Twisted Lies: A Fake Dating Romance

Stella’s Journal

February 25

It’s been three days since I learned Greenfield is raising its prices, and I still haven’t come up with a good solution.

I’ve been searching for another job, but my biggest hope right now is the Delamonte dinner coming up. Brady is convinced it’s an audition for their brand ambassador position and that the deal will be in the mid-six figures…IF I get it. 

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a deal as badly as I do this one. Not only would it solve my Greenfield problem—at least for the next calendar year—but Delamonte is a brand I’ve wanted to work with forever. They’re the first designer brand I ever bought for myself.

Okay, it was a perfume that I bought in high school, but still. I loved that perfume, and I would honestly give up every other partnership I have to work with them. 

I just wish I knew what they were looking for so I can plan accordingly. I don’t even know how many other bloggers will be at the dinner or who they invited. 

I guess I’ll find out when I get there.

In the meantime…wish me luck. I’ll need it. 

Daily Gratitude:

1. Croissants 
2. DC-NYC trains 
3. Brady (don’t tell him I said this though, or he’ll never stop bragging) 

My trip to New York was a series of disasters.

I took a train up that Saturday, and when I arrived at the townhouse where the Delamonte dinner was being held, I knew Brady was right. It was an audition.

Besides Delamonte staff, the only people in attendance were bloggers.

But even though there were six of us at the dinner, Luisa spent the entire cocktail hour gushing over Raya and Adam, the latest darlings of the influencer world and the only couple present.

I could barely get a word in edgewise between her excitement over Raya hitting the one point four million follower mark last week and the pair’s upcoming trip to Paris.

The one time I tried to interject by asking a question about the brand’s new line, Luisa answered with a three-word response before turning back to Raya.

If my parents were here, they would disown me out of sheer disappointment for not living up to the Alonso name and capturing everyone’s attention at the event.

That was disaster number one.

Disaster number two entered after everyone had been seated and appetizers were served.

“Sorry I’m late.” The lazy drawl sent shock fluttering to life in my chest. “Traffic.”

No. There’s no way. 

I had a better chance of getting hit by a meteorite than I did running into Christian Harper twice in the same week outside the Mirage. In New York, no less.

But when I looked up, there he was.

Chiseled cheekbones and whiskey eyes, sin and danger all wrapped up in a flawless suit.

My food turned to ash on my tongue. Of all the people I didn’t want to witness me crash and burn, he ranked at the top of the list.

Not because I thought he’d judge me, but because I was afraid he wouldn’t. A near-stranger who treated me better than those who were supposed to love me unconditionally.

I wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Luisa stood and greeted him with an effusive hug, but I couldn’t hear much of her introduction over the roar of blood in my ears.

“…CEO of Harper Security…old friend…”

Christian’s expression remained polite, almost disinterested, while Luisa talked, but there was nothing disinterested about the way his eyes held mine.

Dark and knowing, like they could strip away every mask I showed the world and find the broken pieces of the girl hiding underneath.

Like they thought the brokenness was beautiful anyway.

Unease burned through me, and I severed the connection with a blink.

He couldn’t have been thinking any of those things.

He didn’t even know me.

Luisa finished what had to be the longest introduction in the history of introductions, but it was only after Christian started walking toward me that I realized there was only one empty seat at the table.

It was next to mine.

Luisa had mentioned it was reserved for another guest. I hadn’t known it would be him. 

“Stella.” The deep, smooth timbre of his voice sent a warm shiver down my spine. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

I tightened and released the hold on my fork in tandem with my exhales.

“Christian.” I couldn’t very well call him Mr. Harper when he used my first name.

It was my first time saying his given name, and the syllables lingered longer on my tongue than expected. Not unpleasant, but far too intimate for my liking.

I resisted the urge to shift in my seat while he stared down at me, his face relaxed but his eyes like hot molten amber as they moved from the top of my head to the dip of my dress.

The scrutiny lasted less than five seconds, yet a trail of fire erupted in its wake.

Cool, calm, collected. 

“I didn’t realize you were…” I searched for the right term. “Affiliated with Delamonte.”

That wasn’t the right term, but I didn’t know how else to word it. Everyone at the table was a fashion blogger or a member of the Delamonte team. Christian was noticeably neither of those things.

“I’m not,” he said wryly.

“Secret fashion blogger, then?” I widened my eyes and made my voice intentionally breathless with surprise. “Don’t tell me. Your blog is called…Suits and Whiskey. No? Guns and Roses. Wait, that’s a band.” I tapped my finger against the table. “Ties and—”

“If you’re done…” I didn’t think it was possible, but Christian’s voice turned even drier. “Switch seats with me.”

