The invitation is cream-colored, embossed with gold script, and heavy enough to qualify as a weapon.

I stare at it for a full thirty seconds before the words register. Rachel Whitmore and David Chen request the pleasure of your company... Blah blah blah. June fourteenth. The Grand Ballroom at the Fairmont. Formal attire requested.

And at the bottom, in elegant calligraphy: Trevor Mitchell and Ashley Foster.

They RSVPed together.

My ex-boyfriend and my former roommate are attending Rachel's wedding as a couple.

I place the invitation on my kitchen counter very carefully. Then I walk to my bedroom, pick up a pillow, and scream into it until my throat hurts.

"Motherfucker," I whisper when I'm done.

Three years. Three years I gave Trevor Mitchell. I moved across the city for him. Turned down a job in San Francisco for him. Made myself smaller and quieter and easier for him, because he said I was "too much" sometimes, and I believed that being less would make him love me more.

And he repaid me by sleeping with Ashley for the last four months of our relationship.

In my apartment. While I was at work. In my bed.

I found out because Ashley accidentally texted me instead of him. Can't wait for tonight. Willow's at that staff meeting until nine, right?

That was four months ago. I've rebuilt most of my life since then. New apartment, tiny, but mine. New routines. New throw pillows and a plant I haven't killed yet.

But apparently not new enough to skip the wedding of one of my oldest friends, where my cheating ex will be parading around with the woman he chose over me.

I call Hannah before I can talk myself out of it.

"What's wrong?" she answers. No hello. That's how well she knows me.

"The invitation came."

"Rachel's wedding?" A pause. "Oh, shit. They RSVPed."

"Together."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

I hear rustling on her end, she's probably pacing. Hannah Tate doesn't do anything sitting still. "Okay. Options. You could skip it."

"Rachel would never forgive me. We've been friends since freshman year."

"You could go alone. Show him you're thriving."

"He'd see right through me. You know he would." I hate admitting it, but Trevor always could read me. "He'd know I was miserable, and he'd get that little smug look, and Ashley would pretend to feel sorry for me, and I'd have to commit murder at a five-star hotel."

"Jail's not a good look for you."

"Agreed."

Hannah goes quiet. When she speaks again, her voice has that particular tone, the one that means she's scheming.

"What if you had a date?"

"I'm not dating anyone."

"But what if you were? What if you showed up with someone so impressive, so obscenely hot, that Trevor's entire face collapsed?"

"Hannah."

"I'm just saying. The best revenge is living well. And what looks better than moving on with someone spectacular?"

I sink onto my couch. The invitation glares at me from the kitchen. "Where exactly am I supposed to find someone spectacular in the next three weeks?"

"Six weeks. The wedding's June fourteenth."

"Fine. Five weeks. That doesn't answer my question."

"Actually..." She stretches the word like taffy. "I might know someone."

"Who?"

"Someone who needs a fake girlfriend."

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

"He's a hockey player. One of the Seattle Titans. His grandmother is sick, like, dying sick, and her last wish is to see him settle down with someone nice. He doesn't have time to actually date, so he's looking for someone to play the part for a few weeks."

"Hannah, that's insane."

"Is it? You need a date. He needs a girlfriend. Six weeks, mutual benefit, everybody wins."

"I don't know anything about hockey."

"You can Google."

"I don't know anything about him."

"You'd learn. Willow, listen." Her voice softens. "I've worked with this guy's team for two years. He's quiet, he's decent, and he's genuinely desperate. His grandmother raised him after his parents died. Watching her go is breaking him. He just needs someone to make her happy in the time she has left."

A pang settles under my ribs. I know about wanting to make people happy. About doing whatever it takes.

"What's in it for me? Besides revenge on Trevor, which I'm not saying isn't tempting."

"You get to show up at that wedding with a professional athlete on your arm. Someone tall and built and successful. Trevor's a project manager at a consulting firm. There's no competition."

I chew my lip. "This feels like the plot of a bad movie."

"The best rom-coms are the ones based on truth."

"That's not, I don't think that's how that saying goes."

"Close enough. Look, just meet him. One coffee. If you hate each other, no harm done. But if it works..." She trails off, letting me fill in the blanks.

Trevor's face when I walk in with someone like that.

Ashley's jealousy, for once.

The satisfaction of being the one who moved on first, who moved on better.

"One coffee," I say.

"One coffee," Hannah confirms. "I'll set it up."

She hangs up before I can change my mind, which is probably intentional.

I stare at my phone. At the invitation. At the reality that I'm apparently considering a fake relationship with a complete stranger.

This is either going to be the smartest thing I've ever done, or a spectacular disaster.

Knowing my luck, probably both.

The coffee shop Hannah chooses is upscale but not pretentious, industrial brick and exposed beams, the kind of place where they remember your order and judge you gently for it. I arrive fifteen minutes early because I'm incapable of being on time for anything important. Better to wait than to rush.

I find a table near the back and order a chai latte that I have no intention of drinking. My stomach is doing something complicated that precludes caffeine.

What am I doing here?

The question loops in my head as I wait. I'm a second-grade teacher. I spend my days breaking up fights over crayons and convincing seven-year-olds that vegetables won't kill them. I'm not the kind of person who has fake relationships with professional athletes. I grade spelling tests and cry at commercials about dogs.

I check my watch. Ten minutes.

I should leave. This is ridiculous. Trevor can have his smug face and Ashley can have her guilt-adjacent sympathy, and I can survive one evening of being the sad single friend at the table. It won't kill me.

Probably.

The door opens.

I look up without thinking, and my brain short-circuits.

He's enormous. That's my first thought. Not just tall, though he's definitely tall, well over six feet, but wide. Shoulders that look like they could take out a doorframe. Arms that strain against his simple gray henley.

Sandy brown hair, slightly messy. Blue-gray eyes that scan the room with quiet intensity. A face that would be handsome if it weren't so serious, strong features, the kind of face that didn't soften for strangers.

He spots me. I know because his gaze stops, assesses, and something in his expression shifts, resignation, maybe, or determination.

He walks over.

"Willow?" His voice is deeper than I expected. Quieter.

"That's me." I stand, awkwardly, and knock my knee against the table. "You must be Finn."

"Yeah." He doesn't smile. Just pulls out the chair across from me and sits. "Hannah said you needed a date to something."

"A wedding."

"Right."

Silence. He doesn't seem uncomfortable with it, which makes one of us.

"So," I say, because someone has to. "Your grandmother."

His expression flickers. Just for a second, something vulnerable breaks through before the mask comes back. "She's dying. Heart failure. Doctors say maybe three months, maybe less."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks." He says it flatly, like he's heard it a thousand times and stopped believing it helps. "Her last wish is to see me settled. With someone good. She worries."

"And you can't actually... date someone?"

"I play eighty-two games a year, plus playoffs. Practice six days a week. Road trips every other week. I don't have time to date. I barely have time to sleep." He shrugs. "Hannah said you might be willing to pretend."

"For a few weeks."

"Six, ideally. Long enough to make Nana happy. Long enough for your wedding."

I nod slowly. "And what would I have to do, exactly?"

"Meet her. Maybe twice a week. Be nice. Let her think I finally found someone." He pauses. "Come to a few games, if you can. The team's starting to ask questions."

"About your love life?"

"About why I never have one."

I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching. "Hockey players gossip?"

For the first time, something like humor crosses his face. "Like teenage girls."

I take a sip of my chai. It's cooled to lukewarm, I've been here longer than I realized. "What's in it for me? Besides the obvious."

"You said you needed revenge." Not a question.

"I said I needed a date. Hannah added the revenge part."

"Same thing." He leans back in his chair. "You show up with me, your ex looks bad. That's the deal."

"Blunt."

"Efficient."

I study him. He's not what I expected. Not charming or smooth or any of the things I'd associate with a professional athlete. He's just... direct. Honest in a way that feels almost aggressive after three years with a man who never said what he meant.

"If we did this," I say carefully, "there would need to be rules."

"Of course."

"No actual... involvement. This is business."

"Agreed."

"And when it's over, it's over. Clean break. No drama."

"I don't do drama."

I believe him. Something about the way he holds himself, the economy of his words, this is a man who doesn't have room in his life for complications.

"Can I think about it?"

He nods. Doesn't push. "Hannah has my number. Let me know by Friday."

He stands, and I realize we've been talking for maybe ten minutes. The conversation should feel incomplete, but somehow it doesn't. We've covered the essentials. Everything else is logistics.

"Finn."

He pauses.

"Thank you for meeting me. I know this is weird."

Something softens in his face. Just a fraction. "Your ex is an idiot."

Then he's gone, leaving me with my cold chai and a business proposition that feels strangely like possibility.

I call Hannah from my car.

"Well?"

"He's..." I search for the right word. "Intense."

"That's Finn. He's not good at small talk."

"I noticed."

"But he's good at keeping his word. If he says he'll do something, he does it. If you agree to this, he won't bail on you."

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. "He said his grandmother has maybe three months."

"Maybe less. She's been declining for a while."

"That's..." I swallow. "That's really sad, Hannah."

"Yeah." Her voice goes quiet. "He's been a wreck, honestly. The guys on the team are worried about him. This is the first time I've seen him motivated to do anything besides show up for games."

"Making his grandmother happy."

"Exactly." A pause. "Look, I wouldn't have suggested this if I didn't think it could work. You're kind, Willow. You're genuine. Nana will see that. And Finn... he needs someone who's not going to make this harder than it has to be."

I think about the way he looked when he mentioned her. That flash of vulnerability before the walls came back up.

"I'll do it," I say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. One wedding, one dying wish, six weeks of pretending. How hard can it be?"

Hannah laughs. "Famous last words."

She's probably right.

But when I get home and look at that invitation again, all I can see is Trevor's face when I walk in with Finn Anderson on my arm.

Worth it.