My Ex’s Sister Asked Me to Be Her Fake Fiancé at a Family Wedding, but One Hotel Bed Turned the Lie Into Something Neither of Us Could Take Back

Dinner on the terrace was a grueling marathon of passive-aggressive toasts, forced smiles, and distant relatives asking overly intrusive questions about our wedding plans—a date we hadn't actually discussed, given that we weren't even dating.

"So, fall or spring?" Aunt Margaret interrogated over the roasted sea bass, peering at us over her wine glass. "Autumn weddings in Oregon are dreadfully wet, of course. Mud everywhere. But spring is so cliché."

"We’re thinking about eloping on a private island in the middle of the Pacific," Brooke said with a completely straight face, casually spearing a potato. "Just the two of us, a priest, and a couple of sea turtles."

Eleanor choked slightly on her champagne. "Brooke Keller, you will do no such thing! A Keller daughter does not sneak off like a teenager! You will have a proper church wedding with three hundred guests, or I will personally disown you!"

"Threat noted, Mother," Brooke smiled sweetly.

By the time the last course of lemon tart was cleared away and the family began retiring to their rooms, my head was throbbing behind my eyes. Pretending to be deeply, madly in love while dodging conversational landmines was harder work than framing a roof in July.

"Save me," Brooke muttered as we finally escaped the terrace and walked down the dimly lit, carpeted hallway of the fourth floor.

"You started this," I reminded her, though I couldn't help the small grin pulling at the corner of my mouth.

"I didn't anticipate my mother booking a honeymoon suite with psychological warfare built into the decor."

We stopped in front of a heavy mahogany door with polished brass numbers: *402*.

I pulled the electronic key card from my pocket, swiped it through the lock, and pushed the door open.

The moment the automatic lights flickered on, both of us froze.

Eleanor Keller’s idea of a "honeymoon suite" was apparently designed by a romantic novelist who had suffered a severe head injury. The room was massive, dominated by a king-sized canopy bed draped in flowing white sheer curtains. Hundreds of silk rose petals were scattered in a trail across the dark hardwood floor leading straight to the mattress. On a silver ice bucket resting on a mahogany table sat a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon and two crystal flutes.

And in the far corner of the room, sitting innocently between a velvet sofa and a towering potted fern, was a single, lonely armchair.

Silence stretched between us for five agonizing seconds.

"Right," I cleared my throat, staring at the bed. "So. The armchair."

Brooke walked slowly into the room, her eyes wide as she surveyed the romantic massacre of rose petals and candlelight. She let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"My mother is clinically insane," she whispered.

"That’s not news, Brooke." I closed the door behind us with a soft click, the sound echoing heavily in the quiet suite. "The question is: who gets the bed?"

Brooke turned around, crossing her arms defensively. "I booked the fake engagement, but *you* are the one who agreed to play the part. Gentlemen give up the bed."

"Gentlemen also don't sleep in upright velvet chairs designed for medieval torture," I countered, walking over and pressing my hand against the back of the armchair. It was stiff, plush in the wrong places, and angled at an awkward ninety degrees. "I’m six-foot-two, Brooke. By morning, my spine will have fused into a permanent question mark."

"Well, I’m not sleeping in the chair! I have the back problems of a forty-year-old thanks to my office setup."

"Then I guess we have a logistical problem."

She glared at me, her eyes flashing in the warm amber light of the suite. "We can share the bed."

The sentence hung in the air, suspended between us like a physical charge.

I looked at the king-sized mattress, draped in white linen and scattered with rose petals. Then I looked back at Brooke. Her face was flushed, whether from anger or the sudden realization of what she had just proposed, I couldn't tell.

"Share the bed," I repeated slowly.

"With a strict boundary line down the middle," she added quickly, her voice rising an octave. "We put extra pillows in the center. A physical barrier. The Great Wall of China. We go to sleep, we wake up, we maintain our dignity, and we never, ever speak of this weekend again."

I stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Every instinct in my body—every warning bell that had kept me safe and single for two years—was screaming at the top of its lungs.