"Yes, ma'am."
I blinked rapidly, trying not to cry again.
Clarisse began flipping through hangers.
"Sir wants you in something… conservative but classy for lunch with Ma'am Lucinda."
"Ma'am Lucinda" is Lance's mother.
I swallowed hard.
"Conservative but classy. Great. Because I'm just the queen of high society."
Clarisse giggled, unfazed by my sarcasm.
She finally pulled out a soft cream dress with delicate lace sleeves.
"Try this one, ma'am. You'll look beautiful."
I took it gingerly.
"Is it worth more than my old apartment?"
Clarisse hesitated.
"Probably po."
I let out a groan.
While I changed, Clarisse carefully dried and styled my hair into soft waves.
Then she helped me into the dress and slipped delicate pearl earrings into my ears.
When I turned to look in the mirror, my breath caught.
I didn't even recognize myself.
Clarisse beamed.
"Sir will be very happy."
My cheeks flamed.
"I'm not trying to make him happy."
"I know, ma'am," she said gently. "But sometimes… it's nice to look pretty, even just for yourself."
Her words hit me so unexpectedly, my eyes stung.
When Clarisse finally stepped back, I stared at my reflection.
Gone was the disheveled girl in cheap clothes and tear-streaked cheeks.
In her place was a poised woman in a beautiful dress, her hair shining under the lights.
But it still didn't feel like me.
Clarisse gathered up the discarded clothes.
"I'll take these to the laundry, ma'am."
I grabbed her wrist before she could leave.
"Wait. My stuffed turtle. Please don't touch that."
She blinked, then smiled softly.
"Of course, ma'am."
When she left, I stood alone for a moment, clutching the vanity table.
My chest felt tight, as though a giant hand was squeezing my ribs.
In a few hours, I have to face Lance's mother.
And pretend I belong in this world.
I closed my eyes and whispered, "Please let me survive this."
Then I straightened my shoulders, turned, and went to find my fake husband.
I found Lance in the massive kitchen.
He was standing by a marble countertop, wearing a crisp white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves.
He was talking softly to one of the cooks, who was frying garlic rice in a giant pan.
The delicious smell filled the whole room.
When he noticed me, he paused mid-sentence.
His dark eyes swept over me from head to toe.
For a moment, he just stared.
Then he said, quietly, "Wow."
Heat rushed to my face.
"Don't start," I muttered. "This isn't me. It's the dress."
Lance tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"Trust me, it's you."
I rolled my eyes.
He waved the cook away.
Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"We don't have much time. My mother expects us at noon."
I swallowed hard.
"Great. How exactly am I supposed to convince your mom that we're some perfect couple?"
Lance placed his palms flat on the countertop, leaning forward until our faces were inches apart.
"Relax, Maya," he said softly. "It's not rocket science. You just have to look at me like you're in love."
My eyes widened.
"I don't know how to do that!"
He gave me an amused look.
"Sure you do."
He straightened and gestured toward himself.
"Come here."
I blinked at him.
"What?"
"Come. Here."
I took a hesitant step forward.
He reached out and gently placed my hands on his chest.
His shirt was warm under my palms, and I could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat.
My cheeks flamed.
"Now," he murmured, looking down into my eyes, "imagine I'm the man you love more than anything. That I'm your safe place. That I'm the one who makes your world feel right."
My breath caught.
"Lance, I."
"Shh," he whispered. "Just try."
He leaned in even closer.
I could feel his breath on my skin.
My pulse skittered wildly as his dark eyes locked on mine.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself not to bolt.
I lifted my gaze and met his.
For a brief second, I let myself imagine that everything was real that I loved this man, and he loved me.
And that he was mine.
A soft warmth bloomed in my chest.
Lance's eyes darkened slightly.
"There," he said in a low voice. "Just like that."
I blinked rapidly, snapping back to reality.
I tried to step away, but he held me still.
"You'll need to hold that look all through lunch," he said. "My mother notices everything."
I scowled.
"I can't stare at you like a lovesick idiot for hours!"
He smirked.
"I'm not asking you to propose. Just… pretend you're happy."
I let out a frustrated groan.
"This is so humiliating."
Lance leaned closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper.
"I could kiss you. That might help sell it."
My eyes flew wide.
"No!"
He gave a soft laugh.
"Relax, Mrs. Villanueva. I'm only joking… unless you want me to."
I pushed him back with a glare.
"Keep dreaming."
He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.
"Alright. No kisses. Yet."
I folded my arms, scowling.
Lance's expression sobered slightly.
"Listen, Maya. My mother is… difficult. She'll test you. She'll ask personal questions. She might even try to scare you away."
My stomach clenched.
"Fantastic. Can't wait."
Lance softened his tone.
"But you don't have to be afraid of her. Just remember one thing."
"What?" I asked warily.
He held my gaze.
"You're my wife now. And I won't let anyone hurt you."
A strange tightness spread through my chest.
For a brief moment, I actually believed him.
Then I shook my head.
"Don't get all protective on me, Lance. I can handle myself."
He smiled faintly.
"I know you can. But now… you're not alone."
I swallowed hard, unsure how to respond to that.
Clarisse appeared in the doorway, her voice timid.
"Sir, ma'am… the car is ready."
Lance straightened, slipping back into his cool CEO persona.
"Time to go."
I stared at him, my heart hammering.
"Lance… what if I screw this up?"
He leaned in one last time, his lips close to my ear.
"Then we improvise."
He offered me his arm.
I hesitated.
Then, with a resigned sigh, I took it.
As we headed out the front door together, I tried to breathe through the fear clawing at my chest.
Because in just a few minutes, I'd be facing Lucinda Villanueva.
And pretending to be madly in love with the man beside me.
The ride to the restaurant was smooth and silent.
Lance sat beside me in the backseat, staring out the tinted window, fingers lightly drumming on his knee.
Marco drove steadily, navigating Makati traffic like a pro.
I sat rigid, clutching my small handbag, my pulse thudding in my ears.
I kept sneaking glances at Lance.
His sharp jawline. His crisp suit. The faint scent of his expensive cologne.
He looked utterly composed, like a man completely in control of every detail of his world.
Meanwhile, I felt like I was about to hyperventilate.
"Relax, Maya," he murmured without looking at me.
"How can I relax?" I hissed. "I'm about to pretend I'm madly in love with a stranger. In front of his mother."
He finally turned to me, one brow raised.
"Think of it as a business meeting. You're very expensive PR."
I let out a tiny, strangled laugh.
"Great. I'm a walking PR stunt."
"Exactly," he said calmly. "Except you're a beautiful one."
My face flamed.
"Stop it."
He smirked.
"Make me."
Before I could fire back, the SUV pulled up to the curb outside a sleek high-end restaurant near Greenbelt.
Marco parked and jumped out to open our door.
Lance slid out first, offering his hand to me.
I hesitated.
Then I took it, feeling the warm strength of his grip.
Cameras flashed instantly.
A handful of paparazzi lingered near the restaurant entrance, calling Lance's name.
"Mr. Villanueva! Over here!"
"Sir, who's the lady?"
Lance kept his cool.
He tucked me firmly against his side and leaned down, murmuring in my ear.
"Smile like you're the happiest woman alive."
I blinked at him, wide-eyed.
"Mr. Villanueva, is this your wife?" one photographer yelled.
Lance turned to face the cameras, his expression effortlessly charming.
"Yes," he said clearly, his voice ringing out. "This is my wife, Maya Villanueva."
My breath caught.
He said it so naturally, as though it were the simplest truth in the world.
Then he glanced down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
I swallowed hard and managed a shaky smile for the cameras.
Okay. Okay. I can do this.