First impressions count
1507 Words
Alexander
There are two types of people in business: those who wait for opportunity, and those who manufacture it.
I stopped waiting a long time ago.
That’s why, at 7:00 a.m. sharp the next morning, I was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse overlooking Manhattan, a cup of black coffee in hand, while my assistant confirmed what I already knew.
“She’s on her way up,” Emily said, tablet in hand. “She signed the contract last night. Electronic copy’s in your inbox.”
I allowed a faint smile. “Efficient.”
“Or desperate.”
I glanced at her. “Both make people useful.”
Emily didn’t comment—she was smart enough not to—but I caught the faint disapproval in her expression. She didn’t like this plan. She thought it was manipulative, maybe even cruel. But business didn’t reward morality; it rewarded results.
The board had been circling for months, vultures in bespoke suits, waiting for me to falter. One misstep, one rumor too many, and they’d strip control of Cole Enterprises faster than they’d toast my downfall. A public scandal about my failed engagement was ammunition I couldn’t afford them to have.
So, I created a solution.
Harper Quinn wasn’t my first choice. She wasn’t even my fifth. But she was authentic—and authenticity, in this world, was priceless. She didn’t fawn, didn’t fake smiles. She challenged me. That made her unpredictable, and I liked that more than I should have.
The elevator chimed.
I turned as she stepped in, wearing jeans, a fitted blazer, and an expression that said she’d already regretted every life choice that led her here.
“This place has more square footage than my entire building,” she muttered, glancing around.
“Good morning to you too.”
She ignored the comment, moving toward the windows. “You live like a Bond villain.”
I took a sip of coffee. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It was implied.”
She sighed and turned to face me. “All right, Mr. Cole. Let’s get this over with. You’ve got your fake fiancée. What’s the next part of your master plan?”
“You move in today,” I said simply. “We’ll announce our engagement at the Gala for Global Innovation tomorrow night. Public enough to make it convincing, fast enough to outpace the tabloids.”
Her jaw dropped. “Tomorrow?”
“Do you see another option?”
“I was thinking maybe never.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not profitable.”
She muttered something under her breath that I didn’t catch, but I was fairly certain it wasn’t complimentary.
“I took the liberty of having a wardrobe delivered for the event,” I continued, gesturing toward the suite down the hall. “My stylist will assist with fittings at three. You’ll also meet with PR to establish our backstory—how we met, how I proposed, what ring size you wear—”
“Unbelievable,” she said, cutting me off. “Do you hear yourself? This isn’t a plan; it’s a script for a psychological thriller.”
“Relax, Miss Quinn. You’ll be compensated for your performance.”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t call it a performance. I may be pretending, but I’m not for sale.”
I studied her for a long moment. There it was again—that spark. The defiance that separated her from the hollow socialites who floated through my world like expensive ghosts.
“Understood,” I said quietly. “You’re not for sale. You’re my equal partner in deception. Better?”
“Not much.”
She crossed her arms, and the faintest flush touched her cheeks. She was nervous, though she’d die before admitting it.
“Why me, really?” she asked after a beat. “You could have anyone play this part. Why pick the journalist who literally wrote an article calling billionaires ‘emotionally bankrupt capitalists’?”
“Because I don’t trust anyone who wants my money,” I said. “You don’t. You want to win.”
That made her pause. “You think you’ve got me all figured out?”
“I make a habit of it.”
She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You really are insufferable.”
“Frequently.”
There was a moment of silence between us, broken only by the hum of the city far below. For the first time, I realized just how small she looked in this space—drowned by glass and steel, but refusing to shrink.
“I’ll play your fiancée,” she said finally. “But I’m not letting you control everything.”
“Of course not,” I said, knowing full well I would. “I welcome your input.”
“Liar.”
“Habitual,” I admitted.
The rest of the day was chaos disguised as elegance. PR briefings, wardrobe fittings, mock interviews—Harper endured all of it with gritted teeth and a stubbornness I almost admired.
By evening, we were seated at the marble counter in my kitchen, surrounded by untouched takeout boxes.
“You don’t cook?” she asked.
“I don’t have time.”
“Let me guess—time is money?”
“Correct.”
She groaned, dragging a fork through her salad. “You’re like a walking finance textbook. Don’t you ever relax?”
“I’m relaxing now.”
Her laugh was short and disbelieving. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you agreed to marry me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fake marry you.”
“Semantics.”
Her phone buzzed then, and she glanced down. I caught the soft shift in her expression—a photo on the screen, her sister smiling from a hospital bed.
She didn’t say anything, but I noticed the way she touched the screen before locking it.
I looked away, strangely uncomfortable. I wasn’t built for empathy, not in any genuine sense, but something about that quiet tenderness unsettled me.
By the next evening, Harper looked nothing like the woman who’d walked into my office.
She stepped out of the dressing room in a dark green gown that hugged her like it had been made for her, her hair swept up in a soft twist, her eyes luminous. The sight was… disarming.
“Don’t stare,” she said dryly. “You’ll make the act too believable.”
I smirked. “You clean up well.”
“And you look like money.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
She took my arm as we stepped into the waiting car, her perfume faint but intoxicating—a blend of jasmine and something warmer, sharper. For someone who claimed she wasn’t for sale, she had a way of making me feel like I was the one being bought.
At the gala, flashbulbs greeted us like gunfire. Reporters swarmed, and Harper’s hand tightened slightly on my arm.
“Smile,” I murmured, leaning down. “And remember, you’re madly in love with me.”
“I’ll try not to throw up.”
We moved through the crowd like clockwork, exchanging pleasantries, shaking hands. Every move was rehearsed, precise. She played her part flawlessly—laughing at the right moments, touching my arm, even whispering something sarcastic that made me bite back a smile.
When the time came, I lifted her hand, letting the lights catch on the diamond ring I’d placed there hours earlier. The cameras exploded in a frenzy.
“To new beginnings,” I said to the gathered crowd, my voice perfectly polished.
She looked up at me, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to real amusement. “To bad decisions,” she murmured back.
The photographers loved it.
Hours later, the gala was over, the city quiet again. We stood in the elevator, side by side, the air thick with exhaustion and something else neither of us could name.
“You did well,” I said finally.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not. I knew you would.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “You really think this is going to work, don’t you? That pretending will fix your reputation?”
“It already has,” I said, stepping closer. “Perception is reality, Miss Quinn.”
“Harper,” she corrected softly. “You’re supposed to be my fiancé. Try to remember my name.”
I smiled faintly. “Harper, then.”
Her gaze flicked to my mouth for half a second—so quick I might’ve imagined it.
When the elevator doors opened, she stepped out first. “Goodnight, Alexander.”
I watched her walk down the hall toward her room, the click of her heels echoing against marble.
Something in my chest tightened—a flicker of warmth, inconvenient and unwanted.
Because for the first time in years, I realized I was losing control.
And Harper Quinn was the reason why.
- Writer
