"There are worse ways to start your morning than finding your face plastered all over a tabloid. I just couldn't think of any at 7:00 a.m. on a Monday."
I stared at my phone, the coffee mug in my hands cooling as I read the headline for the third time. "Heiress Lila Harper and Bad-Boy Husband Heading for Divorce?" The article was accompanied by an unflattering photo of me scowling at Jackson during last week's charity auction. He, of course, was laughing, holding a glass of champagne, and looking annoyingly good in a tux.
I scrolled down, bracing myself for the rest of the article. "Sources close to the couple reveal that cracks are forming in their whirlwind romance. Carter, known for his reckless past, is said to be struggling to adjust to Harper's high-society lifestyle. Meanwhile, insiders suggest Harper's family is pressuring her to reconsider the marriage entirely."
"Cracks?" I muttered under my breath. "We're not cracked. We're… temporarily unhinged."
The comments section was worse. It always was. "They were doomed from the start." "She's way too uptight for him." "Why does she look like she's planning his funeral in every picture?"
Lovely. Nothing like strangers diagnosing your relationship problems before breakfast.
As if on cue, Jackson strolled into the kitchen, shirtless and eating an apple, looking like the human embodiment of chaos. His hair was a mess, sticking up like he'd slept upside down, and he had that lazy smirk on his face that made me want to both punch him and… never mind.
"Morning, Mrs. Carter," he said, leaning casually against the counter. "What's got you glaring at your phone like it insulted your family?"
I held it up. "This. This got me glaring."
He leaned over my shoulder, his messy hair brushing against my cheek. "Oh, nice. They used my good side. I was worried they'd go with that angle where I look like I'm about to rob a liquor store."
"Jackson, they're saying we're getting a divorce."
He shrugged, taking another bite of his apple. "Let 'em. Keeps things interesting."
"Do you care about anything?"
"Yeah." He set the apple down, grabbed the mug out of my hands, and took a sip of my coffee. His face immediately twisted in disgust. "Not this coffee, though. Did you brew regret?"
---
Before I could launch into a lecture about the concept of media optics, my phone buzzed. The name Mom flashed across the screen. Perfect.
I sighed and answered. "Hi, Mom."
"Lila! Have you seen the papers?" Margaret Harper's voice was so loud, Jackson winced across the room.
"Yes, Mother. I've seen them."
"Well, do something about it! The investors are already jittery after the last scandal, and now this? The tabloids are calling your marriage unstable. Unstable!"
I glanced at Jackson, who was now balancing his coffee mug on his head like some kind of circus act. Okay, maybe she had a point.
"Mom, it's just a rumor," I said. "No one believes it."
"I believe it," she snapped. "You two need to shut this nonsense down immediately. Issue a statement. Better yet, do a public appearance. Something respectable. Show them you're… cohesive."
Jackson perked up at that. "Ooh, can we renew our vows? I've been practicing my speech. 'Lila, I vow to always eat the last slice of pizza and blame it on you.'"
I held up a finger to shush him, which only made him grin wider. "Mom, I'll handle it. I promise."
"You'd better," Margaret said, and hung up before I could respond.
I set the phone down and rubbed my temples. "Okay, we need a plan."
Jackson, still holding the mug on his head, gave me an exaggerated bow. "Allow me to assist, Mrs. Carter. Step one: stop caring about what a bunch of tabloids think. Step two: coffee that doesn't taste like despair."
"This isn't a joke, Jackson!" I snapped. "If the investors think we're falling apart, they'll use it as an excuse to pull out. My family's company—my entire career—depends on us looking stable."
He tilted his head, studying me for a moment. "Alright, alright. Don't blow a gasket. What's the plan, Captain Reputation?"
---
Before I could answer, the doorbell rang. I marched over, muttering under my breath about early morning interruptions, and yanked it open. A deliveryman stood on the doorstep, holding the biggest bouquet of red roses I'd ever seen.
"For Mrs. Carter," he said, handing them over.
I blinked. "Uh… thanks?"
Jackson appeared behind me, peering over my shoulder. "Wow. If I didn't know better, I'd think someone's trying to bribe their way out of trouble."
I set the roses on the counter and plucked the card out of the bouquet. The handwriting was loopy, overly dramatic. "To my beautiful wife, who's too good for the likes of me. Love, your adoring husband."
I stared at the card, then at Jackson. "You sent these?"
He grinned, leaning casually against the counter. "Guilty as charged. Figured we could use a little good press. Nothing says 'stable marriage' like obnoxiously large flowers, right?"
"You don't even like roses."
"Exactly. That's how you know I'm committed."
I wanted to be mad. I really did. But the absurdity of it all made me laugh instead.
"Alright, fine," I said. "What's step two of your genius PR plan? More flowers? A public serenade?"
"Close," he said, eyes glinting with mischief. "Step two is PDA. Big, dramatic, tabloid-worthy PDA."
---
I groaned. "Public displays of affection? You're kidding."
"Absolutely not. We need to lean into this whole 'power couple' thing. Go full Kardashian. Hand-holding, smooching, maybe a stroll in the park. Bonus points if we get a puppy."
I folded my arms. "No puppies. No smooching. And definitely no hand-holding."
"Come on, Mrs. Carter. You want to save the company, right? This'll work."
I narrowed my eyes. "If we're doing this, we're doing it my way. Subtle. Classy. Controlled."
Jackson gave me a mock salute. "Whatever you say, Captain. Just don't blame me when subtle doesn't sell."
---
Later that day, Jackson dragged me to a café downtown for our first "PDA experiment." The plan was simple: sit outside, hold hands, and look happy. Or, as Jackson put it, "Pretend we're the poster kids for a rom-com."
The execution? Not so simple.
Jackson leaned across the table, covering my hand with his, his expression warm and adoring. It was almost believable—until he winked at the paparazzi across the street.
"Stop making eye contact with them," I hissed through clenched teeth.
"Why? I'm nailing this husband role."
"You're supposed to be nailing the romance, not mugging for the cameras."
"Oh, there's plenty of romance," he said, grinning. "You smell like coffee and rage. It's intoxicating."
The flashbulbs popped. The whispers swirled. And just like that, we became the center of the media's attention once again.
---
"Rumors, roses, and ridiculous plans. This was my life now, and somehow, Jackson Carter had turned it into a circus I couldn't escape. The worst part? I wasn't sure I wanted to."