Chapter 5 The First Test

• Riley's POV
• The contract was twenty-three pages of legal terminology that basically said Brett Graham owned my life for six months. I signed it anyway, my hand shaking as I wrote my name on the final page.
• "The gala starts at eight," Brett said, sliding the contract into his desk drawer. "You have four hours to prepare."
• "What kind of preparation?"
• "Hair, makeup, dress fitting. Marcus will handle the details."
• A woman in an expensive suit entered the office. She looked me up and down like I was a piece of furniture she was considering buying.
• "This is Elena, your stylist," Brett said. "She'll make you presentable."
• Presentable. Like I was some kind of stray animal that needed grooming.
• "Mr. Graham," Elena said, her voice carefully neutral, "perhaps we should discuss expectations."
• "Make her look like she belongs at a charity gala for Manhattan's elite. That's the expectation."
• Elena's smile was professional. "Of course. Miss Plia, shall we?"
• The next four hours were a blur of indignity. Elena and her team attacked my appearance like it was a military operation. They waxed, plucked, scrubbed, and painted until I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
• The dress was beautiful—midnight blue silk that cost more than I used to make in a month. But the shoes were too tight, the jewelry too heavy, and the makeup made me feel like I was wearing a mask.
• "Where's Lily?" I asked Marcus when he appeared with the car.
• "She's being cared for by a qualified nanny in the penthouse," he said. "Mr. Graham insisted."
• *****
• The charity gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As our car pulled up to the entrance, I saw the crowd of photographers, the red carpet, the beautiful people posing for pictures.
• "I can't do this," I whispered.
• "You can," Marcus said quietly. "Just remember you're playing a role. Tonight, you're Brett Graham's girlfriend. Nothing more, nothing less."
• Brett was waiting at the entrance, devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo. When he saw me, his eyes swept over me from head to toe, cataloging every detail.
• "You'll do," he said finally.
• Not "you look beautiful" or "you look nice." Just "you'll do."
• He offered his arm, and I took it, trying to ignore the way the cameras flashed as we walked up the red carpet. His hand was warm and steady on my back, but his touch felt like a brand of ownership.
• Inside the museum, the gala was a fairy tale of wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers, designer gowns, enough jewelry to fund a small country. Everyone was beautiful, everyone was rich, and everyone was watching us.
• "Smile," Brett murmured in my ear. "You're supposed to be in love with me."
• I forced a smile as he introduced me to person after person. CEOs, politicians, socialites. Their names blurred together, but their expressions were identical, polite curiosity mixed with barely concealed disdain.
• "And what do you do, dear?" asked a woman dripping in diamonds.
• "I'm between jobs at the moment," I said.
• The woman's smile became pitying. "How... interesting."
• Brett's grip on my waist tightened. "Riley is exploring her options," he said smoothly. "She has the luxury of being selective."
• But I could see the calculation in his eyes. I was already failing his test.
• The evening dragged on. I hadn't eaten anything since the morning, and the champagne was making me dizzy. Every time I reached for the appetizers, Brett would steer me away to meet someone else.
• "Are you feeling alright?" a man asked during dinner. "You look a bit pale."
• "I'm fine," I lied, gripping my water glass to keep my hands steady.
• But I wasn't fine. The room was spinning, and I felt like I was going to be sick. Three courses were served, but Brett kept talking business, and I was too nervous to eat.
• "Excuse me," I whispered to Brett during the auction portion of the evening. "I need some air."
• "We're not leaving," he said without looking at me.
• "I just need a minute"
• "I said no."
• The room tilted sideways. I could hear the auctioneer's voice, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater. The faces around me blurred together.
• "Brett," I whispered, grabbing his arm.
• He turned to look at me, and I saw his eyes widen slightly. "Riley?"
• The last thing I remembered was the floor rushing up to meet me.
• When I woke up, I was in Brett's arms as he carried me through the museum's back exit. Cameras flashed around us, and I could hear reporters shouting questions.
• "Don't look at them," Brett said quietly. "Keep your eyes closed."
• "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."
• "You fainted from hunger," he said, his voice tight. "When was the last time you ate?"
• "This morning. A piece of bread."
• His jaw clenched. "You haven't eaten all day, and you drank champagne on an empty stomach."
• "I tried to eat at the gala, but you kept"
• "I kept introducing you to people because that's what we were there for," he said harshly. "Your job is to make me look good, not embarrass me in front of five hundred people."
• The words hit me like a physical blow. "I didn't mean to"
• "You didn't mean to faint? You didn't mean to cause a scene? You didn't mean to have photographers taking pictures of me carrying my unconscious fake girlfriend out of a charity gala?"
• Tears stung my eyes. "I'm sorry."
• "Sorry doesn't fix the headlines that will run tomorrow," he said as we reached the car. "Sorry doesn't undo the damage you've done to my reputation."
• Marcus opened the car door, and Brett deposited me in the backseat like a piece of luggage.
• "Take her home," he told Marcus. "Make sure she eats something."
• "Where are you going?" I asked.
• "To do damage control," he said coldly. "Something I'll apparently be doing a lot of over the next six months."
• As the car pulled away, I watched him through the rear window. He was already on his phone, probably calling his publicist to figure out how to spin the story.
• I'd been his fake girlfriend for exactly six hours, and I'd already failed.