat in my chest.

“Carefully,” he echoed, and then — as though words were useless — he leaned in, brushing his lips to my temple. Just a feather-light touch, but it sent sparks racing through me.

My head tilted toward him instinctively. My heart raced. My pulse hammered.

And I realized, with a mixture of fear and delight, that we were no longer just pretending.