Fake Love, Real Crisis

Alex.

With a sigh, I answered. "Vivian."

"Finally," her voice was tight, controlled. "I was beginning to think you'd fallen off the face of the earth."

"I've been busy."

"Too busy to explain those photos?" The hurt beneath her anger was palpable, even through the phone. "You told me it was just business, Alex. That kiss didn't look like business."

I winced, knowing exactly which photos she meant. The balcony. Ava pressed against me, my hands on her body. It had looked real because in that moment, it had been.

"Vivian—"

"Don't 'Vivian' me," she cut in. "I believed you when you said this engagement was fake. I agreed to be patient. But what I saw in those photos wasn't acting, Alex."

"It was for the cameras," I said, aware of how hollow the excuse sounded. "The media was watching. We had to make it convincing."

"That convincing?" Her voice cracked slightly. "Your tongue was down her throat, Alex. Your hands were all over her. You never touch me like that in public."

I closed my eyes, shame washing over me. She wasn't wrong.

"It's still just an arrangement," I insisted, lowering my voice as my assistant walked past my office. "Nothing has changed."

"Everything has changed," Vivian said quietly. "You've changed. I hear it in your voice when you talk about her."

"That's ridiculous—"

"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you're developing real feelings for her while I sit at home like an idiot, waiting for this 'business arrangement' to end."

Guilt twisted in my gut. "I'm sorry, Viv. This is more complicated than I expected."

"Complicated," she repeated, the word bitter. "For how long, Alex? How much more of this am I supposed to endure? Watching you parade around with her, looking at those photos, fielding calls from journalists asking how it feels to be dumped?"

"Just until the project launches. A few months. Maybe six."

"Six months?" Vivian's voice rose again. "You expect me to wait six months while you play house with another woman? While you're kissing her like that in public?"

"I know it's asking a lot—"

"It's asking the impossible," she cut me off. "I'm a model, Alex. My image is everything. Do you have any idea what this is doing to my career? To my reputation? To have to hide like your dirty secret while you're engaged to someone else?"

I had no good answer. She was right, and we both knew it.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked, suddenly exhausted.

"I want you to say you'll end this farce," she said. "I want you to publicly declare it was all a misunderstanding. I want my boyfriend back. The one who used to look at me the way you were looking at her in those photos."

I closed my eyes, picturing her face—beautiful, vulnerable, familiar. The safe choice. The expected path.

Then, unbidden, Ava's face flashed in my mind—fierce, challenging, unpredictable. The road not taken.

"I can't do that," I said finally. "Not yet."

Vivian's laugh was hollow. "I see. Well, don't expect me to wait around forever, Alex. I deserve better than this."

"You're not—"

"Save it." Her voice was ice cold now. "I have a shoot in Milan next week. When I get back, you better have figured out where your priorities lie."

The line went dead before I could respond. I set the phone down, a complicated mix of emotions churning in my chest. Relief, guilt, frustration... and something else I couldn't quite name.

My intercom buzzed. "Mr. Russo? Your mother is on line one."

Jesus Christ. The hits just kept coming.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself before picking up. "Mother."

"Alexander!" Elizabeth Russo's voice resonated with its usual commanding presence. "I've been trying to reach you for days. Why haven't you returned my calls?"

"I've been busy," I said, the same excuse I'd given Vivian. It sounded even more hollow now.

"Too busy to tell your own mother you're engaged?" She didn't bother hiding her hurt. "I had to hear it from Marjorie Whitcomb at the club. Marjorie Whitcomb, Alexander. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I'm sorry, Mother. It's been... hectic."

"I should think so," she sniffed. "One minute you're with that model—"

"Vivian," I supplied.

"—and the next you're marrying Ava Silver! I can't keep up with your love life."

I strongly doubted she'd tried. My mother had shown little interest in my relationships beyond whether they would produce grandchildren or beneficial business connections.

"It wasn't planned," I said, truthful for once.

"Well, regardless, I approve," she announced, as if her blessing was all that mattered. "The Silver girl comes from good stock. Her father was quite the businessman before his accident. And she's accomplished in her own right, unlike..."

"Vivian," I supplied again, irritation building.

"Yes, her. Models are for dating, darling, not marrying. I'm glad you've finally seen reason."

I bit back a sharp retort. My mother's old-fashioned views on appropriate marriage partners were a frequent source of contention between us.

"Is there a reason you called, Mother, other than to comment on my engagement?"

"Don't be short with me, Alexander. I'm calling about the engagement party, of course."

I blinked. "What engagement party?"

"The one I'm arranging," she said, as if it were obvious. "The Medina house will be perfect. I'm thinking the first weekend of next month. That gives me just enough time to secure Laurent for the catering and send invitations to everyone who matters."

"Mother," I interrupted, "we don't need an engagement party."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course you do. It's tradition."

"Ava and I haven't discussed—"

"I've already spoken to her father," my mother continued, steamrolling over my objections. "George is thrilled with the match, by the way. Says he always thought you two would make a good pair, despite your professional rivalry."

I frowned. "You talked to George Silver?"

"We serve on three charity boards together, darling. Did you think we didn't know each other?" She laughed, the sound light and practiced. "Seattle's upper echelon is a small world. Now, about the guest list—"

"Mother, stop," I said firmly, rubbing my temple where a headache was forming. "Ava and I will plan our own engagement party, if and when we decide to have one."

A frosty silence fell. "I see," she said finally. "Well, if you'd rather handle it yourselves, far be it from me to interfere."

The guilt trip was vintage Elizabeth Russo. I sighed. "I appreciate the thought, truly. But this is something we need to coordinate ourselves. The timing is... delicate."

"Fine," she sniffed. "But do let me know when I can actually celebrate my only son's engagement. Or perhaps I should wait for the wedding invitation? Or will I read about that in the papers too?"

"Mother—"

"I'm having lunch with Marjorie in an hour. What am I supposed to tell her?"

"Tell her whatever you want," I said, patience wearing thin. "Tell her we're deliriously happy and planning a spring wedding."

"Are you?" She sounded genuinely curious. "Happy, I mean?"

The question caught me off guard. Was I happy? The honest answer was I didn't know. This arrangement with Ava was giving me whiplash—moments of unexpected connection followed by fierce arguments, physical attraction layered with professional respect and personal wariness.

"It's complicated," I said, aware I was echoing my earlier words to Richard.

"Love always is, darling," my mother replied, with rare sincerity. "I may not have had the most perfect marriage to your father, but we had our moments. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for with Ava."

I sat in stunned silence, my mother's unexpected warmth throwing me off balance. "Thank you," I managed finally. "I'll keep you updated on any party plans."

After ending the call, I remained motionless, her parting words echoing in my head. What was I looking for? When I'd agreed to this arrangement with Ava, it had been purely strategic—a business decision with clear benefits and a defined exit strategy. But something was shifting, evolving in ways I hadn't anticipated.

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