If someone ever writes a handbook titled "How to Survive a Dinner with Your PR Husband," I'd like to write the foreword.
Rule #1: Don't make eye contact when he's in CEO mode.Rule #2: Never trust a "small corporate dinner."Rule #3: When he says "just behave," that's your cue to cause chaos. 😌
So here I am — at a five-star restaurant that looks like a museum had a baby with an overpriced candle shop. Chandeliers sparkle, violins hum, and I'm seated next to Mr. Emotionally Frozen Finance King, aka Darian Malhotra.
We're surrounded by people in suits who say things like "synergy" and "capital infusion" with straight faces. My personal hell.
I reach for the breadbasket. Darian stops me. "That's the decorative bread."
I blink. "Decorative?"
"For display only."
"Then why put it on the table? That's false advertising."
He exhales through his nose. "Lyra."
"What?" I whisper. "You brought me here. This is on you."
Across the table, one of his board members leans forward, smiling at me. "Mrs. Malhotra, it's lovely to finally meet you. You're quite… spirited."
"Oh, I'm practically a storm in heels," I reply with a grin.
Darian's fingers tighten slightly around his wine glass. "She's joking," he says quickly.
"Am I?" I ask sweetly.
The boardroom laughs. Darian looks like he's mentally drafting my obituary.
Dinner goes downhill fast.
I'm bored. He's tense. And someone somewhere thought it was a good idea to serve us twelve different kinds of lettuce.
When I accidentally knock over a fork, Darian whispers, "Can you please try not to attract attention?"
I raise an eyebrow. "We're literally trending daily. Attention is our brand."
His jaw tightens. "Not this kind of attention."
"Oh relax," I say, leaning back. "What's the worst that can happen? Someone thinks we actually talk to each other?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he politely smiles at the next question from a client: "So, Mr. Malhotra, how's married life?"
"It's… steady," he says.
"Steady?" I repeat loudly. "That's what you call a Wi-Fi connection, not a marriage."
The table goes silent.
Then, laughter. Real, genuine laughter.
Even the client grins. "She's delightful."
Darian looks at me like he's trying to figure out if poison in small doses is legal.
Halfway through the main course, I drop my napkin, and as I bend to grab it, the waiter accidentally spills champagne—right into my lap.
I gasp, jumping up. "OH PERFECT. Now I smell like regret and luxury."
The waiter stammers apologies. I wave him off with a laugh, but Darian's already up, his jaw clenched.
"It's fine," I tell him, blotting at the mess. "No one died. Except maybe my dignity."
But instead of snapping, he takes off his jacket — his very expensive jacket — and drapes it over my shoulders.
The entire table sighs in collective awe.
One woman whispers, "He's so caring!"
I blink. "Wait, no, he's not—"
Darian cuts in smoothly, voice low and gentle for the audience. "Careful, Lyra. You'll catch a chill."
He says it so convincingly that for one stupid second, I almost believe it.
Almost.
After dessert, a reporter from The Daily Pulse appears like a mosquito with a camera.
"Mr. and Mrs. Malhotra!" she gushes. "Quick photo? Just one for the #PowerCouple feature!"
I'm about to refuse, but Darian nods, sliding an arm around my waist.
"Smile," he murmurs.
"Fake it?" I ask under my breath.
"Always."
We pose. Flash. Smile. Flash.
And just as I'm about to step away, he leans in — close enough for it to look intimate — and whispers, "Now everyone thinks we adore each other. Happy?"
I smirk. "Thrilled. The PR gods will write sonnets about this."
By the time we get home, my feet hurt, my cheeks ache from fake smiling, and the internet has already exploded:
"THE WAY HE PUT HIS JACKET ON HER 😭❤️""They're so in love 😩.""When will I find my Darian???"
I flop onto the couch. "You realize you accidentally gave me a husband upgrade tonight?"
He loosens his tie, sighing. "You turned a formal dinner into a circus."
"And you played along," I shoot back.
He glances at me, something unreadable in his eyes. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
I grin. "A little. You looked almost human."
"Don't push it."
"Oh please," I tease, "you even smiled when I called the salad depressing."
"That was a grimace."
"Same thing."
A notification buzzes on my phone — a clip of our dinner video already has over a million views.Someone captioned it:
"Find someone who looks at you the way Darian looks at Lyra when she's roasting him." 😍
I snort. "We're officially the internet's favorite therapy couple."
He shakes his head, half smiling despite himself. "You're impossible."
I shoot finger guns at him. "And you married it."
He opens his mouth to reply — then stops.
"Lyra," he says quietly, "for what it's worth… you handled yourself well tonight."
My heart does an annoying little skip. Compliment? From him?
I shrug, pretending it's nothing. "I know. I'm amazing."
He chuckles softly. "Unbearable, but amazing."
And just like that, something soft flickers between us.Not the loud, chaotic chemistry we show online — something quieter.Real. Dangerous.