I stare at the suitcase as Megan speaks with a woman who seems to be her mom.

“Where do you think you're going?” I ask, terrified that I might've missed her had I come just a few minutes later.

“I, uh, I’m moving,” she says as her mom walks back inside the house.

It's a humble house in the outskirts of the city. For some reason, I never expected Megan to live in a place like this. She always looks so glamorous that I forget she doesn't usually live the way she did at my home.

“Yeah, I can see that.” I glance at the luggage, then back at her beautiful face.

That beautiful, infuriating face. I want to scream at her for leaving without telling me and for planning to use my life as fodder for her article.

At the same time, I want to grab her and hold her tight, maybe even handcuff our wrists together, so she’ll never leave my side again. I repeat my question, “But where do you think you're going?”

“Chicago,” she says softly, shock still freezing her tongue. She’s dressed in a casual pair of skinny jeans, a white shirt, and low heels. Pretty low-key for Megan; no doubt it’s because she was about to get on a plane.

“Chicago? You were going to move to the other side of the country? And you weren’t even going to tell me?” I can’t help but raise my voice, although I remind myself to hold back in case Megan’s parents could hear us.

If everything goes well, I’ll be seeing them a lot so I don’t want to make a bad impression. Come to think of it, they’re already my in-laws right now, even if they don’t know it yet.

Judging from Megan’s mom’s reaction when she saw me, she probably doesn’t know who I am, which means Megan hasn’t told her and she doesn’t keep up with the news.

I find it strange that she doesn't read her own daughter’s writing, but that's not the important thing here.

The important thing is Megan's about to leave, and I need to stop her.

“I didn't think you'd care,” she says.

“Well, I’m here, so obviously I do.”

She looks at me like she still can't quite believe I’m standing right in front of her. If she wants to touch me to make sure I’m not only here in her imagination, I wouldn't object to that.

“Is it true?” I ask.

“Is what true?”

“Your article. Is it all true?”

“Yes,” she says, fixing her brilliant blue eyes on me. She's telling the truth.

“Or did you write it just to get published?” I feel bad for accusing her of trying to take advantage of her fifteen minutes of fame, but I need to hear her say it.

“No,” she answers quickly, an offended frown on her forehead. “I wasn't planning on publishing anything about you. That's what I told Michelle, the editor at The Goss, and that's why I left.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“Because I couldn't do that to you, after getting to know you,” she says, using the same words she did in the article.

These words may not sound like much. But I know Megan, even if she thinks she has been hiding herself pretty well from me. The truth is, as soon as I let myself see her as a woman and not as an employee, I started to see her—really see her.

She's too ambitious and organized to end a project prematurely for no reason.

During her time as my assistant, she never so much as misscheduled an appointment, or even forgotten to pick up a piece of laundry. If that's the kind of dedication she shows for an undercover job, she must place even more importance in doing her actual job as a journalist.

And, like me, she keeps her distance from people.

Even though she worked alone with me on our separate floor, she could've hung out with the staff from the other floors. My previous assistants used to do that. But Megan was always content to sit alone at her desk.

Whether as my assistant, my fake wife, or my real lover, Megan has never volunteered much information about herself. She tends to make understatements.

Which means that, when she says she says, “I couldn't do that to you, after getting to know you,” it means... It means she has real feelings for me.

Perhaps I should've known this because she gave me her virginity. But in my defense, you’d be surprised by the number of women out there who’d sleep with rich, successful men and consider it some kind of an achievement, like a tick on the old bucket list.

But Megan's different. She's more serious than most girls her age. Hell, she's more mature than many women my age.

I'm confident in her feelings for me. We have the kind of connection that can't be faked. The only thing I don't know is, will she come back to me, or is she too proud to do that?

“And yet you left without even saying goodbye. How do you think that made me feel?” I ask.

“I… I…” Megan looks around, perplexed by my question. She pauses before softly saying, “Honestly, I didn't think you'd want to see me again.”

“You should've asked me.”

“You went off on me and you drank in your room for the rest of the night.”

“I’d just found out something disturbing about this girl, whom I thought was the best thing to have happened to me in a long time. Give a guy a break.”

“I thought that was what I was doing.”

“Well, you thought wrong. The last thing I wanted was for you to give me a forwarding address for me to send the divorce papers to. In what way would divorce be a way to make someone feel better?”

“It wasn't even a real marriage,” Megan snaps. Good.Maybe now she’ll tell me what's really on her mind. “It wasn't like you actually wanted to be with me. We just had to put on a show for the media. When the media found out it was just a charade, you had no use for me.”

“No use for you?” I repeat. “Jesus, Megan, what kind of an asshole do you take me for? Did you think I was just using you? In your letter, you said it was wishful thinking, for you to imagine that we could last. Why? Why would you not give us a fighting chance?”

“I didn't think—”

“Stop thinking,” I cut her off. “Stop thinking for once and listen to your heart. What do you feel?”

“I… I don't know what kind of an answer you're looking for here.”

“Do you really feel like I was just playing with you?” My heart clenches.

Megan hesitates. “No,” she finally says.

“And were you just pretending, when we were together?” I hold my breath, afraid to move a finger. I don't want to miss her answer.

“No,” she says softly.

“So why would you think I was?”

“I don't know. I mean, you're…well, you. And I’m just me.”

My heart breaks at her answer, and I have to fight the overwhelming urge to pull her into my arms. I have one more question before I feel comfortable taking her back.

“Why me?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you go undercover specifically to write about me? Why did you choose me? Why not someone else?”

“Because I hated you,” she says matter-of-factly, driving a million blades into my chest.

What the fuck does that mean?