“Thank you.” I smile at the barista as I grab the two cups of iced beverages: a caramel macchiato for me and a black coffee for Ethan.

This is nostalgic. I used to get these same drinks when I was his personal assistant. Now that I’m his fake-wife-slash-real-live-in-girlfriend, it feels similar but different.

I actually look forward to giving him the drink now. I used to dread going into his office because I was so consumed by my blind hatred.

I imagine Ethan’s face when he takes it with his hand, and the thought makes me smile instead of scowl.

When I decided to become his fake wife, I never would've imagined that it would lead me to this place. I never thought I’d ever fall for him.

Well, maybe that's a little too soon to say. This is all too new for me to say I’m falling for him. But nobody has ever made me feel like this before, and I can’t help but crave more closeness with the source of all these wonderful, new feelings.

Before Ethan, I thought I was frigid or even asexual. Most of my friends had already paired off and had sex, and I hadn't. I also didn't want to. It didn't appeal to me. I was too afraid of men because I thought they were all evil users.

But Ethan's different. And that's why I trust him enough to let my sexual side come out to play.

Of course, it helps that he happens to have the body that belongs on the cover of Men’s Fitness magazine, along with the face and the dress sense of a GQ cover model.

But I’ve always known that; I’m not blind. I just refused to see him for what he is. I used to hold on tight to my preconceived ideas about him.

“Hello, Mrs. Hunter,” Paul says as I enter the apartment lobby.

“Hi, Paul.” I feel weird being addressed so formally, but I am here to be Ethan’s pretend-wife, so it's probably good to let him call me that. Besides, “Mrs. Hunter” has a nice ring to it.

“Special night? Mr. Hunter is home early, and now you’ve bought him some drinks.”

“Maybe.” I give Paul a polite smile as I walk past his counter, remembering Ethan's words about not trusting the guy completely.

I’m glad to hear he's home, though. What a nice surprise. I was planning to hide the drinks in the fridge until he comes home, but now I can just give him his iced coffee while it's fresh.

I walk faster, eager to see Ethan. I enter the elevator with a drink in each hand, sticking a digit out for the fingerprint scanner so it will take me to the correct floor.

It’s funny how I get used to the little things. Yesterday, when we were at the office, it seemed strange to me that someone had to press a button for it to start moving. If I’m not careful, soon I’m going to end up just like those stuck-up celebrities I hate so much.

“Ethan?” I shout as soon as the elevator stops and the door opens. I make my way toward the living room, my heels click-clacking against the white marble floor, which looks golden as it’s bathed by the afternoon sun. I say again, “Ethan? Paul told me you’re already home.”

Strange. There’s no response. This place is big for an apartment, but it’s still small enough for my voice to be heard throughout. Maybe he’s in the shower?

As the living room comes into view, the corners of my lips pull up on their own.

I can see Ethan’s back. He’s sitting on the couch with his back to me. His dark hair traps the golden sunlight, making it appear light brown. He’s looking down, probably doing some work on his tablet or phone. He’s always so focused when he’s working.

““There you are,” I say. “Is Penny home, too?”

I step onto the rug, which muffles my steps. I’m glad I got dressed, even if I was only planning to buy coffee. I like looking pretty for Ethan.

“No, I told the driver to pick her up,” Ethan says in a serious voice.

“Oh, I could’ve done that if you couldn’t make it.” As I get closer, I raise the transparent plastic cup that contains Ethan’s black coffee, the dark liquid swishing inside with my every step.

“That wouldn’t do. Because I got home early to talk to you.” Ethan still doesn’t turn around to look at me.

Is this some kind of a game? Does he have a surprise for me? Is this some kind of a role play scenario, something I’ve only ever heard of in all of my twenty-one years?

When I finally see Ethan’s face, it becomes clear that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

His face is in the shadows, but it’s easy to make out the lowered dark eyebrows, the pinched bridge of his nose, and the horizontal lines across his forehead.

He’s worried, or angry, or concentrating hard on some complex problem. Or all three.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I lean down to place both cold cups on the coffee table. The wet condensation from the outside of those cups has stuck to my fingers, so I wipe it off on my skinny jeans before I take a seat.

“I don’t know. You should be the one doing the explaining here.” Ethan stares into the distance, even as he speaks to me. This feels impersonal, like how he used to treat me, back when we were just boss and assistant.

