Chapter 2: The Rules of Our Fake Engagement

Roman Blackwood arrived exactly forty-five minutes after agreeing to become my fake fiancé.

I knew the time because I had spent every second pacing my apartment like a criminal waiting for sentencing.

When the doorbell rang, my heart nearly stopped.

I opened the door.

And for a moment… I forgot how to speak.

Roman stood there in dark jeans and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy from the wind. No suit. No corporate armor. Just him.

Real. Effortlessly attractive. Dangerously calm.

"You're staring," he said.

"I'm evaluating," I replied quickly.

"And your conclusion?"

"You clean up well for a fake fiancé."

He smirked and stepped inside like he belonged there.

"We're going to need rules," he said, placing a paper bag on the kitchen counter.

"You brought food?"

"You panic. You forget to eat."

My chest tightened slightly.

"You remember that?"

"I remember everything about you, Savannah."

I looked away first.

He unpacked Chinese takeout—my favorite—and handed me chopsticks like it was just another normal night.

Except it wasn't.

Nothing about this was normal.

"Okay," I said, sitting across from him. "Let's talk."

"Good," he replied, pulling out a small notebook.

I blinked.

"Is that… a plan?"

"It's a strategy."

"We're fake dating, not launching a startup."

"Same principle. If we mess up, we lose credibility."

I couldn't help it—I laughed.

"You're insane."

"And you're the one who announced we're engaged to your entire bloodline."

"Fair."

He flipped open the notebook.

"First question: how long have we been together?"

"Uh…"

"Exactly," he said. "We need consistency."

"Okay. Eight months."

"Good. Long enough to justify an engagement."

"Next?"

"Who fell first?"

I paused.

"You."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Confident."

"Obviously. I'm a nightmare."

"You're not a nightmare," he said quietly.

The tone made me look up.

Too serious.

Too real.

I cleared my throat.

"Anyway. Next question."

"Where was our first kiss?"

"Somewhere believable."

"Rooftop," he said immediately.

"I hate heights."

"Which makes it romantic," he countered. "You trusted me."

I stared at him.

"You've thought about this way too much."

"I had forty-five minutes."

Liar.

No one comes up with details like that in forty-five minutes.

But I let it go.

"Fine. Rooftop," I agreed.

He nodded and wrote it down.

"Now rules."

"This sounds serious."

"It is."

He looked directly at me.

"Rule one: we never contradict each other in public."

"Agreed."

"Rule two: no breaking character in front of your family."

"Even if my mother interrogates us?"

"Especially then."

"Great. I love pressure."

"Rule three," he continued, voice lowering slightly, "no using this to get back at Dean."

I froze.

"I'm not doing that."

"Savannah."

"I'm not," I insisted.

"Then agreeing shouldn't be a problem."

I exhaled slowly.

"Fine. Agreed."

He watched me for a second longer, then nodded.

"Rule four: physical contact needs to look natural."

"Physical contact?"

"Holding hands. Touching. Maybe kissing."

My stomach flipped.

"Roman—"

"Relax. I'm not going to do anything you don't want."

"Good."

"But if it looks fake, people will notice."

He stood up.

"Come here."

"What?"

"Practice."

"You're joking."

"I'm not."

Reluctantly, I stood.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Close enough that I could smell his cologne.

Clean. Warm. Familiar.

His hand moved to my waist.

My breath hitched.

"Too stiff," he said.

"I'm trying not to die."

"Relax," he murmured.

His thumb brushed lightly against my side.

Electric.

Completely unexpected.

"See?" he said. "You're reacting like I'm a stranger."

"Because you're acting like you're not."

Something flickered in his eyes.

Then he softened his grip.

"Try again."

This time, I let my hand rest against his chest.

His heartbeat was steady.

Strong.

Dangerously calming.

"Better," he said quietly.

For a second… it didn't feel fake.

That was the problem.

I stepped back quickly.

"Okay. That's enough."

Roman didn't move right away.

Then he nodded once.

"We'll get there."

"Hopefully not too convincing," I muttered.

"That's the goal."

"Not for my sanity."

He smiled slightly.

"Next item."

"There's more?"

"Ring."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

My heart skipped.

"You already have one?"

"Open it."

I hesitated, then lifted the lid.

A diamond ring sparkled under the light, surrounded by delicate emerald accents.

It was… beautiful.

Way too real.

"Roman…"

"It's my grandmother's," he said.

"You stole your grandmother's ring?"

"Borrowed."

"Does she know?"

"She thinks it's real."

"Oh my God."

"She cried."

"Stop."

"Then she said she always knew I'd end up with you."

I froze.

"What?"

"She's dramatic," he said quickly.

Too quickly.

I narrowed my eyes.

"You're not telling me something."

"Give me your hand."

"Roman—"

"Savannah."

Slowly, I held out my hand.

He slid the ring onto my finger.

Perfect fit.

Of course it was.

"How did you know my size?"

"You tried rings with your sister two years ago," he said.

"You sent me pictures."

"You remembered that?"

"I remember everything you show me."

My heart did that weird thing again.

I pulled my hand back.

"It looks real."

"It needs to."

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed.

Chloe.

I opened the message.

"Family breakfast tomorrow. Bring your fiancé. Dean will be there."

My stomach dropped.

Roman read it over my shoulder.

"So we meet him tomorrow."

"Yep."

"Good."

"Good?"

He stepped closer again.

Closer than necessary.

"Because when he looks at you," Roman said quietly, "I want you to look at me."

My breath slowed.

"That's part of the act?"

"That's how we win."

Win.

I wasn't sure what we were winning anymore.

But something told me…

This fake engagement was about to become a lot more complicated than I planned.