The fluorescent bulb flickered above Noah Reyes, as if it were on its last breath, casting a cold, sickly glow over the cramped apartment. The room smelled faintly of instant noodles and stale coffee, with a tangle of laundry on the only chair and an open laptop humming on the floor beside his mattress.
Noah sat cross-legged on the mattress, surrounded by unopened mail, each envelope more urgent than the last. A hospital logo glared at him from one of them like an accusation.
He didn't open it.
He didn't need to.
Final notice. Outstanding balance: $8,200.
His hands hovered over it for a moment, but then he shoved the envelope under his pillow. Out of sight. Out of mind. For now.
A low growl escaped his stomach. He ignored it. Again.
Noah reached for the empty cup on the floor, tilted it toward his lips, and blinked when nothing came out. Not even a drop. Of course not. He hadn't bought groceries in days. His fridge contained one cracked egg, half a bottle of hot sauce, and a near-expired energy drink. Gourmet.
The urge to scream built in his throat, but he swallowed it. That was the kind of thing you did when someone might care. When someone was listening.
Instead, he pulled his laptop onto his lap, fingers moving out of muscle memory to open the same job boards he scrolled through every night. "Part-time jobs near me." "Quick cash gigs." "Freelance work for broke college students."
He clicked. Refreshed. Scanned.
Dog walker: $10/hour.
Flyer distributor: $8/hour, must own bike.
Mystery shopper: One-time gig, paid in gift cards.
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Rent was due in five days. His sister's next treatment in seven. The math didn't add up. It hadn't in months.
Then, his eyes froze on a strange listing. It sat wedged between "late-night cashier" and "deliver leaflets in costume."
"Discreet Romantic Companion Wanted – High Pay – No Intimacy Required"
Seeking an emotionally intelligent individual with good appearance and communication skills. Must be able to act convincingly in public. Confidentiality mandatory.
$300 per appointment.
Noah stared at it, reread it, then read it again. This was either a scam, a setup, or a career-ending decision waiting to happen.
Or it was a miracle.
He hovered his finger over the mousepad. His gut twisted.
Then he clicked.
A form popped up: name, age, photo, and a single question: "Why are you applying?"
He didn't think. He typed:
"Because I'm broke, desperate, and my sister needs to stay alive."
He hovered over the submit button.
Click.
An immediate response popped up on the screen.
"Thank you. You've been shortlisted. Report for screening interview at 11:00 PM sharp. Location: Amour Lounge, 7th & Halstead. Dress well. Don't be late."
Noah stared at the screen.
The apartment clock read 9:26 PM.
He stood, stretched his aching limbs, and reached for the one decent blazer he owned—thrifted, slightly too tight at the shoulders, but passable under dim lighting.
As he changed, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: tired brown eyes, five o'clock shadow, a jawline sharpened by stress. Not a movie star. But not nothing.
He straightened his collar, ran a wet hand through his hair, and whispered to his reflection, "Just smile and don't say anything stupid."
Then he grabbed his keys, stepped out into the night, and headed toward the last decision he thought he'd ever make
The Amour Lounge didn't have a sign—just a black door wedged between a dry cleaner and a yoga studio, guarded by a man who looked like he did side gigs snapping necks. Noah approached, heart thudding, blazer clinging to his back from the summer night heat.
The bouncer looked him up and down. No words. Just a nod and a press of a hidden button.
The door clicked.
Inside, the air changed—cooler, scented faintly of vanilla and something darker. The lighting was low, intimate. Gold accents lined the edges of velvet furniture. Jazz whispered through invisible speakers. Wealth oozed from the walls without trying too hard.
Noah stepped in, suddenly aware of every scuff on his shoes.
A woman waited at the bar. She sat alone, glass of something clear and expensive in her hand. Black dress. Perfect posture. The kind of presence that made the room feel like hers even if she wasn't speaking.
She looked up.
Noah stiffened.
Her eyes were cold and calm, like they'd seen enough men to know exactly how unimpressive most were. Her lipstick was the only color in a grayscale palette: sharp red, no smudge.
