Chapter Two – Wrong Door, Right Mess

Malik stood outside Tina Rowe’s office door the next morning, still not entirely sure this wasn’t some elaborate prank show. Maybe there were hidden cameras. Maybe Ashton Kutcher would pop out any second and yell, “You’ve been punk’d!”

But no — this was real. The surreal weight of it settled on him as he adjusted the only blazer he owned, which still had that faint scent of borrowed success from the last wedding he wore it to. His shirt was ironed. His shoes were clean. He even splashed on some cologne that smelled like "ambition in a bottle."

The door swung open before he knocked. It was Tina’s assistant — a tall, tired-looking man with horn-rimmed glasses and the constant air of someone two meetings away from a breakdown.

“You’re late,” the assistant said, already walking away.

Malik checked his phone. “It’s literally 10:00 a.m. on the dot.”

“She said 9:59.”

Malik exhaled. “So this is how billionaires live. One minute equals disrespect.”

He stepped in, catching sight of Tina at her desk, hands flying across her keyboard like she was hacking into a government system. She didn’t look up.

“Sit,” she said curtly.

Malik sat.

“I’ve emailed you the contract,” she continued, eyes still on the screen. “NDA. Payment schedule. Behavior expectations. No kissing unless pre-approved. Touching is permitted only in public, and only as part of the act.”

Malik raised a brow. “So we’re doing the whole Hollywood stunt couple thing.”

“Exactly. This isn’t romance, Mr. Carter. This is reputation management.”

He tried not to grin. “You sure you don’t want to spice it up with a little Netflix-and-fake-chill?”

Tina finally looked up, giving him a stare that could curdle wine.

“You're not funny.”

He leaned back, hands behind his head. “You keep saying that, but you haven’t kicked me out yet.”

“Only because the launch gala is tomorrow, and I don’t have time to audition another liar.”

He chuckled. “You wound me.”

She sighed. “We’re attending together. Black tie. Be charming, not clever. I’ll send you the talking points.”

“Wait, wait. Talking points?”

Tina stood and handed him a sleek folder. Inside were flashcards. She wasn’t joking.

> HOW WE MET: A bookstore in Brooklyn.

WHAT YOU LIKE ABOUT TINA: Her intelligence and leadership.

YOUR JOB: Freelance creative consultant.

RELATIONSHIP LENGTH: Six months.

DO NOT SAY: Anything about money, freelancing struggles, or fast food.

Malik flipped through the cards. “This is straight-up spy training.”

“Your role is simple,” she said. “Look like you belong. Act like you’re smitten. Don’t embarrass me.”

He gave a mock salute. “Copy that, Commander.”

“Also,” she said, her voice dipping into ice territory, “you represent me now. So you’ll need a wardrobe that doesn’t look like a thrift store had a clearance sale.”

“Ouch.”

She typed something on her phone. Within seconds, her assistant returned.

“Ronnie will take you to a stylist. Keep receipts. Anything over $3,000, I’ll need approval.”

Malik blinked. “Three thousand dollars for clothes?”

Tina raised an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised how much charm costs when you don’t have it naturally.”

He stood, clutching the flashcards. “Can’t wait to meet the guy turning me into your Ken doll.”

She didn’t even smile. “Oh, and Malik?”

He turned at the door.

“Don’t fall in love with me.”

He smirked. “You say that like it’s a challenge.”

---

Hours Later: The Makeover

“Sir, you can’t wear this to a gala,” said the stylist, a Nigerian man named Pascal who looked like he walked straight out of GQ magazine.

Malik held up his favorite pair of black jeans. “These are classic.”

“These are criminal.” Pascal snatched them and tossed them aside like biohazard.

Three fittings, two snide comments, and one accidental poke with a tailor pin later, Malik emerged in a custom dark navy suit with subtle gold cufflinks. The kind of outfit that made mirrors flirt with you.

He admired himself. “Damn. I’d date me.”

Pascal clicked his tongue. “Don’t get excited. Clothes can’t fix everything.”

Malik took one last look in the mirror. Still him — but sharper. Like Malik 2.0.

He returned to RoweTech to find Tina in the lobby, on her phone, pacing like she was running a country.

She looked up. Her eyes flicked over him — no expression change, no gasp, no compliment.

But her fingers paused mid-text.

“Better,” she said flatly.

Malik grinned. “Don’t flatter me all at once.”

“Let’s go. I’ve scheduled a photo op before the gala.”

He blinked. “Already?”

She started walking. “If you’re going to be my fake boyfriend, Malik, you better learn to keep up.”

---

Later That Evening: The Gala Begins

The RoweTech expansion gala was held at the Met Cloisters — rich with historic tapestries, candlelight, and $600 bottles of water. Outside, press lined up in waves, cameras flashing as Teslas and town cars dropped off VIPs.

Inside the car, Malik fiddled with his tie.

“I look like I belong in a Netflix drama,” he muttered.

Tina didn’t look at him. “Stop adjusting. Confidence doesn’t fidget.”

“Remind me again why I’m doing this?”

“You need rent money. I need credibility.”

“Romantic.”

She turned to him finally. “Tonight, you’re the man I trust most in the world.”

He blinked. “That’s...dark.”

She stepped out of the car before he could reply. Cameras exploded in light.

Tina offered him her hand — like a queen allowing a knight to walk beside her. Malik took it.

The crowd hushed. The cameras zoomed in. For a moment, it looked real.

He leaned in slightly and whispered in her ear, “You ever smile, or would that crack your billion-dollar cheekbones?”

She didn’t answer. But her hand tightened slightly in his.

---

End of Chapter Two.