Chapter 3 Just like that

I checked my banking app for the fifth time since boarding the flight to Barcelona, staring at the pathetic, truncated number left in my savings account. Half. Half of everything I had saved from my grueling university tutoring gigs and freelance data analysis, gone in a single click. All for a ticket that had more 'V's in front of it than a Roman numeral convention.

But as I stood in the gilded ballroom of the luxury hotel, clutching my stupidly expensive "VVIP Platinum Backstage Experience" lanyard, the cold, harsh reality of Hollywood marketing slapped me right in the face.

"Moving along, please. No personal items, no gifts, keep the line flowing," a burly security guard barked, his voice dripping with mechanical boredom.

This wasn't a "meet-and-greet." This was a human conveyor belt.

Twenty feet ahead of me stood Damien Grey. In person, he was almost offensive to look at. The cameras didn't do justice to the sheer, magnetic gravity he radiated. He was tall, dressed in a crisp black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and possessed a jawline that looked like it had been chiseled out of granite by a very angry, very talented sculptor. He was flashing a perfectly practiced, effortlessly charming smile for a crying teenager, signing a poster, and gently nudging her toward the exit before she could even breathe.

Five seconds. That was what half my life savings bought me. Five seconds on a conveyor belt. I couldn't pitch a fake-dating scheme in five seconds; his security team would tackle me into the Mediterranean Sea before I could even say the word fiancée.

"Miss? Step forward, please," the guard grunted, pushing his hand toward my lower back.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My turn was up. I stepped into Damien's orbit, the scent of expensive sandalwood and rain hitting my senses.

He turned his piercing gray eyes down to me, his hand already reaching for his silver sharpie. The practiced, blinding smile was already firmly on his lips. "Hello. What's your name?"

My mouth went completely dry. I looked at him—really looked at him—and the sheer absurdity of what I was about to do paralyzed me.

"I..." I choked out, adjusting the heavy frames of my glasses with a trembling hand.

"Moving along, miss," the guard immediately intervened, stepping between us and grabbing my elbow.

Damien’s smile didn't fade, but his eyes tracked the guard's hand on my arm, a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker of boredom crossing his face as he looked past me to the next person in line.

Just like that, I was pushed out of the velvet ropes and into the lobby.

I stood there in my oversized blazer, completely alone in a foreign country, broke, and utterly defeated. The lie had officially beaten me.

But as I turned to walk toward the hotel exit, cursing Elena, cursing Harry, and cursing my own stupidity, my finance-trained brain caught something. A side door near the elevators had just opened, and a stressed-looking man in a suit hurried out, arguing on a phone. Through the gap in the door, I caught a glimpse of a private, heavily guarded corridor leading to the hotel's underground parking garage.

I looked at my VVIP lanyard. I looked at the exit. Then, I pushed my glasses up my nose.

I stared at the heavy fire door leading to the garage, my hand hovering inches from the handle. My heart was pounding, but it wasn't from excitement anymore—it was pure, exhausting dread.

What am I doing? I thought, my hand slowly dropping to my side. I'm an auditor. I balance spreadsheets. I don't sneak into underground garages to stalk international celebrities.

Even if I bypassed the guards, what was the pitch? “Hey Damien, I know you don't know me, but your nephew is an asshole, so please fly to Italy on your day off.” He would have his team slap a restraining order on me before I could even finish the sentence.

The weight of my empty bank account, the jet lag, and the sheer humiliation of the last twenty-four hours finally broke through my defenses. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, blurring the view of the glamorous hotel lobby.

I turned away from the door and walked toward the exit, my chest tight.

"I'm done," I whispered to myself, pushing through the revolving glass doors into the warm Barcelona air.

I pulled out my phone, opening the airline app to look for the absolute cheapest flight back home. I would go back to my room, bury myself under my covers in my favorite oversized cardigan, and stay there.

When the wedding week arrived, I would simply call in sick. A sudden, violent bout of food poisoning. A highly contagious flu. Heck, I’d fake a broken leg if I had to. Let Elena call me pathetic. Let Harry think I couldn't bear to see him marry someone else. It would hurt, and it would be humiliating, but it was infinitely better than exposing this nuclear lie to the entire world.

I took a deep, shaky breath, slipping my phone into my pocket as I flagged down a taxi. The lie was over. I was going home to hide.

By the time the taxi dropped me off at the airport terminal, my chest had finally stopped aching. I had a plan. I was going to fly home, hibernate in my room, and let a fictional case of appendicitis save me from the wedding.

I sat down on a cold metal bench near the boarding gates, pulling out my phone to double-check my flight time.

The moment my screen lit up, my phone began to vibrate violently. It wasn't just a normal notification. My screen was a cascading waterfall of alerts. Instagram, Twitter, WhatsApp—buzzing so fast the haptic motor sounded like a swarm of angry hornets.

My heart skipped a beat. With a trembling thumb, I tapped open the first notification, which led me straight to TikTok.

There, staring back at me on the screen, was Elena’s face. She was sitting in a lavish restaurant, a glass of champagne in hand, her emerald-cut diamond ring catching the light. But it wasn't the ring that made the blood instantly drain from my face. It was the text overlay across the video:

When you find out your nerdy, single Maid of Honor is secretly sleeping with your fiancé’s billionaire, A-list uncle… 😳 Safe to say our Lake Como wedding just got a lot more interesting! See you in Italy, you two! 😉 Tagging the elusive king himself @DamienGrey Official and my bestie @Mia_Reads_Finance

I stared at the numbers at the bottom of the screen.

30.4 Million Views.

10 Million Likes.

3 Million Comments.

Elena hadn’t just made a casual post. She had weaponized the lie to get viral clout, tagging Damien’s official, highly monitored account to force him into the spotlight. The top comments were already a chaotic frenzy of fans demanding to know who the "nerdy civilian girl" was, with paparazzi accounts already tracing my digital footprint.

I sat frozen on the airport bench, the automated boarding announcements buzzing overhead.

I couldn't call in sick anymore. I couldn't hide in my bedroom. The lie was no longer a private mess between frenemies—it was a global trending topic. And worse? There was absolutely no way an A-list actor's PR team hadn't seen it by now.

My phone buzzed one more time

in my palm. An unknown, restricted number flashed on the screen.