My tapping stopped. “Why?”

He had a prime seat next to Luisa, who was too busy talking to—who else—Raya on her other side to notice Christian hadn’t taken his seat yet.

“I dislike the corner of the table.”

My stare was one of disbelief. “What do you do if it’s a four-seater?” Then every seat would be at the corner of the table.

Impatience greeted my question.

I sighed and switched seats with him. We were starting to attract attention from the rest of the table, and I didn’t want to make a scene.

I was nervous Luisa would be upset I took her special guest’s seat, but as the night wore on, Christian’s weird quirk turned out to be quite advantageous for me.

I now had direct access to Luisa, who didn’t seem upset at all and who finally turned to me after Raya excused herself to use the restroom.

“Thank you for coming up to New York. I know it’s a bigger ask of you than the other girls.” Luisa’s cocktail ring glittered beneath the lights as she sipped her drink.

“Of course.” Like anyone would turn down an invite to a private Delamonte dinner. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“I’m curious why you don’t move to the city. There are more opportunities here than in D.C. if you want to get into fashion.” She sounded equal parts curious and disapproving, like I was intentionally being obtuse by not seeking greener grass elsewhere.

A cotton ball formed in my throat at the indirect reminder of Maura and what was at stake.

“I want to be close to family.” Maura was like family, so I wasn’t completely lying. “But I’m considering a move soon.”

Also not lying. I was considering a move. I just knew it couldn’t happen anytime soon.

“By the way, congratulations on a wonderful Fashion Week.” I switched subjects to something more relevant. I wasn’t here to talk about my personal life; I was here to land a deal. “I especially loved the pastel dusters.”

Luisa lit up at the mention of the brand’s latest fall/winter collection, and soon, we were deep in conversation about the trends we’d spotted at last week’s New York Fashion Week.

I couldn’t attend in person because of work—only senior editors at D.C. Style, like Meredith, were budgeted to attend NYFW—but I’d caught up on my anticipated shows online.

When Raya returned from the bathroom, her face soured at the sight of me and Luisa chatting animatedly.

I tried my best to ignore her.

Once upon a time, Raya and I had been friends. She’d started her account two years ago and reached out to me for advice. I’d been happy to share what I knew, but after she surpassed me in followers a few months ago, she’d stopped answering my messages. The only contact we had these days was the occasional hello at an event.

Her meteoric rise could be traced directly to her relationship with Adam, who was a big influencer himself in the travel space. When they started dating last year, their content went viral and both their accounts exploded.

There was nothing like cross-promotion and feeding the public’s voyeuristic desire to follow the love lives of strangers.

Meanwhile, I’d been blogging for almost a decade, and my account had been stuck at just shy of nine hundred thousand followers for over a year. It was still a huge audience, and I was grateful for each and every one of them (except the bots and creepy men who treated Instagram like it was a hookup app), but I couldn’t deny the truth.

My social media was stagnating, and I had no clue how to revive it.

I faltered and lost my train of thought in the middle of a sentence.

Raya swooped into the lull like a vulture after prey. “Luisa, I’d love to hear about Delamonte’s fabric archive in Milan,” she said, pulling the CEO’s attention back to her. “Adam and I are visiting Italy this spring, and…”

Frustration bit at my veins as Raya successfully hijacked the conversation.

I opened my mouth to interrupt them. I could see myself doing it in my head, but in real life, the words couldn’t make it past the filter of my upbringing and lifelong social anxiety.

Disaster number three.

To anyone else, Raya’s interruption wouldn’t rise to the level of a disaster, but my brain couldn’t always untangle the difference between a setback and a catastrophe.

“You did well.”

My heart skipped a beat at Christian’s voice before it returned to its normal rhythm. “With?”

“Luisa.” He tilted his head toward the other woman. I hadn’t realized he’d been paying attention to our conversation; he’d been conversing with the guest on his other side the entire time. “She likes you.”

I gave him a doubtful stare. “We talked for five minutes.”

“It only takes one to make an impression.”

“One minute isn’t enough to get to know someone.”

“I didn’t say get to know someone.” Christian brought his wine to his lips, his words relaxed yet perceptive. “I said make an impression.”

“What impression did I make on you?”

The question sparked and hissed like a live wire between us, swallowing enough oxygen to make every breath a struggle.

Christian set his glass down with a precision that pulsed in my veins. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

Surprise tinged with hurt bloomed in my chest. “That bad?”

