Chapter 5 5

The Lie That Feels Too Real

Shaw's POV

When we signed the contract, it was supposed to be simple.

Three weeks. A few appearances, no emotions, no questions and no chaos.

But from the moment Evelyn Monroe walked into my house and signed her name on that piece of paper, something in me shifted. I've seen people like her before-polished, distant, self-assured. Born into money, raised around power. Most of them had their masks etched into their skin.

But Evelyn's wasn't a mask.

It was a wall.

And ever since the day she walked into my life, I've been trying to stop myself from wanting to climb over it.

I didn't mean for this to get complicated.

I just needed to give my father a final gift before he left this world-peace. A moment to look at me and believe I was going to be okay.

He wanted to see me loved, married, settled.

The irony?

I was none of those things. But I could fake it. I thought Evelyn could, too.

What I didn't expect was how well she played the role.

And how real it started to feel.

It began subtly.

The way she looked at my father-gentle, not out of pity but with a kind of reverence, like she knew what it meant to lose something slow and painful.

She didn't say much, but when she spoke, her voice had weight. My father clung to her presence like it was air.

And then there was how she carried herself. Graceful, yes. But always tired behind the eyes.

Always like she was holding something back. Something more than just the burden of a fake marriage.

It made me curious.

Then it made me concerned.

Now, it's making me feel things I shouldn't.

Last night, after she left, my mother pulled me aside in the hallway.

"She's a lovely girl," she said.

"She is," I replied simply.

My mother watched me closely. "You're looking at her like she's not just temporary."

I didn't respond.

Because she was right.

I wasn't sure when it started.

Maybe it was the way Evelyn stood next to me at dinner, calm but fierce, not needing attention yet owning the room.

Or maybe it was how she touched my father's hand as if he were her own blood.

Or maybe... just maybe it was the silence.

The way she sits beside me in the car with her head turned to the window, not saying anything, and yet somehow I know exactly what she's feeling.

Pain, regret or loneliness.

And I can't stop wondering what caused it.

I know something's broken in her. I can see it every time her fingers twitch on her lap when she's trying not to cry. She hasn't told me what it is-but I can feel it pressing between us like a locked door.

I want to open it.

I want to understand her.

And God help me, I want more than just a fake contract.

I shouldn't.

This isn't about love.

This is business.

But today, as I watch her walk down the steps of her building toward my car, dressed in a navy-blue dress that wraps around her perfectly, I feel something twist in my chest.

She's not smiling.

She rarely does.

But even her frown is beautiful.

She slides into the passenger seat, buckles in without a word.

I grip the steering wheel tighter.

"Ready?" I asked.

She nods. "Where are we going today?"

"Molton Foundation luncheon. Press might be there. You okay with that?"

"As long as they don't ask me about wedding colors."

That earns a small smile from me.

"Pink and gold?" I joked.

She wrinkles her nose. "God, no. I'd rather marry in black."

I laugh. "Noted."

We drive in silence for a few more minutes.

Then she surprises me.

"Your dad looked better yesterday," she says softly.

"He did."

"You're lucky to have him. Even now."

Her tone changes on that last part-so faintly that most people wouldn't hear it. But I do.

"You miss yours?" I ask gently.

She doesn't answer right away.

"He's dying," she finally says. "And there's nothing I can do."

The honesty stuns me.

I glance at her, but her eyes are fixed ahead, glassy.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly.

"It's life," she replies, voice distant. "People leave, some slowly and some all at once."

And I know, in that moment, she's not just talking about her father.

She's talking about someone else.

Later, at the luncheon, we play the roles.

I rest a hand on her lower back as we walk in. She links her arm through mine. We smile at the right people.

Answer questions with practiced charm. When someone congratulates us on our engagement, she thanks them so naturally that even I almost forget we're faking.

But in private moments, the cracks show.

Like when her hand trembles slightly holding the champagne flute. Or when her gaze lingers too long on a couple slow dancing nearby.

I pull her gently toward me.

"You okay?"

She nods, but doesn't meet my eyes.

So I lean in and whisper something I probably shouldn't.

"If this were real, I wouldn't let go of you."

Her eyes snap up to mine.

There it is again-that wall-but now it's cracking.

"You shouldn't say that," she whispers.

"But I mean it."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough."

Her jaw tightens, and she turns away. The moment breaks.

We leave early.

The car ride back is thick with silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that builds walls between two people even as they sit inches apart.

She looks out the window again, arms crossed.

I know I've crossed a line.

But I can't regret it.

"I know we agreed on boundaries," I finally say. "But pretending with you feels less like a lie and more like something I wish I could believe."

She turns to me slowly, her face unreadable.

"You don't want to believe in me, Shaw."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not who you think I am."

"Then tell me who you are."

"I'm not your fiancée. I'm not your happy ending. I'm not someone who brings peace.

I'm a woman carrying a truth that would destroy both of us if I let it out."

Her voice shakes by the end.

And in that instant, everything inside me quiets.

A realization settles like ice in my chest.

She's pregnant.

That's what she's hiding.

Not fear of falling for me.

Not guilt over a lie.

But a child.

Someone else's child.

It hits me like a wave I didn't see coming. And yet... it explains everything.

The tiredness. The caution. The way she touched her stomach when she thought I wasn't looking.

I want to say something.

I don't.

Not yet.

I don't know what to feel.

Anger? No.

Jealousy? Maybe.

But mostly... confusion.

Because I'm falling for a woman who's not mine. Who's carrying someone else's child.

Who's signed a contract to pretend she loves me, all while holding onto a heartbreak I can't reach.

But I still want her.

Not just her body.

Her silence. Her strength. Her secrets. All of it.

I want her to trust me, to let me in.

And I don't know what terrifies me more-

That she never will...

Or that I'll fall in love with her anyway.