Nathan Sterling woke up to sunlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the Manhattan skyline like an arrogant promise. He stretched an arm across the empty side of his bed, fingers brushing cold silk sheets, and huffed out a quiet laugh at himself.
Last night's near-miss replayed like a loop on repeat: the way Sophia had looked at him — startled, breathless — right before she pulled back. It should have bruised his ego. Instead, it had left him wanting more. Much more.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet sinking into the soft rug. In the hush of his penthouse, the only sound was the faint hum of the city below and the low buzz of his phone on the nightstand. He reached for it, half-expecting — half-hoping — to see a message from her. Nothing yet.
Patience, Sterling.
He padded to the kitchen, pressed a button on the fancy espresso machine he never bothered learning to operate properly. His housekeeper, Maria, made sure it always worked, so he didn't have to. Perks of being the kind of man who bought time instead of spending it.
An incoming call — not Sophia. Instead: MOM.
He sipped his espresso, bracing himself, and swiped to answer.
"Morning, Mother."
Eleanor's voice poured through the speaker like measured warmth wrapped in elegant steel. A Sterling signature.
"Morning, Nathaniel. You sound rested. I take it your evening with Miss Dawson was… illuminating?"
He leaned a hip against the marble counter, fighting the smile that tugged at his mouth.
"It was dinner, Mother. Not a cross-examination."
"Oh, please. I raised you better than that — I know when my son is tangled up in something… or someone."
He chuckled, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. "I'm managing it."
"Hm." A pause, then softer, "She seems kind. Honest eyes. I hope she knows what she's doing with you."
Nathan's throat tightened — he hated how easily his mother could peel back his armor. "She can handle me. Don't worry about Sophia."
Eleanor gave a thoughtful hum that made him feel ten years old and caught red-handed. "I'm not worried. I'm hopeful. Be careful, Nathaniel. Even the best men get foolish when they care too much."
Before he could find a comeback, she ended the call with her usual regal finality. He set the phone down, stared at the city outside, and let himself feel it — just for a second — the truth he wasn't ready to say out loud.
Too late for careful, Mom.
His phone buzzed again — this time, a work email. He ignored it. Instead, he tapped out a message with deliberate calm:
Nate: What time should my driver pick you up today? We have a fitting — and I want you here first.
Before hitting send, he allowed himself a grin at how bossy it sounded. And how much he knew she'd roll her eyes at him.
Before he could toss his phone aside, it pinged back — her name flashing on screen.
He couldn't help it. He laughed, actually laughed, alone in his too-quiet penthouse.
Sophia: Your driver? What am I, a hostage? Send me the address. I'll come myself.
Nathan shook his head, thumbs tapping back before he could overthink it.
Nate: Don't make me send an entire security team instead.
Sophia: Try it and see what happens to your reputation, Mr. Sterling.
He paused, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
She'd never batted an eye at his drivers before. She'd let herself be whisked off to dinners, parties, and that first awkward coffee shop negotiation.
So why now?
Why this pushback — so suddenly, so deliberate?
Nate: Fine. Address is 47 Westbury Lane, Upper Manhattan. Wear something you can take off easily.
Sophia: …Nathan.
Nate: For the fitting, princess. Try not to get lost.
Her read receipt popped up instantly.
No reply.
He pushed off the counter, rolling his shoulders loose. She could run — for now. He'd get her right back where he wanted her soon enough.
Sophia stared at her phone, cheeks burning.
"Wear something you can take off easily." Of course he'd twist it that way.
But she'd meant it — she needed distance today. She needed to remember she was still Sophia Dawson: responsible, busy, perfectly in control of her own life.
She stuffed her phone in her bag, grabbed her keys, and locked her apartment behind her.
First, the community center. Then lunch with Jazz, who'd demand every detail she'd barely let herself think about.
Then tonight — she'd face him again. Walls up. Heart steady. No matter how much her traitor brain replayed his mouth hovering over hers.
Sophia pressed her thumb to the scanner and pushed open the glass doors of the Briar Hill Community Center, breathing in the familiar scent of floor polish and donated books. This place had grounded her long before her life turned tabloid-worthy, and she needed that today.
Inside, Ms. Rivera, the front desk supervisor, perked up from behind her sign-in sheet.
"Miss Sophia! You're trending, you know."
Sophia groaned softly but forced a bright smile. "Hello to you too, Ms. Rivera. Who's trending?"
"Don't play innocent." Ms. Rivera winked. "I may be fifty-eight, but I have Instagram. That lawyer of yours—what's his name?—he's quite the catch."
Sophia's ears burned. She signed in quickly, pretending to read the volunteer roster pinned to the corkboard. "He's… just a friend. It's complicated."
"Mm-hm." Ms. Rivera clearly didn't believe a word but waved her through anyway.
She headed to the donation room where boxes overflowed with old clothes and toys. She shrugged off her jacket, tied her hair up, and set to work sorting piles by size. For twenty peaceful minutes, her mind sank into muscle memory—fold, bag, label, repeat.