From what I remembered, our first meeting had been fairly standard. I’d said a total of two words to him.

“No.” The word was a rough caress against my skin. “That good.”

Warmth suffused my skin.

“Oh.” I swallowed the breathless note in my voice. “Well, in case you were wondering, my first impression of you was that you were very well-dressed.”

That’d been my second impression. My first impression had actually been that face. So perfectly chiseled and symmetrical it should be stamped inside textbooks as a prime example of the golden ratio.

But I wouldn’t admit that even if Christian put a gun to my head.

If I did, he might think I was flirting with him, and that would open a can of worms I didn’t want to deal with.

“Good to know.” His dry tone returned.

The servers brought out dessert, which he declined with a shake of his head.

I took a bite of layered chocolate cake before I asked, as casually as I could, “How do you know Luisa likes me?”

“I know.”

If this was the way Christian conducted all his conversations, I was surprised no one had tried to stab him in a boardroom yet. Or maybe they’d tried and failed.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Lu, are you coming down to D.C. anytime soon?” he asked, ignoring my pointed response and cutting into Luisa’s conversation with Raya like the other blogger wasn’t even there.

“No plans yet.” Luisa gave him a curious stare. “Why?”

“Stella was telling me about this spot that would be perfect for your menswear shoot.”

I almost choked on a mouthful of cake.

“Really?” Luisa eyed me with renewed interest. “That would be perfect timing. Our location scout has been having the hardest time finding a spot that’s on theme and not overdone. Where is it?”

“It’s…” I scrambled to come up with an answer while silently cursing Christian for putting me on the spot like this.

What place in D.C. makes sense for a menswear shoot? 

“You said it was an old warehouse somewhere,” Christian prompted.

Clarity dawned in an instant.

There was an old industrial building on the fringes of the city that I’ve shot at a few times. It was a bustling factory until the 1980s, when the owner moved his headquarters to Philadelphia. In the absence of new owners, the building fell into disrepair and became overgrown with weeds and ivy.

It was a trek to get there, but the contrast of green against old steel provided a striking backdrop for photoshoots, especially luxury ones.

How does Christian know about that?

“Right.” I released a small breath and smiled at Luisa. “It doesn’t have an actual address, but I’m happy to show you or a team member how to get there if that’s something you’re interested in.”

She tapped her nails against the table in thought. “It’s very possible. Do you have sample photos?”

I pulled up some of my old photos and showed them to Luisa, whose eyebrows popped up with approval.

“Oh, those are gorgeous. Can you send them to me? I have to show them to our scout…”

My heart skipped when Luisa gave me her cell number so I could text her the link, but when I looked up, the thrill evaporated at the sight of Raya and Adam whispering furiously to each other while casting side glances in my direction.

Anxiety buzzed beneath my skin like a swarm of bees.

Those whispers brought me back to my middle school days when everyone giggled and talked behind their hands when I walked into a room. I’d hit my growth spurt early, and at age thirteen, I’d been tall, skinny, and awkward enough to be an easy target for bullies.

I’ve since grown into my own skin, but the anxiety had never gone away.

“Why don’t you let us in on your joke?” Christian’s casual request masked a dark undertone that wiped the smiles off Raya’s and Adam’s faces. “It must be a good one.”

“We were talking about something personal.” Raya rolled her eyes, but her expression contained a hint of nerves.

“I see. Next time, refrain from doing so at a public event. It’s disrespectful.” The content of Christian’s rebuke was mild, but he delivered it with such vicious contempt Raya’s face flushed crimson.

Instead of defending his girlfriend, Adam stared down at his plate, his own face pale.

The exchange had been so short and held in such low tones the rest of the table was oblivious. Even Luisa didn’t notice; she was too busy texting someone (probably her location scout).

“Thank you,” I said quietly, wishing I was bold enough to call out Raya myself.

“They were annoying me,” was Christian’s detached answer.

Nevertheless, warmth settled in my stomach and stayed with me through the rest of dinner and the end-of-night goodbyes.

By the time I exited the townhouse half an hour later, I felt marginally better about my ambassadorship chances, but it was far from a sure thing. I was still convinced Luisa favored Raya, no matter what Christian said.

Speaking of whom…

I slid a side glance at him as he fell into step with me. I was staying at a boutique hotel not far from Luisa’s place, but I doubted Christian was staying there as well. He probably had a place in the city; at the very least, he’d stay somewhere like The Carlyle or The Four Seasons, not an eight-room hotel with no designer amenities.

“Are you following me?” I asked lightly as we turned the corner onto a side street.

Christian’s presence dominated the sidewalk, soaking into the shadows and rendering the air around us invincible. So quiet and lethal even the darkness didn’t dare touch him.

“Merely making sure you return to your hotel safe and sound,” he drawled.

“First the car ride the other day, now this. Do you always provide your tenants with such hands-on service?”

A smoky gleam passed through those whiskey eyes and sent heat rushing to my cheeks, but Christian refrained from making the obvious joke.

“No.” Short and simple, delivered with the self-assurance of someone who never had to explain himself.

We walked in silence for another minute before he said, “To answer your earlier question, I know she likes you because I know Luisa. It sounds counterintuitive, but whenever she’s impressed with someone, she puts them on the back burner. She’s more interested in grilling those she’s not sure about.”

I was already so used to his abrupt topic changes I didn’t skip a beat.

“Maybe.” I’ll believe it when I see it, a.k.a. get the deal. “How do you know her so well?”

Luisa was twenty years older than Christian, but that didn’t mean anything. Older women slept with younger men every day. It would explain the way she lit up when she saw him.

A tiny frown creased my forehead for a reason I couldn’t name.

“I’m friends with her nephew. And no, I never slept with her.” A hint of laughter threaded through his voice.

My cheeks blazed hotter, but thankfully, my voice came out cool and even. “Thank you for the information, but I’m not interested in your love life,” I said with a regal tilt of my chin.

“Never said anything about love, Ms. Alonso.”

“Fine, I’m not interested in your sex life.”

“Hmm. That’s a shame.” The hint of laughter intensified.

If he was trying to get a rise out of me, he wouldn’t succeed.

“Only for you,” I said sweetly.

We stopped in front of my hotel. The light from the windows slashed across Christian’s face, casting half of it in shadow. Light and dark.

Two halves of the same coin.

“One more thing.” My breaths formed tiny white puffs in the air. “Why did you show up at dinner tonight?”

It wasn’t to catch up with Luisa; he’d barely spoken to her all night.

A shadow passed through his eyes before it sank beneath the cool amber surface. “I wanted to see someone.”

The words soaked into the pocket of air separating us. I hadn’t realized how close we’d gotten until now.

Leather, spice, and winter. That was all that existed before Christian stepped back and tipped his head toward the hotel entrance. A clear dismissal.

I opened my mouth then closed it before I brushed past him.

It wasn’t until I reached the revolving glass doors that my curiosity overpowered my hesitance.

I turned, half expecting to see Christian already gone, but he remained at the base of the stairs. Dark hair, dark coat, and a face that was somehow even more devastating when partially cloaked in shadow.

“Who did you want to see?”

It was so cold my lungs burned, but still I waited for his answer.

Something amused and dangerous surfaced in his eyes before he turned away. “Good night, Stella.”

The words drifted into my ears after the night had already swallowed him whole.

I exhaled a rough breath and shook off the pinpricks of electricity dotting my skin.

However, thoughts of Christian, Luisa, and even Delamonte vanished when I entered my room, checked my phone, and disaster number four struck.

I’d kept my cell in my purse the entire night because I didn’t want to be that person texting at the dinner table. Luisa had been doing it, but she was the host; she could do whatever she wanted.

Now, I realized my attempt at appearing professional might have backfired, because my screen was littered with missed calls and texts from Meredith. The last one was from twenty minutes ago.

Oh God.

What was wrong? How long had she been trying to reach me?

A dozen possibilities raced through my head as I called her back, my heart in my throat and my palms clammy with sweat.

Maybe the office was on fire, or I’d forgotten to send the Prada bag back to—

“Stella. How nice to finally hear from you.” Her frosty greeting slithered down my spine like the cool skin of a reptile.

“I’m so sorry. I put my phone on silent and just saw—”

“I know where you were at. I saw you in the background of Raya’s Instagram Stories.”

Despite her contempt for bloggers, Meredith followed their social media religiously. Something about competition and staying on top of trends.

I seemed to be the only one who saw the irony in that.

I swallowed hard. “Is something wrong? How can I help?”

Never mind that it was near midnight on a Saturday night. Work-life balance didn’t exist for junior magazine employees.

“There was an issue with next week’s photoshoot, but we figured it out while you were partying,” Meredith said coolly. “We’ll discuss this on Monday. Be in my office at seven-thirty a.m. sharp.”

The line went dead, as did any hope she would let the night’s transgression slide.

I had a sinking feeling that come eight o’clock on Monday morning, I would no longer have a job.