The Girlfriend for the Gala

The contract was eleven pages. The NDA was twenty-nine. I signed both because student loans don't accept "I'm waiting for my big break" as currency.

Declan Ashford needed a girlfriend for one night — the Whitmore investor gala, black tie, photographers, his ex on the host committee, his board asking uncomfortable questions about "stability" after a very public breakup. I was hired through an agency that specializes in corporate theater: fake fiancées, reconciliations, surprise proposals at baseball games. I was good at it. I was especially good at crying on cue, which this job explicitly did not require.

"You're Ava Chen," Declan said on our prep call, voice CEO-flat. "Theater background. No social media posts. No interviews. You smile, you touch my arm at the right moments, you leave at midnight. Five thousand dollars."

"You're Declan Ashford," I said. "Needs a date. Hates his ex. Has a board with opinions. Anything else I should know?"

Silence. Then, almost amused: "You improvise."

"That's what you pay for."

The agency had sent me three prior gigs with men like him — men who needed a face, not a person. I'd learned to leave at midnight without looking back. Declan Ashford felt different on a phone call, which was dangerous. Dangerous is sometimes worth showing up for.

Prep included a wardrobe fitting at his penthouse — cliché, but the dress fit like revenge — and a bullet-point list of "relationship history" we invented over espresso:

- Met at a gallery opening (true: I went once; he owns three pieces) - Six months together (false) - Shared humor about sailboats (absurd; I get seasick)

Clause 12, highlighted in yellow: *No romantic escalation beyond scripted public behavior. Violation voids payment and triggers penalties.*

I initialed it. Declan watched my pen like he didn't trust signatures.

"Midnight," he said at the door. "Car picks you up at 7."

"Midnight," I agreed. "Cinderella rules."

The gala was glass and champagne and wolves in couture.

Declan's ex, Camille, stood at the host podium in emerald silk, smiling like a knife. She saw his hand on my waist and her eyebrows lifted — micro-expression, textbook jealousy. Good. That was the job.

What wasn't the job: Declan introducing me to investors like he meant it.

"Ava's reviewing the West Side theater renovation proposal," he told a gray-haired fund manager. "She has notes."

"I have notes," I confirmed, because I'd read the proposal on the car ride over — Declan had sent it without explaining why. "Your lobby plan kills sightlines from the mezzanine. Donors want to see and be seen."

The fund manager blinked. "She's right."

Camille drifted over, perfume first. "Declan. New friend?"

"Girlfriend," Declan said. Steady. "Ava, this is Camille."

"Pleasure," I said, and smiled the smile I'd practiced — warm, proprietary, just shy of smug. I touched Declan's lapel. He covered my hand with his. His palm was warm. That wasn't scripted.

Camille's smile tightened. "She's pretty. Is she real?"

"A question people ask about you too," I said sweetly. Improv. Declan's fingers tightened on mine — warning or appreciation, I couldn't tell.

Camille left. Declan leaned close, mouth near my ear, public-intimate. "That wasn't on the list."

"You said I improvise."

"I did."

Midnight approached like a deadline in a heist movie.

We stood on the terrace away from photographers. City lights below, champagne gone flat, my shoes killing me in the elegant way expensive shoes do.

"Board is satisfied," Declan said. "Camille is furious. Mission accomplished."

"Five thousand," I reminded him, because Clause 12 was sitting in my ribs like a warning label.

"Transfer initiates at 12:01." He hesitated. "You were — you were very good."

"That's the job."

"The job didn't require you to read a forty-page renovation proposal in a car."

"You sent it."

"I wanted to see if you'd skim or engage." He looked at me, CEO armor cracked just enough to show something human. "You engaged. With investors. With my ex. With me."

My heart did something unprofessional.

"Declan—"

"I know Clause 12." He exhaled. "I wrote Clause 12 because the last person who got close used access. I didn't expect—"