Chapter 6 The perfect plan

Diary,

I got home.

Central Park apartment. My own apartment. The one place where I can be ugly in peace.

I opened the door and the lights were already on.

I didn't even flinch. I knew exactly what that meant.

Austin was here.

The first thing I did was try to get out of this dress. I reached behind me to pull the zipper and nothing moved. The zipper had decided to become part of my skin. The beads had locked themselves into my back. I was breathing like someone who had just run a marathon inside a corset.

"AUSTIN!" I shouted.

From the kitchen, his voice: "You don't have to announce your name to the whole building. I have ears. I can hear you without the high-pitched emergency siren."

"Please come and help me out of this thing," I said. "I swear this is the last time I am squeezing myself into hell just so people will look at me. Last time. I mean it."

I heard his slippers coming closer.

Then he stopped, leaned against the hallway, looked at me up and down, and said, "You said that at Maya's gallery opening four years ago. You said that at your ex's sister's engagement party. You said that at the awards last year when you wanted to outshine Vanessa. And you said that last December at the Christmas dinner when you couldn't sit down. So this ...come on, we know it won't be the last."

I wanted to argue but I couldn't breathe enough to argue.

He said, "You look like someone who locked herself inside a Tupperware and forgot to poke holes for air."

"Just unzip me," I said.

He came behind me, pulled the zipper down slowly, and finally the entire thing exhaled. Air entered my body again. My ribs thanked me. My lungs thanked me. I could finally sit down without negotiating with beads.

He handed me a glass of water. I drank it in one go and collapsed on the couch like a deflated balloon.

He sat across from me and said, "So. How was the wedding?"

I looked at him. I must have looked terrible because he didn't even wait for me to answer.

"Actually," he said, "scratch that. I already saw the news. You and Ken Benson. That is the worst combination I have ever seen in my life. How did you even end up in the same frame as Ken? On what spot? How?"

And then I told him everything. Fast, messy, all mixed together. The three girls gossiping, me hooking his arm, the accidental/intentional kiss, searching the whole hall for him in this dress that hates me, the fan who wanted 50 pictures, him saying "Do I know you?", the trending headline, him calling me senorita, him telling people I am the best thing that ever happened to him aside from Sophia.

He listened with that face he makes when he is trying not to laugh but also worried.

Then he said, "Wait. You don't know Ken Benson?"

I said, "Why does everybody keep saying that? Who is he? This is my first time hearing that name in my life."

He just stared at me. Like he was scanning my face to check if I was acting.

When he realized I was serious, his eyes got wide.

"You really don't know who Ken Benson is," he said.

"Should I?"

"Gloria."

"What?"

He didn't answer. He just asked, "What are you planning to do now?"

And that's when my baby voice came out. The weak voice I only use with Austin. Because with him I don't have to be Gloria Gilbert, the face, the brand, the star who has it together.

I curled my legs under me and said, "Austin, I don't know. I swear I don't know. He already warned me. He said I should end everything. He said he wants this whole lie to stop. And I don't even know how to stop it. I don't know where it starts and where it ends. I don't know how to go back out there and tell my mother and her friends and those girls and the entire internet that I made it all up."

I was holding my glass with both hands like it was going to save me.

Austin sighed, took the glass from me, and said, "Breathe in. Breathe out. We have the whole night. No rush."

But diary, there is rush.

Because tomorrow morning, everyone will wake up and still believe I am dating Kenneth Benson.

"Okay, we are definitely not going online to say you lied."

I stared at him.

"Because if you do that, your career is finished. You will be a meme by morning. The blogs will eat you alive. You might have to delete Instagram and move to a farm."

He had a point. My enemies are very active. They are always waiting for me to slip. If I post "Lol guys I lied, I don't know him," they will not let me breathe for one year.

"So what do I do?" I asked.

He said, "We also can't keep the lie going. You and Kenneth Benson cannot have anything together."

And diary, my face changed.

I felt a pinch in my chest. Like someone flicked me right on the forehead.

I froze my smile and said, "Why? Why can't I have something with him? Is he too good for me? Is he an angel that fell from heaven and landed at Martha's wedding just to be out of my league?"

Austin raised his hands. "That's not what I mean. I mean his life is complicated."

"How complicated?"

He sighed. "He has a teenage daughter. He just got out of a divorce, and it was messy. The papers were everywhere. He just left the military, so everyone is still talking about him and his best friend and—"

I stopped listening.

Wait.

He has a daughter?

I looked at Austin and said, "Let me guess. Sofia?"

He pointed at me. "Yes."

We said it at the same time. SOFIA.

Suddenly the name made sense. The best thing that ever happened to him aside from Sofia. Of course. His daughter. Not his sister. Not his dog.

And then my brain did the math.

So he is not married. He is divorced.

And the moment I understood that, my heart split into two loud pieces. One side was like, Oh no. The other side was like, Oh.

Because of all the men in New York to accidentally claim, it had to be this one. A single father. A divorced man. A retired Army guy whose life comes with a Wikipedia page and a comment section.

