Chapter 3: This is just the stress talking

Grace's POV

The immigration interview notice arrives faster than expected.

"Two weeks." Jasper shows me the email over breakfast on Tuesday morning. "Friday at ten."

I bite into my toast, nerves kicking in immediately. "That's soon. Are we ready?"

"We will be." He pours me coffee, and I notice he's added oat milk and exactly one spoonful of sugar without asking. "Starting today, we need to act more like a married couple. In public, at least."

So that's how Jasper becomes a "real" husband.

Every morning, he's up early making breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fresh fruit arranged on the plate like something from a café. By the third day, I'm feeling guilty watching him cook while I'm barely awake.

"You don't have to do this every day," I tell him. "I'm fine with just grabbing something quick."

"A wife should eat properly." He says it like it's obvious. "And immigration might ask about our daily routines."

Right. For immigration. Of course.

He starts driving me to work too. EcoThread's office is on the third floor of this old building in the Mission, and every morning Jasper parks out front, comes around to open my door, and says, "Have a good day, Mrs. Hayes," before I get out.

Mrs. Hayes. Every single time he says it, something flutters in my chest that I can't quite control.

On Wednesday night, my small team is working late on samples for the new collection. Jasper texts asking when I'll be done, says he'll come pick me up.

"Don't worry about it, I can just get a ride," I reply.

"Husbands pick up their wives from work," he texts back.

At ten thirty, Jasper shows up outside the building holding two bags of takeout. "For you and your team," he says. "Figured you probably skipped dinner."

My three employees, two designers and one operations person, practically swoon watching him unpack the food.

"Grace, your husband is so thoughtful," one of the designers whispers to me.

Fake husband, I think. But I don't correct her.

Friday evening, EcoThread has a small networking event. I wasn't planning on bringing Jasper, but he insists that "couples attend each other's social functions."

So when he walks into the event space wearing a navy suit that fits him perfectly, I hear at least three people murmur, "God, Grace's husband is gorgeous."

He stays by my side all night, hand resting naturally on my waist, introducing himself as "Grace's husband" with this subtle pride in his voice that makes my stomach flip.

I keep telling myself it's all an act, but somewhere along the way, I've stopped paying attention to where the acting ends.

The call from Maya comes Saturday afternoon while I'm sketching at the dining table. "So you actually got married?" Her voice could shatter glass. "Grace Miller, you got married and didn't tell me?"

Maya's been my best friend since college. She works at Google now, and she's the only person who knows how bad EcoThread's finances really are.

"It happened kind of fast," I say vaguely.

"Kind of? Try extremely." There's a pause. "Last month you were freaking out about funding, and now you're married? To your childhood friend who just moved back from England?" Another pause, longer this time. "Grace, please tell me this isn't a green card thing."

My phone almost slips from my hand.

"What? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on. I've been in the Bay for seven years. I've seen this before. Sudden marriage, foreign national who needs status, American citizen who needs money..." Maya's voice goes serious. "If this is what I think it is, you know how risky that is? Immigration doesn't mess around. If they catch you, you'll have a criminal record."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" She sighs. "Look, I get that you're desperate to save EcoThread, but this could ruin your life."

"Maya, I really..." The words come out before I can stop them. "I really like him."

The line goes quiet. "What did you just say?"

"I mean..." I take a breath. "It's not just business. At least not for me."

Monday morning, everything falls apart. My main fabric supplier, a company in LA, suddenly files for bankruptcy. Which means every order for this season is dead in the water. These fabrics are made from recycled materials with a specific process. You can't just replace them with any random supplier.

I'm staring at the bankruptcy notice on my screen, completely frozen. No fabric means no products. No products means no revenue. Jasper's investment was supposed to give me runway, but if this season fails, that money won't last long.

My phone rings. Jasper.

"What's wrong?" He sounds concerned. "I can tell something's wrong."

The tears start before I can stop them. "The supplier went bankrupt," I manage. "All the orders are gone."

"I'm coming over."

"You're at work, you don't have to—"

"Grace." His voice is firm. "I'm on my way now."

Twenty minutes later, he walks through the office door and pulls me into his arms without saying anything. I bury my face in his suit jacket and finally let myself cry for real.

"I've got you," he says quietly, hand rubbing small circles on my back. "We'll figure it out."

That night, Jasper spends hours on the phone. He calls contacts in London, finds a sustainable fabric supplier in the UK. He negotiates with shipping companies about expedited delivery. He even convinces them to give us special pricing because of "long-term partnership potential."

At two in the morning, he walks back into the living room looking exhausted but triumphant. "Done. New supplier can start production next week. Quality's better than the last one, price is about the same."

I'm sitting on the couch, staring at him, unable to speak.

"Jasper." My voice comes out small. "Why would you do all this for me?"

He hesitates. "Because I invested in your company. If you succeed, I get a return."

"It's more than that though." I stand up, walk over to him. "What you're doing for me goes way beyond what an investor would do."

His throat moves as he swallows, but he doesn't answer.

"Jasper." My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it everywhere. "What if this wasn't fake?"

"What?"

"This marriage." I'm using every ounce of courage I have. "What if we really tried? Like, for real?"

Something that looks like pain flashes across his face. "Grace, you don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do." I grab his hand. "You're so good to me. You care about me. You—"

"Stop." He pulls his hand back, takes a step away. "This is just the stress talking. You're emotional because of what happened today. You're grateful, I understand that. But that's not love."

"How do you know it's not?"

"Because this isn't what we agreed to." His voice has gone cold in a way I've never heard before. "We have a contract. This is a business arrangement. That's all it is. That's all it can be."

"But—"

"I'm tired." He turns toward the guest room. "Good night, Grace."

The door closes. Again.

I'm standing in the living room, tears running down my face, trying to understand. Why would he be this good to me but refuse to admit there's something more between us? Why does he keep reducing everything to contracts and business?

Or maybe the answer is simpler. Maybe he really doesn't feel anything for me at all. Maybe all that kindness, all that care, all those moments that seemed like more than a fake marriage are just my imagination running wild.

I go back to the master bedroom and collapse on the bed. There's a wall between us, and I have no idea what Jasper's thinking on the other side. But I know what I'm feeling.

I'm in love with him.

And he'll probably never know.