"Noah Reyes?" she asked, her voice silk over steel.
"Yes," he said, trying not to fidget.
She gestured to the chair across from her. He sat, adjusting his sleeves.
"I'm Kuroda. I run the arrangement agency that contacted you."
"Arrangement?" he asked. "So, this isn't..."
"A brothel?" she finished; eyes unreadable.
He blinked. "I wasn't going to say that."
"You were thinking it. Everyone does."
He looked down. "Fair."
Kuroda took a slow sip from her glass. "We offer companionship. Conversation. Public appearances. Emotional armor, essentially. Our clients are wealthy, high-profile, and socially allergic. They require someone who can fit beside them without attracting attention—or worse, drama."
"So... fake boyfriend."
"Among other roles," she said. "You'll be who they need you to be. Nothing more. Nothing less."
He let that sink in.
Kuroda reached into a sleek leather folder and pulled out a one-page profile form. She slid it to him.
"Before we go further, tell me why you're here. Your actual reason. Not the one you think sounds noble."
Noah looked her in the eye.
"I need money. Fast. I'm not proud, but I'm not a liar."
She arched a brow. "Honesty. That's rare. And inconvenient."
He said nothing.
"You're decently dressed," she continued. "Tall enough. Good facial structure. Your expression is... raw. Like someone who's been cornered too long."
"I don't know if that's a compliment."
"It is—for our purposes."
Kuroda pulled out her phone and tapped a few times.
"Final question," she said. "Can you pretend to be in love?"
Noah paused. "If it means paying my sister's hospital bill—yeah."
A small smile flickered across her lips for just a second.
She stood. "Your trial assignment begins tomorrow night. 6:00 p.m. sharp. You'll meet the client at the Langford private rooftop bar. Wear something better than that blazer."
He blinked. "Wait, just like that? No background checks? No training?"
"You'll learn fast, or you'll burn out fast. We don't coddle here."
She walked away, heels silent on the carpet.
Noah sat there a moment longer, head spinning.
Then his phone buzzed.
NEW MESSAGE: Amour AgencyClient: Celeste Langford. Duration: One-week trial. Compensation: $2,000 + bonuses. NDA attached.
He stared at the name.
Langford. That name rang somewhere—old money, tech, scandal? He couldn't place it.
But he tapped Accept.
Because this wasn't a date. It was a job.
And he was already on the clock.
Noah stood in front of the Langford Tower at exactly 5:58 PM, dressed in his only suit—navy, freshly ironed, still smelling faintly of dry cleaner starch. He checked his reflection in the polished glass of the building's entrance.
Hair: tamed.Breath: steady.Face: blank.
It had to be. He was about to meet someone who, if Kuroda's tone had meant anything, could make or break him with a sentence.
Inside, a uniformed attendant waited behind a marble desk.
"Name?" she asked.
"Noah Reyes. I'm here for—uh—Miss Langford."
The attendant didn't blink. She pressed a button. "He's here."
A soft chime rang from the elevator behind her.
"Take that up to the penthouse," she said. "She doesn't like waiting."
The elevator doors opened. Noah stepped in, heart pounding.
As the elevator rose, he practiced his smile in the mirrored wall—subtle, not too eager. He had no idea what Celeste Langford looked like. Just that she was rich, high-profile, and needed someone to stand beside her like a prop in a suit.
The doors slid open into a rooftop lounge that looked like a page torn from a luxury magazine—sleek furniture, glass railings, skyline bleeding orange as the sun dipped behind the city.
And then he saw her.
Celeste Langford sat alone on a white outdoor sofa, legs crossed, wine glass in hand. Her profile was sharp—cheekbones that could cut, eyes like winter skies, and a posture carved from disdain. She wore a tailored black dress with sleeves to the wrists and heels that said Don't come closer unless you're worth it.
She didn't look at him.
He stepped forward anyway.
"Noah Reyes," he said. "I'm—"
"I know," she interrupted.
He paused. "Right. Uh, nice to—"
"Don't speak unless I ask you something."
