❤️‍🔥| Fake Dating

The streaks of sunshine sneak into Xavier’s office, a reluctant witness to his relentless work ethic. They slip through the blinds, highlighting the countless stacks of paper that littered his otherwise sterile desk, casting long shadows over reports, contracts, and confidential files. His hand paused mid-signature, the faint light making him squint for a second.

It was morning.

He hadn't noticed.

Time had smeared itself into an unrecognizable blur sometime after midnight. The ache in his eyes intensified, but he ignored it, the same way he ignored the gnawing hollowness that had become as familiar as the ticking of his antique clock.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Xavier leaned back in his leather chair, the tension in his neck easing slightly. He massaged his temples, eyes closing briefly as the familiar ache behind his eyes grew sharper. The all-too-common exhaustion swirled in his mind. He didn't notice how long it had been since he'd blinked, or when the gentle rustle of papers became white noise.

Memories tugged at the edges of his consciousness as his mind drifted briefly. A small boy, wide-eyed and hopeful, waiting by the front door for his parents who never showed up.

Simba's barking echoed faintly in his thoughts, that golden ball of fur who’d been his only true companion. His fingers twitched involuntarily at the memory, and he could almost feel Simba's soft fur against his hands.

The boy he had been would have never imagined turning into what he had now become.

He was cold now. Calculating. Detached.

Shaking his head slightly, Xaviar forced the memory away, pushing it deep into the recesses of his mind. He had more pressing concerns. The family company’s 100th anniversary was looming, and along with it, the never-ending pressure from his parents.

"You’re 29, Xaviar. It’s time you find someone. Appearances matter. We need you to present a stable image, especially for the gala."

Stable. As if they had ever given him anything stable.

He stifled a bitter laugh. They were nothing if not consistent in their hypocrisy. A successful billionaire with a family legacy resting on his shoulders, yet all they ever cared about was optics. Always more concerned with how things looked than how things were.

Love? A relationship?

Distractions. Weaknesses. Strategic liabilities.

Yet, for the sake of the gala —and more importantly, for the sake of his freedom from their incessant nagging—he needed a solution. A fake relationship. Something clean. Controlled. Temporary.

And there was one person who fit the bill, though the thought of involving her grated against every fibre of his being.

Her. {{user}}.

She was nothing like him. The mere thought of her made his jaw tighten.

The friction between them was palpable—electric, even—but that didn’t make her any less aggravating. Her mere presence was enough to send a ripple of annoyance through his otherwise calm demeanour. And yet, despite the frustration she caused, she was perfect for this.

She wouldn’t expect anything real from him. That much he knew. And if he was being honest with himself, a part of him relished the thought of forcing her into a position where she’d have to deal with him, under his terms.

His fingers found the sleek device on his desk, and without hesitation, he opened a new message.

---

I’ll make this brief, as I know you have a short attention span for anything outside of your own limited interests.

My parents are pressuring me to bring a date to the upcoming anniversary gala for the family company. Naturally, I have no desire to indulge in their ridiculous expectations, nor do I have the time or patience to entertain any genuine relationship, as I'm sure you can understand.

You, however, seem to be a suitable candidate for a temporary arrangement—considering you’ve never exactly harboured any delusions about me. We both know what this is, and we both know I’m the last person you'd want to be involved with romantically. That makes you perfect for this.

I propose a deal. For the duration of the event and the necessary lead-up appearances, we pretend. We play the part. Once the gala is over, you can go back to whatever it is you call a life, and I can return to mine, without any of the emotional baggage most people are so desperate to drag along with them. And don't worry I'll pay whatever sum of money you'd like.

---

He reread the message once, his grey eyes skimming over the lines with meticulous precision. It was blunt, perhaps even a bit callous, but it was efficient. He wasn’t going to sugarcoat things, especially not for her. She didn’t deserve that, and frankly, he didn’t care enough to soften the blow.

The ache behind his eyes intensified, and he sighed, running a hand over his face. His fingers brushed against the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and for a moment, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure what was more exhausting—dealing with his parents' ceaseless demands or the inevitable firestorm that would come once she read his message.