I sat down properly. "This is the worst possible person I could have picked."

Austin nodded. "He is also the best. Everyone loves him. He is loyal to his friends, he is actually a good man, he is rich—"

I lifted my head at that last one.

He saw my face change and quickly added, "Not that you need his money. You are fine on your own."

And that sentence — diary, I don't know why — healed me. Instantly. All the panic I was carrying since the wedding evaporated. Like someone poured cold water on it.

I sat up straight.

"I know what to do," I said.

Austin looked scared. "What?"

"I am going to keep the lie going."

He choked on air. "How?"

"Simple. We fake date. For three months. Just three months. Then we break up quietly. No drama. He becomes just another one of my exes. The internet moves on. I survive."

He stared at me like I had just suggested we rob a bank.

"Gloria, do you hear how easy that sounds when you say it? How exactly do you plan to convince Ken Benson to fake date you?"

I shrugged.

"I have no idea," I said honestly. "But I have to. My enemies cannot laugh at me. I would rather be his fake girlfriend than be the girl who lied about him and got caught."

Then I stood up, left him on the couch, walked up the stairs feeling strangely light. Like all my problems had just been flushed away.

Three months. That's all I need.

How hard can it be to convince a divorced, retired, single-father billionaire to pretend to be in love with me.

Once I got to my room, I did the first responsible thing.

I showered.

Hot water, good soap, scrubbed the whole wedding off my skin. The sweat, the perfume, the nervousness. All of it went down the drain.

Then I changed into my nightwear. The soft, old one that does not try to shape my body. The one that lets me breathe without negotiation.

I sat on my bed at first, trying to be mature about this. Sitting up straight, phone in hand, like a serious businesswoman doing research.

But sitting did not work. My chest was still tight from the day. So I lay down. Flat on my back. Phone held above my face like a teenager.

And I started searching him.

Ken Benson.

I already knew most things from Austin downstairs, but I wanted to see it with my own eyes.

Fourteen, fifteen-year-old daughter. The internet is obsessed with her. Her name is Sofia, and according to every blog, she is the love of his life. There is a whole tag for her. Sofia Benson's dad.

Then I saw the family picture.

It was from like ten years ago. Sofia was still five. Small pink dress, missing tooth, sitting on his lap. He was still with his wife then. His wife — Emily Benson.

Diary.

The woman is beautiful.

This is the first time in my adult life I am sitting down and admitting that another woman is beautiful without adding "but" immediately. Her face is calm. Expensive calm. The kind of calm that comes from good sleep and no stress about fake boyfriends. Blonde, neat, perfect smile. Like she was born to be in a family picture.

And a part of me hated the other part of me that was admitting it.

I had to stand up.

I went to the mirror.

I looked at myself. Nightwear, hair tied up anyhow, face with no makeup. And I told myself the truth.

"Gloria, you are still prettier."

I said it out loud. I nodded at my reflection. I gave myself a little pep talk in the mirror like a motivational speaker.

"I give it to her. She tried. She is fine. But she did not reach your standard. She tried her best, but she did not reach here."

I went back to bed, satisfied with my own audit, and continued scrolling.

I was looking for the reason they divorced. The real reason. People were saying so many things. One blog said Ken was too busy, he loved his job more than his family, he had no time to love them properly. Another one said Emily wanted too much love, she is a "love girl" who wanted love songs every day and he could not give it. Another one said they just fell out of love. Just like that. Like you fall out of a car.

So many irrelevant things. Nothing tangible. Nothing that made me say, "Ah, so this is why."

At some point I stopped caring. Divorce happens. Not my business.

Then I saw his father. Mark Benson. Founder of the Benson Organization.

The name felt familiar. I stared at it. Benson Organization. Benson Organization. Where have I heard that?

And then it clicked.

Oh.

I worked with them.

I did an ad for them when I was sixteen or seventeen. A print campaign. I was wearing a white suit that was too big for me and smiling like I knew what a "holding company" was.

Anyway, that does not matter. Small world, but not important.

What is important is: how do I convince a man like this to fake date someone like me?

Because look at his biography. Retired Army. Billionaire son. Single father. Loyal best friend — Paul Bernard, I saw their pictures, they looked very close. May he rest in peace. His life is so serious, so straight, so put-together.

And then there is me. New York's favorite spinster.

Diary, I lay there and asked myself honestly, "What do you have to offer this man that will make him say yes?"

Money? He has more.

Fame? He does not want it.

Love? He is tired of that topic.

Then an idea came to me.

Simple. Clean. Civilized.

Why don't I just take flowers and coffee to his office tomorrow? Just walk in like adults do. No drama, no kissing, no begging. Just sit down and have a discussion with him. I will explain my situation. He will explain his boundaries. We will find a middle ground. Like grown people.

The moment I thought of it, I felt peace.

It felt like the best

idea I had come up with all week. Better than the fake dating plan itself.

I dropped my phone on my chest, closed my eyes, and made sure I was smiling in my sleep.

Because this phase is not going to break me.

Not me.

Not Gloria Gilbert.