PART 2: THE FAKE ROMANCE THAT STARTED FEELING REAL
Rebecca woke the next morning to her phone vibrating like an alarm she had not set.
Forty-three notifications.
Then fifty.
Then sixty-two.
She sat up in her studio apartment, hair loose around her face, sunlight leaking through thin curtains. Her radiator clanked in the corner. A stack of library returns sat beside the futon. For one suspended second, she forgot Grand Central.
Then she saw the first message.
Becca, is this you???
The second.
Girl, who is that MAN?
The third.
You’re viral.
Her stomach dropped.
She opened the link.
The video began mid-humiliation.
Derek standing too close. Tiffany laughing. Rebecca’s face flushed and small beneath the station lights. Then Rebecca stepping toward a stranger on a bench. Julian standing. His hand on her shoulder. His voice, clear even through the crowd noise.
Sorry I’m late.
The caption read:
Mystery man shuts down arrogant ex-boyfriend at Grand Central. Who is he?
Views: 218,000.
Rebecca stopped breathing.
She scrolled.
Comments flooded beneath it.
She deserves better.
The ex looks terrified when the tall guy stands up.
Who is the stranger?
That’s Julian Blackwell. Google him.
Rebecca stared at the name.
Then she did.
The results loaded.
Julian Blackwell — CEO, Blackwell Holdings.
One of the most influential real estate developers on the East Coast.
Reclusive billionaire behind major sustainable urban projects.
Known for transforming commercial districts while avoiding media attention.
Rebecca sat motionless on her futon.
Billionaire.
The word felt absurd in her apartment, surrounded by secondhand books, chipped mugs, a sink with one spoon in it, and a sweater drying over a chair.
Her phone rang.
Mrs. Patterson, her supervisor at the library.
Rebecca answered with dread already forming.
“Rebecca,” Mrs. Patterson said. “Have you seen the video?”
“Yes.”
“People are calling the library.”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“Why?”
“Donors. Board members. People asking whether you’re involved with Julian Blackwell.”
“I’m not involved with him. He was helping me.”
A pause.
“Helping you how?”
Rebecca rubbed her forehead.
“It was just an awful situation with my ex. I asked him to pretend he knew me.”
Another pause.
Longer.
“Rebecca, perception matters.”
There it was.
The phrase institutions used when they wanted to sound kind while protecting money.
“There’s no scandal,” Rebecca said.
“I believe you. But the library depends on trust. And donations. Just be careful.”
The call ended.
Rebecca stared at the phone.
Careful.
She had spent her whole life being careful.
Careful not to ask for too much.
Careful not to appear bitter.
Careful not to make poverty look like resentment.
Careful not to be dramatic after Derek left her for a woman whose family name opened doors Rebecca could never even knock on.
One whisper to a stranger, and suddenly her caution had become a public event.
At noon, someone knocked on her apartment door.
Rebecca froze.
No one came by without buzzing first.
She crossed the room slowly and looked through the peephole.
Julian Blackwell stood in her hallway.
Not in a suit this time. Dark jeans. Gray sweater. Wool coat open. Hands in his pockets. Somehow still looking as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering hallway light had been arranged around him for contrast.
Rebecca opened the door.
For a second, neither spoke.
Then Julian said, “I owe you an apology.”
That startled a laugh out of her.
“You helped me. Why would you apologize?”
“Because helping you seems to have made your life more complicated.”
He glanced past her, not intrusively, just taking in the small apartment: overflowing bookshelves, a futon with a folded quilt, a tiny kitchen counter stacked with tea tins, the children’s paper star on the table.
His face showed no pity.
She noticed that.
And relaxed half an inch.
“I saw the video,” he said.
“So did everyone else.”
“I know.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Derek Palmer is making it worse.”
Rebecca’s body went cold.
“What do you mean?”
Julian stepped inside only after she moved aside. He remained near the door, giving her the option of ending the conversation easily.
“He’s been calling people. Business contacts. Social connections. A few media people.”
Rebecca sat slowly on the futon.
“Because last night embarrassed him.”
“He embarrassed himself.”
“Yes,” Julian said. “Men like him rarely notice the difference.”
Despite everything, Rebecca almost smiled.
Julian continued.
“He’s spreading a story that you staged the whole encounter. That you knew who I was. That you approached me because you wanted access to money.”
Rebecca stared at him.
“That’s insane. I didn’t even know your name.”
“How would I have planned that?”
“Truth is not always useful to a man protecting his ego.”
Rebecca looked down at her hands.
Her nails were short, practical, unpolished. Library hands. Hands that shelved books, taped torn pages, tied children’s shoelaces during reading hour, carried groceries in cloth bags. How quickly strangers could turn them into greedy hands.
“What do I do?” she whispered.
Julian’s expression softened.
“There is an option.”
She looked up.
He removed his coat and folded it over one arm, as if preparing to say something that required both honesty and patience.
“We continue the pretense.”
Rebecca blinked.
“What?”
“Not permanently. Not recklessly. Just long enough to control the narrative.”
“You want us to fake a relationship?”
“That is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“Why would you even offer?”
Julian looked toward her bookshelf.
His gaze paused on a worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird with a cracked spine.
“Five years ago,” he said, “I was engaged to a woman named Vanessa. She leaked confidential information from my company to a competitor while telling me she loved me.”