But her phone, tossed carelessly on a metal folding chair, wouldn't stop vibrating. A few curious teens who came to help out giggled behind her back, whispering in a language Sophia didn't need to translate: Did you see her boyfriend? She's famous now.
She sucked in a breath, forced her shoulders square. She was Sophia Dawson. She'd built her name on being composed, generous, steady. No man—no matter how charming or infuriating—would make her forget that.
A chubby little girl tugged on her sleeve, holding out a half-broken toy truck.
"Miss Sophia, can I take this home? Daddy says I can fix it."
Sophia knelt, brushing the girl's wild curls back. "If Daddy says yes, then it's yours, sweetheart."
The child beamed. Her phone buzzed again, a fresh text banner flashing Nate Sterling.
Sophia blew out a breath. Focus, Sophia. You finish here first. Then you can deal with your complicated, beautiful problem.
By the time Sophia left the community center, her phone had seventeen notifications — mostly Jazz.
She found her best friend already camped out at their favorite corner café, two iced lattes on the table and a massive slice of chocolate cake perched dead-center like bait.
Jazz spotted her through the window and nearly launched herself over the back of the booth.
"Finally! Miss Internet Sensation graces me with her scandalous presence!"
Sophia slid in opposite her, dragging a latte close. "Don't start."
"Oh, I'm starting. Sit down, drink up, and spill everything. You—" Jazz jabbed a fork toward her — "—are basically dating Mr. Wall Street Wet Dream. And don't give me that 'it's complicated' speech. I want details."
Sophia propped her elbow on the table, hiding a laugh behind her palm. Jazz always made the world feel normal, even when it absolutely wasn't.
"It's… fake. Mostly. He needed to calm down rumors about some mess at his firm. I needed to survive a nightmare ex and bad press. So we made a deal."
Jazz's eyes widened theatrically. "A contract relationship? Girl, you're living in a K-drama." She took a giant bite of cake. "Is the contract why you almost made out with him in his car last night?"
Sophia nearly choked on her latte. "How—"
"Twitter, babe. Someone posted a blurry pic of you two looking suspiciously not fake outside your building. It's got, like, two thousand retweets already."
Sophia buried her face in her hands. "Of course it does."
Jazz leaned in, voice low and gleeful. "So. Do you actually like him? Or is this just top-tier PR?"
Sophia peeked through her fingers. "I don't know. He's… frustrating. Infuriating. He makes it so easy to forget we're lying to everyone."
Jazz's expression softened. "Hey. Are you okay with this? It's your life too, you know. Not just his headlines."
Sophia dropped her hands, fingers curling around her cup for warmth. "I'm trying to be. One step at a time. Today, he wants me to meet him for a fitting at some boutique. He keeps trying to send a car for me. I told him no."
Jazz cackled. "A man sends you drivers and fancy clothes and you say no? Queen behavior."
Sophia rolled her eyes. "I just… need space. He gets under my skin too easily."
Jazz lifted her glass. "Then here's to you, Miss Complicated. May you outwit your lawyer-lover until the day he snaps and confesses everything."
They clinked cups. For a fleeting second, Sophia let herself laugh like it was any other Saturday.
Sophia's phone buzzed relentlessly all afternoon — notifications piling up faster than she could swipe.
The tabloids had caught wind of something, or rather someone: a mysterious woman getting dropped off by a sleek black car outside an upscale building. The blurry photo wasn't exactly flattering, but the captions were merciless: "Who is she? Nate Sterling's new mystery date?" "Is this the real reason behind the Sterling firm shake-up?" "Fake girlfriend or not? Sparks fly on luxury car ride."
Her chest tightened every time her phone chimed. The 'mystery woman' rumors exploded across Twitter and Instagram. She was already trending under hashtags she'd never wanted to be part of.
Sophia tried to ignore it, but by evening, Jazz's texts flooded in, half teasing, half worried.
"Girl, your 'fake' just got public real fast."
"You ready for the madness tomorrow?"
Just as she was about to turn off her phone, it rang. Nate.
Her heart stuttered — was he calling to reprimand her? To call off the charade? Or was it something else?
"Hey," his voice was calm, but underneath was something unreadable — a quiet tension, as if he was holding back a secret.
"Hi," she replied cautiously.
"How are you doing…"
"We need to talk about this."
"The… photo?"
She sighed. "Yeah. It's blowing up. We can't keep pretending this is small anymore."
She bit her lip, hesitating. "What do you think we should do?"
"Go public. Together."
Her breath hitched. "Together?"
He chuckled softly, the sound low and sincere. "Yeah. We're about to become everyone's favorite scandal. But if we play it right, maybe we can control the narrative. And keep the truth — whatever that is — just between us."
Sophia smiled despite herself. "I guess the fake relationship just got a little more real."
"Exactly."
They talked a little longer, making tentative plans for their first public appearance — a high-profile gala that could either cement their story or blow everything apart.
When they finally hung up, Sophia remained still for a moment, her fingers lingering on the phone. She stared out her window at the city lights shimmering in the distance, feeling the weight of what lay ahead.
The game had changed. There was no turning back now.