Chapter 1

Nora's POV

I shoved another stack of economics textbooks back onto the shelf in Butler Library. My fingers ached, and the Band-Aid on my wrist was starting to peel off again, third one this week. I glanced at my phone. 6:47 PM.

Shit.

I had thirteen minutes to get to the bar, and the subway would take at least twenty.

"Nora, you leaving already?" Mrs. Clark, the head librarian, looked up from her desk. "You barely took a break today."

"I'm fine," I said, already pulling off my library ID badge. "See you Monday."

I didn't wait for her response. I couldn't afford to. The bar job paid $15 an hour plus tips, and Friday nights were when the Columbia rich kids came out to play. If I was late, Marcus would give my shift to someone else.

The November wind cut through my thin jacket as I half-ran down Broadway. $847,234. That number was burned into my brain. The cost of my mother's surgery, chemotherapy, and recovery. The number that kept growing every time the hospital called.

I made it to Murphy's Bar with two minutes to spare.

"Table seven needs another bottle of Veuve Clicquot," Marcus called out as I tied my apron. "The trust fund babies are celebrating something."

I grabbed the champagne from the cooler and headed toward the VIP section. A group of about eight guys had taken over the corner booth.

These people spend more on one dinner than I make in six months.

As I got closer, I caught pieces of their conversation over the music.

"—just admit you're still waiting for her—"

"—two years, man, she's not coming back—"

I set the champagne bucket down on their table and kept my face blank. One of them, tall, dark hair, wearing a shirt, looked up at me. For a second, our eyes met. His were hazel, kind of hazy from drinking.

Then his friends started again.

"Truth or dare, Tristan!" one of them yelled, slamming his hand on the table. "Are you still in love with Abigail?"

The guy with hazel eyes, Tristan went tense. Even drunk, I could see him getting pissed off.

"That's bullshit," he said, words slurring a little. "I'm not waiting for anyone."

"Prove it!" another one pushed. "You haven't dated anyone since she left!"

"That's because I already have someone I like!" Tristan shot back, voice getting louder. He was getting defensive the way drunk people do when they're cornered.

"Who?" They all leaned in, grinning.

And then Tristan's hand shot out, pointing right at me. I don't know if it was the alcohol or just pure stupidity

"Her! I like her!"

Every single head at that table turned toward me. I just stood there, champagne bottle still in my hand, completely frozen.

"Holy shit," someone said. "That's Nora."

"The Nora?" another one added. "The ice queen from Econ?"

"Dude, how the hell did you—"

"Bring her tomorrow!" one of them cut in, practically bouncing. "Bring her to Connor's party! Prove you're not lying!"

Tristan looked panicked now but too proud to back down, so he nodded. "Fine. Tomorrow. I'll bring her."

I should have said something. Should have told them they were all out of their minds. Instead, I just set down the champagne and walked away, my heart racing for reasons I couldn't figure out.

What the hell just happened?

Saturday morning, 9:03 AM. I was putting books back in the philosophy section when someone's shadow fell across my cart.

"Hi."

I looked up. It was him. Tristan. Sober this time, wearing a cream sweater, looking way less confident than he did last night.

"You're Nora, right?" he said.

"I know what you're going to say," I said, turning back to my cart. "And the answer is no."

"You don't even know what I'm going to ask."

"You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend so your friends don't think you're pathetic." I grabbed another book without looking at him. "No."

"Please, just hear me out—"

"I'm working."

"I can pay you."

My hand stopped halfway to the shelf. Slowly, I turned around.

"Excuse me?"

His eyes went to my wrist, to the Band-Aid and my jacket cuff that was basically falling apart. "You work three jobs, don't you? Library, coffee shop, and the bar."

How does he know that?

"I'm not interested in whatever game you're playing," I said.

"It's not a game." He stepped closer and I smelled his scent. "Look, I know how this sounds. I know I look like an asshole. But I just... I don't want my friends thinking I'm still hung up on someone who rejected me."

Something in his voice made me stop.

"Why would you be hung up on someone?" I asked before I could help it.

"Her name is Abigail," he said quietly. "We grew up together. I thought we'd end up together. But she left for Paris two years ago, and before she left, she told me we were 'too young.' She's supposed to come back next summer, and everyone thinks I've been waiting for her this whole time."

"Have you?"

He went quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. Maybe. But I don't want to be that guy anymore."

I looked at him. He didn't seem like he was lying. He just looked tired.

"So you want me to be your fake girlfriend," I said.

"Just until she comes back. Just to prove I've moved on." He met my eyes. "I'll pay you. However much you need. Name your price."

However much you need.

Those words kept repeating in my head. I thought about the hospital bills piled on my desk. The voicemail from Dr. Patterson yesterday: "Nora, we really need to discuss your mother's treatment plan. Without the surgery..."

"Why me?" I asked.

"Because you're smart. Because you won't make this complicated. Because..." He stopped. "Because you look like you need the money as much as I need this favor."

I should have been offended. Instead, I just felt empty.

"How much?" I heard myself say.

"How much do you need?"

"Eight hundred thousand dollars."

I expected him to laugh. To tell me I was insane. Instead, he just nodded.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"We'll draft a contract. I'll pay you in installments, say $100,000 a month. The deal ends when Abigail returns to New York. Probably eight months, give or take."

My heart was pounding. "You're serious."

"Completely." He pulled out his phone. "There's a coffee shop two blocks from here. Meet me there at 3 PM. We'll work out the details."

He started walking away, then turned back.

"Nora?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

The coffee shop was warm after the freezing afternoon outside. Tristan was already there, sitting at a corner table with his laptop open. He'd actually made a contract.

I sat down across from him and started reading. The terms were simple:

1. Miss Nora Stone agrees to pose as Mr. Tristan Whitmore's girlfriend in public settings.

2. Required appearances include social gatherings and events as needed.

3. Contract duration: Until Miss Abigail Morrison returns to New York City (estimated June 2025).

4. Payment: $100,000 per month, transferred on the first of each month.

5. Both parties maintain separate private lives. No expectations beyond public appearances.

My finger stopped on the payment line. $100,000 per month. My mother could have the surgery. She could live.

"Any questions?" Tristan asked.

"What happens if she comes back early?"

"Then the contract ends early. You'll still get paid for the months you worked."

"And if someone finds out this is fake?"

"They won't. As long as we're convincing." He leaned back. "Look, I'm not asking you to actually date me. Just... show up when I need you to. Hold my hand at parties. Let people see us together. That's it."

I thought about my mother. About how her voice sounded on the phone last week, thin, tired, scared.

I picked up the pen.

My hand shook a little as I signed my name at the bottom, but I did it. Nora Stone, in my messy handwriting that looked so small next to Tristan's confident signature.

He folded the contract and put it in his bag. "I'll pick you up tonight at 7. There's a party at my friend Connor's place."

"Tonight?"

"The sooner we start, the more convincing it'll be." He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Oh, and Nora?"

I looked up at him.

"You don't need to dress up or anything. Just be yourself. Can't wait to see how you do tonight. See ya!"