“I need a husband. Quickly. You need stability. I can give you a home, clothes, food, and money. In return, you pretend to be in love with me long enough to get my parents off my back. That’s it. No romance. No strings. Just an arrangement.”
He stared at me like I had lost my mind.
And maybe I had.
“Lady,” he said after a long pause, “you cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
He studied my face a little longer, probably trying to figure out whether I was cruel, unstable, or both.
“I’m Stan,” he said finally.
“Miley.”
He gave a short laugh, half disbelief, half surrender. “You know what? Fine. Why not. I’ve had worse offers from life.”
That was how it began.
I took him shopping the next day. Then to a barber. Then to a decent restaurant where he ate like a man trying not to look too hungry. Under the dirt and beard was a face I hadn’t expected — handsome, sharp, and strangely familiar in the way some people seem instantly easier to trust than they should.
Three days later, I introduced him to my parents as my secret fiancé.
They were ecstatic.
My mother nearly cried. My father shook Stan’s hand like he’d personally delivered a miracle. And Stan, to his credit, played his role perfectly. He was charming, warm, attentive, and somehow believable enough that even I almost forgot we’d met on a sidewalk.
A month later, we were married.
I insisted on a thorough prenup. I was impulsive, not foolish. But once the paperwork was signed and the performance settled into routine, something unexpected happened.
Living with Stan was… easy.
Too easy.
He was funny without trying hard. Helpful without making a show of it. He cooked. Fixed things. Asked thoughtful questions. Gave me space when I wanted it. We became something like friends, then something even more dangerous — comfortable.
The only thing that never changed was the wall that came up whenever I asked about his past.
If I asked how he ended up homeless, his whole expression shifted. His eyes would go flat, and he’d redirect the conversation so smoothly it almost felt rehearsed.
I told myself not to care.
This wasn’t supposed to be real.
Then one evening, about a month after the wedding, I came home from work and found rose petals scattered across the entryway floor.
At first I thought I’d entered the wrong house.
The trail led into the living room, where I stopped dead.
Roses were everywhere. On the table. Across the mantel. Around the windows. In the center of the room, a huge heart had been made from petals across the floor.
And standing in the middle of it all was Stan.