His mouth closed.
She finally looked at him, expression unreadable. "You don't look like a boyfriend."
"...I can work on that?"
She set her glass down. "You're here for one reason. I have a gala to attend tomorrow night. My father will be there. So will my stepmother, and the three desperate men she's lined up to try and buy me with yachts or bloodlines."
Noah blinked. "Sounds... intense."
"I need someone beside me who doesn't make me look like a sociopath."
He raised a brow. "That's a new one. Most people fake dates to make an ex jealous."
She didn't smile. "My father's watching for cracks. He thinks I'm incapable of love. He might be right. But I'd rather fake stability than invite another arranged suitor into my inbox."
Noah scratched the back of his neck. "So… I'm a human shield."
"You're a suit with a heartbeat and decent bone structure," she said coolly. "You'll attend the gala, hold my hand if I cue you, laugh once or twice, and nod when I speak. You do not offer opinions, personal stories, or affection unless explicitly asked."
"That's… oddly specific."
"I don't like surprises."
He hesitated. "Anything else I should know?"
She narrowed her eyes. "You smell like nerves. Fix that."
He gave a small, tight smile. "I'll do my best."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then—something flickered. Not quite warmth. But interest. Curiosity.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, almost idly.
He met her gaze, steady.
"Because I need the money," he said. "And I don't have time to be proud."
She studied him for a moment, then stood.
"Tomorrow. 6:00 p.m. sharp. You'll be fitted for a tux in the morning—Kuroda will arrange it. Show up late or dressed like a college dropout, and I'll fire you mid-gala."
Noah stood, nodded once.
"Understood."
Celeste turned away, her heels clicking against the marble floor.
Then, just before she vanished into the building, she said without looking back:
"You don't seem entirely useless. We'll see if that holds."
The elevator doors closed behind her.
Noah exhaled, slow and long.
So that was Celeste Langford.
Beautiful. Brutal. Untouchable.
And he was supposed to pretend to be in love with her.
Easy. Right?
The smell of ink and paper was oddly sharp in the cold light of Noah's apartment. The same flickering bulb hung overhead, but tonight, it didn't feel like a dying eye—it felt like a spotlight.
On his laptop screen sat a pristine PDF:
Amour Agency Companion Agreement – Client: Celeste Langford
The contract was twelve pages long, neatly formatted, and terrifyingly specific.
"Engagement duration: One week.
Nature of role: Public romantic companion.
Physical boundaries: No intimacy unless pre-negotiated.
Emotional boundaries: No real romantic entanglement permitted.
Confidentiality: Total. NDA enforced. Penalty for breach: $50,000."
Noah rubbed his temples. There were rules for everything—how long eye contact should be held, when to speak, what to wear, how to act around the media. Celeste Langford was important enough that people watched who she smiled at.
He scrolled past the legal jargon to the line at the bottom.
Signature: _______________________
Date: ___________________________
He stared at the space, pen hovering over his tablet screen. A part of him wanted to pause. Ask questions. Demand answers to the hundred little things that didn't make sense.
But the other part—the louder, hungrier, more desperate part—looked at the envelope under his pillow. The hospital bill. His sister's next chemo date. His phone's cracked screen. His mother's quiet absence.
He didn't have time for questions.
He signed.
A notification pinged almost instantly.
Congratulations. Your contract has been activated. Your orientation suit fitting is at 9:00 AM tomorrow. The driver will arrive at 8:30 sharp. Be ready.
– Amour Agency
Noah leaned back against the wall. The air felt heavier, but clearer somehow. Like something irreversible had just happened.
Because it had.
He wasn't just a college senior with too many part-time jobs anymore.
He was someone's boyfriend—on paper, in practice, and for a price.
He glanced at the hospital bill one more time. Then shut it away in a drawer.
6:00 p.m. tomorrow.
A rooftop ballroom. A tuxedo. A girl with a thousand-yard stare.
This wasn't a love story.
Not yet.
But it was a paycheck.
And right now, that was the closest thing he had to hope.