My chest pangs with pain at the lack of acknowledgement. He had been so sweet to me up until this morning. He kissed the back of my neck before getting ready for work.

Like the elevator fingerprint scanner, sweet Ethan hadn’t taken long for me to get used to. I was starting to forget what he used to be like, and now the old, distant Ethan is back.

“What’s going on?” My heart pounds in my chest as my mind races, trying to come up with all the things that could’ve gone wrong.

Did I forget to make up his bed this morning?

No, that can’t be it. He wouldn’t come home early just because of that. Besides, even if I forgot to make the bed, how could he have found out before getting home?

No, it has to be something more serious than that. Way more serious.

Did I leave any trace when I downloaded his files off his gadgets?

Was I recorded on any security cameras?

Did Ethan somehow find out about my mission to bring him down with an exposé? If so, that would be ironic, because I just ended it last night with a quick email to Michelle.

I stare at Ethan for some indication of what’s really happening, but he continues to ignore me. When he finally looks at me, he simply gestures at the stack of thick photography books on the coffee table.

At the top of the stack is a magazine that I haven’t noticed.

It’s thin.

It’s pink and yellow.

The headlines are written in big letters meant to grab attention at check-out lines across the country.

Oh my god. It’s the latest edition of The Goss.

And my face is on the cover, a little off to the side. There’s a small photo of me, Ethan, and Penny.

This can’t be good.

With a trembling hand, I lean forward and take the magazine. It won’t stop shaking, so I put it on my lap. But my legs can’t stay still either.

“Ethan Hunter’s Fake Family” is the title written right below our picture in bright yellow letters. Underneath that, between quotation marks, are the words: “Our marriage is a farce.”

Shit.

“Have you read this?” I ask, my voice shaking.

“Yeah.”

“What does it say?”

“Read it yourself.”

I want to tell him that it’s all a lie, that writers at gossip tabloids make up their own stories all the time.

But that means I’d have to tell him I used to work for one such publication—which also happens to be the one with my face on the cover.

My trembling hands don’t move as quickly as I want them to.

I curse the graphic designers who planned the layout of this magazine. I know those jerks have deliberately made it so there are distracting elements all over the place.

The whole magazine is a trap. It’s designed so the average shopper at the average grocery store would be intrigued by the cover, flip the pages to search for one specific story, and not be able to find it by the time she gets to the front of the line, forcing her to buy a copy.

Finally, I’m on the right page.

Jesus, the first two pages of the article look even worse than the cover.

“EXCLUSIVE” is printed across the top of the two pages in large, capital letters.

There’s a picture of us grabbing breakfast together as a family, and another one of just Ethan and me having dinner at that fancy place.

And there are screenshots. Too many screenshots.

They look familiar.

These are the emails that Michelle and I have been sending back and forth as we discussed the details of my proposed article on Ethan.

In this article, I say that I was “forced” into the marriage—in reality, what I wrote was “forced by unforeseen circumstances,” but of course that doesn’t sound as shocking, so the inconvenient bits have been censored.

I also complain about how much it sucks to work for Ethan. I talk about how he often wouldn’t even look at me, about how he has isolated himself on a separate floor, and about how he keeps a big distance from his staff.

In short, all the things that most of Ethan’s employees already know.

And then, just to make it incriminating, there’s one part where I tell Michelle about how Ethan’s ex-wife showed up at the apartment lobby and how Ethan ignored her. She left out the part of the email about how Ashley never sees Penny and only came here to threaten Ethan.

The only people who witnessed that exchange between Ethan and Ashley were Paul and me. But Paul wouldn’t know anything about Ethan’s habits at the office.

So the only suspect is me.

I realize Ethan has probably worked that out as well.

I slowly raise my gaze from the magazine. I’m afraid to look at Ethan, but I know I have to.

He deserves an explanation.

That’s what he’s waiting for now, as he looks out the glass walls at the city.

I hope the view helps him feel invincible. I hope it makes his problems seem small. I hope he doesn’t see this as an insurmountable obstacle. I even dare to hope that we could get back to the way we were this morning.

But is it fair to ask that of him?

If I were him, would I forgive this level of betrayal?

No, and no. The answers come from inside my own head, but I know they’re true.

I’ve crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed.