1230010004500_

The rain in Seattle doesn’t just fall; it colonizes. It claims the glass of my studio windows in rhythmic, insistent pulses, blurring the neon glow of the Belltown district into a smeared watercolor of electric blues and bruised purples. Tonight, the atmosphere inside is thick with the sharp, medicinal tang of turpentine and the heavy, botanical scent of the gin I’ve been nursing for the last hour.

I sat on my battered velvet sofa—a thrift store find that smelled faintly of someone else’s 1970s cigarette smoke—and stared at the center of my coffee table. There, arranged in a neat, suffocating row, were three invitations. They were printed on heavy, cream-colored cardstock, the kind of paper that felt like a threat when you held it. The calligraphy was sharp, slanted, and unmistakably my mother’s.

Eleanor Vance didn’t send emails. She sent summons.

*The Northwest Conservatory Gala. The Sterling-Vance Merger Soirée. The Autumnal Equinox Fundraiser.*

Each one was a trap. Each one was a carefully curated stage where I was expected to play the role of the "reformed" daughter—the one who had finally traded her digital tablet and leather jackets for a strand of pearls and a husband with a trust fund.

I took a slow, deliberate sip of the gin. It burned in a way that felt honest. The coldness of the ice cube pressed against my lip was a stark contrast to the simmering, low-grade fever of anxiety that had been blooming in my chest since the mail arrived. I was twenty-six years old, an artist whose work was finally starting to sell in the underground galleries, yet in my mother’s eyes, I was still a glitch in her perfectly programmed social software.

I looked at my reflection in the darkened window. I had spent years cultivating the "Cool Girl" persona. It was my armor. The messy, raven-black bob, the oversized denim jackets, the sharp, dismissive wit that kept people at an arm’s length. I was the girl who didn’t care, the girl who was too busy creating to be bothered by the trivialities of the elite. But as I looked at those invitations, I realized the armor was thinning. Eleanor was getting louder, her phone calls more frequent, her "suggestions" for blind dates more like ultimatums.

"I need a shield," I whispered to the empty room. My voice sounded small against the drumming of the rain. "Not a boyfriend. A barricade."

I set the glass down on a coaster—a habit my mother had drilled into me that I couldn't seem to break, even in my rebellion—and reached for my phone. The screen’s blue light felt sterile and intrusive in the amber-lit studio.

I didn't go to Tinder. I didn't go to Hinge. Those were for people looking for connection, for sparks, for the messy reality of human emotion. I needed a transaction. I needed a professional.

I opened an app that didn't have a name on the home screen, just a minimalist icon of a silver key. *Vanguard.* It was a discreet, high-end service I’d heard about through a cynical gallery owner in SoHo. It wasn't an escort service in the traditional sense; it was a "social placement agency." They provided companions for the people who had everything but the right person to stand next to them at a board meeting or a funeral.

My thumb hovered over the screen. The prices were astronomical—monthly retainers that cost more than my studio’s annual rent. But I had the savings from my last commission, a mural for a tech giant that I’d hated painting but had been paid handsomely for. It was blood money. It felt fitting to spend it on a lie.

I scrolled through the profiles. They were all perfect. Too perfect. Men with bright, artificial smiles and bios that read like LinkedIn summaries. They looked like the kind of men Eleanor would love, which meant they were the kind of men I would find intolerable within five minutes.

And then, I saw him.

The profile was sparse. No staged smile. No list of hobbies or "ideal date nights." Just a single, candid-style photograph and a name: *Julian.*

He was sitting at a dark wood bar, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, looking away from the camera. The lighting was moody, casting deep shadows across a jawline that looked like it had been carved from granite. His hair was dark, slightly overgrown, falling over his forehead in a way that suggested he couldn't be bothered with a stylist. But it was his eyes that stopped my breath. Even in a low-resolution photo, they looked cold—not empty, but chillingly observant. He looked bored, arrogant, and entirely dangerous.

He didn't look like a "plus-one." He looked like the man who owned the room and was currently deciding whether or not to burn it down.

*Julian. University Senior. Specialties: High-Stakes Social Adaptation, Crisis Management, Long-Term Narrative Construction.*

His hourly rate was double the others. His "Blackout" retainer—full-time availability for thirty days—was a number that made my stomach do a slow, nauseous roll.

I thought about the gala. I thought about Eleanor’s hand on my shoulder, her voice whispering in my ear about "stability" and "legacy" while she introduced me to the next suit-clad disappointment. I thought about the way she looked at my paint-stained cuticles with a pity that felt like a serrated blade.

I looked back at Julian’s face. He was beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful—something you watch from behind reinforced glass. He was the perfect weapon. He was the only thing I could imagine that would be louder than my mother’s expectations.

My finger didn't tremble as I tapped the "Book" icon. I didn't hesitate as I entered my credit card details.

The app processed the payment with a quiet, digital *ping*. A notification appeared on the screen immediately.

**[BOOKING CONFIRMED: JULIAN]**

*A representative will contact you within the hour to finalize the contract and non-disclosure agreements. Welcome to Vanguard.*

I leaned back, the gin finally starting to numb the edges of my mind. The rain continued its assault on the glass, but for the first time in months, the studio didn't feel quite so small. I had bought myself a month of peace. I had hired a ghost to haunt my mother’s dreams.

I just didn't realize yet that when you invite a ghost into your home, you don't get to choose which rooms he stays in.

I Hired a Fake Boyfriend… But He Was a Rich Heir

Comentarios