Faking it, Feeling it.

Ava

The drive home was a blur full of worry and frustration. By the time I pulled into my driveway, Rosa's car was already there. I found them in the kitchen, Emilia hunched over a bowl of ice cream, her school uniform rumpled, eyes puffy from crying.

"Hey, peanut," I said softly, setting down my bag. "Rough day?"

Emilia shrugged, not looking up. "They were asking about him."

"Who?"

"Alex," she said, stabbing at her ice cream. "Madison saw the pictures on her mom's phone. You kissing him. She told everyone you're getting married. They all wanted to know if he's my new dad."

My heart sank. "Oh, baby." I pulled her into my arms, her small body shaking with fresh tears. "I'm so sorry. That wasn't fair of them to ambush you like that."

"Why is everyone saying you're marrying him?" she asked, pulling back to look me in the eye. "You barely even know him."

I glanced at Rosa, who was discreetly wiping down counters while obviously listening to every word. How much should I tell Emilia? How could I explain this bizarre arrangement in terms a child could understand?

"It's... complicated," I began cautiously. "Sometimes grown-ups have to do things for business reasons that might seem strange to others."

Emilia frowned. "So you're not really marrying him?"

I hesitated. "It's not that simple, Em. Right now, we're... we're getting to know each other better. To see if it might work."

"But you just met him," she protested.

"Actually, I've known Alex for years," I explained. "We've worked in the same industry, attended the same events. We just never... spent much time together until now."

Emilia's brow furrowed, her gaze far too perceptive for a nine-year-old. "But you don't love him."

It wasn't a question, but a statement of what seemed, to her, an obvious fact. And she was right—I didn't love Alex. I barely even liked him most of the time. But how could I explain the complexities of adult compromise and business strategy to a child?

"Love is complicated," I said finally. "It can grow over time. Sometimes people get engaged first and then fall in love."

"That's stupid," Emilia declared with the absolute certainty of childhood. "People should only get married if they love each other. Like you and Daddy did."

The mention of James hit me like a physical blow. "Yes," I agreed softly. "Like your dad and I did."

Emilia played with her spoon, swirling melting ice cream around the bowl. "I don't want a new dad."

"No one's trying to replace your dad," I assured her quickly. "No one could ever do that."

"Then why is he buying me presents and being nice?" she demanded.

I blinked in confusion. "You mean the book and puzzle? You liked them?"

"They're okay," she admitted reluctantly. "The book is pretty cool. And the puzzle looks hard." She hesitated, then added, "I still don't like him though. He asks stupid questions."

"What kind of stupid questions?" I asked, curious about their drive together.

"He asked if I like boys. I'm nine." She rolled her eyes dramatically.

I bit back a laugh. "That is pretty stupid."

"And he drives too fast. And his car smells weird." She poked at her ice cream, now mostly soup. "Does this mean we have to have dinner with him?"

I thought about my father's dinner invitation, about the PR strategy requiring regular public appearances, about the weeks and possibly months of this charade stretching ahead of us.

"Sometimes, yes," I admitted. "Including dinner at Grandpa's on Thursday. He wants to meet Alex."

Emilia groaned dramatically. "Do I have to go?"

"Yes," I said firmly. "Grandpa wants you there. But you don't have to like Alex or be his best friend. Just be polite."

She considered this, her expression serious. "Can I ask him questions? Like an interview?"

The thought of Alex Russo being interrogated by my precocious daughter almost made me smile. "As long as they're polite questions, sure."

"Fine," she conceded grudgingly. "But I'm still not calling him Dad. Ever."

"No one's asking you to," I assured her, pulling her into another hug. "Your dad will always be your dad, Em. Nothing and no one will ever change that."

She nodded against my shoulder, her small body relaxing slightly. "Can we watch a movie tonight? Just us?"

"Of course," I said, relieved at the change of subject. "Anything you want."

As Emilia went upstairs to change, I stood in the kitchen, emotion welling in my throat. This fake engagement was affecting her more than I'd anticipated, forcing her to confront questions of family and loss that she wasn't ready for. What kind of mother put her child through this for business reasons?

But even as guilt gnawed at me, I couldn't help looking at the gifts Alex had chosen for Emilia (He had sent them over to the house, after he dropped Emmy off). Not generic toys or candy, but things specifically matched to her interests. It showed thought, consideration. 

Maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than the arrogant businessman I'd always assumed him to be.

And that possibility was perhaps the most unsettling thought of all.

Later that night, after Emilia had fallen asleep halfway through our second movie, I carried her up to bed, tucking her in as gently as possible. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, curling around her stuffed panda with a soft sigh.

In the quiet of my own bedroom, I found myself staring at my phone, Alex's contact information glowing on the screen. I should text him about the dinner with my father, about the PR statement needing his approval, about a dozen other practical matters that required coordination.

Instead, I found myself typing:

Your gifts for Emilia were a hit. The school situation was rough, but she's okay. We're having dinner at my father's on Thursday. Business casual. Don't be late.

I hit send before I could overthink it. His response came almost immediately:

Looking forward to it. I'll bring wine. For us, not Emilia. I'm learning kid boundaries, slowly but surely.

Despite everything, I smiled at the screen. Then immediately frowned at my reaction. What was wrong with me? This was Alex Russo—arrogant, infuriating, my fake fiancé for purely business reasons.

So why was I looking forward to Thursday?

I set my phone down and turned off the light, determined to get some sleep. Tomorrow would bring fresh challenges, more PR fires to put out, more explanations to craft.

But as I drifted off, it wasn't work that filled my mind, but the memory of Alex's lips on mine, the surprising gentleness in his eyes when he looked at Emilia, and the unfamiliar feeling taking root in my chest—something dangerously close to anticipation.

* * *