Business marriage with BFF
Description
When Rae Valmont's grandmother offers her the family company-on the condition she proves "stability" by settling down-Rae panics and lies: she already has a serious boyfriend. The problem? She doesn't. The solution? Ask her best friend and business partner Miles to fake-date her while she dodges both her controlling father and the annoyingly handsome merger candidate her grandmother keeps pushing. What starts as a simple arrangement with clear boundaries (no kissing, no surprise touching, regular check-ins) quickly becomes complicated when pretending to be in love starts feeling less like acting and more like finally telling the truth. Now Rae has to choose between the safe path that protects everything she's built and the terrifying possibility that the best relationship of her life has been hiding in plain sight for years.
Chapter 1
Dec 11, 2025
[Rae’s POV]
The bouquet I'm death-gripping costs more than most people's car payments. Freesia for honesty and ivy for commitment—passive-aggressive flower language at its finest.
Grandmother Beatrice's townhouse is Downton Abbey meets Restoration Hardware. She's holding court in her sunroom, surrounded by orchids with trust funds.
"Aurelia." She doesn't look up from pruning. "You brought flowers to a woman who owns a botanical garden. Bold."
"I brought symbolism to a woman who appreciates subtext." I set the arrangement on her marble side table. "Also, your orchids are showing nitrogen deficiency."
That gets her attention. Beatrice Valmont, seventy-two and sharp enough to perform surgery with her tongue, actually smiles. "Sit. We have business."
The tea service costs more than my startup's annual budget, but I've learned not to flinch. That's the test.
"I'm retiring," she announces, like she's mentioning weather instead of upending my entire world. "And I need to name my successor soon."
My heart does something medically inadvisable. "Beatrice—"
"It could be you, darling. Should be you, not your father." She sips her tea with the satisfaction of someone who just lit an expensive fuse. "Laurent is brilliant with numbers but terrible with people. You have your mother's gift for seeing what others miss. But the board needs convincing."
I almost drop my teacup. She never mentions my mother. Nobody mentions my mother. Not since she vanished when I was fifteen, leaving behind nothing but bruised silence and Father's controlled fury.
"There's a condition," Beatrice continues, because of course there is. "You need to prove to the board that you have stability. They want reassurance before I can name you."
"Florisight is stable."
"Not your flower shop, darling. You." She sets down her cup with a decisive clink. "They want to see you settled. Partnered. The word they used was 'grounded,' which we both know is code for 'married.' Without that, it defaults to Laurent."
The laugh that escapes me could strip paint. "You're joking."
"I never joke about money, dear. It's gauche." She reaches for a folder that's been sitting there like a landmine. "Which is why I've taken the liberty of arranging something suitable. Dorian Hale."
The name triggers memories. To my mind, he's still the eleven-year-old with a 'world revolves around me' attitude. And now he's supposed to be my arranged husband?
Beatrice slides a photo across the table. Of course Dorian Hale looks genetically engineered for mergers—amber eyes, perfect jaw, broad shoulders. The self-importance practically radiates from the photo.
"His family's stake would complement ours perfectly," Beatrice continues. "End the shareholder feuds, stabilize the market, give you the backing you need—"
"No." The word comes out harder than intended. "I'm not playing this game with arranged marriage. I watched it destroy my parents, and I won't—"
"Then Laurent gets it by default." Her voice is silk over steel. "Those are the only two options, dear. Prove you can partner appropriately or watch your father take everything."
My mind races through possibilities. I can't let my father win—not after he drove my mother away with his win-at-all-costs philosophy. But marriage as a merger? That's the trap I've spent years avoiding.
"What if I'm already seeing someone?" The lie slides out smoothly. "What if we're already discussing marriage?"
Beatrice's eyebrow lifts microscopically. "Do tell."
"We've been keeping it quiet. Professional reasons." I'm improvising now, jazz-handing through disaster. "But it's serious. Marriage-conversation serious."
She studies me like I'm one of her orchids, checking for rot. "I'll need to meet him then. Tomorrow. Brunch."
"Tomorrow?"
"Unless this mysterious boyfriend has scheduling conflicts?" Her smile could weaponize honey. "Oh, and Aurelia? I'd advise you to keep your options open until everything is settled. For appearances. The board likes options."
"You want me to parade both of them around like romantic democracy?"
"I want you to prove you can handle complex stakeholder management." She returns to pruning. "Consider it your audition for CEO."
I leave her townhouse with dignity hanging by a thread. The drive to Florisight's warehouse takes twenty minutes, enough time to spiral through every possible fake boyfriend candidate. My options are limited to men who won't sell this story to TMZ—approximately nobody.
The warehouse is freezing—we can't afford proper heating, just space heaters.
Miles is here, because Miles is always here. My CFO, my best friend since college, my hopefully partner in crime. He's labeling buckets of roses with bomb-defusing focus.
"We need to talk," I announce.
"That's never good." He doesn't look up. "Did we lose the Frederickson wedding?"
"Worse. My grandmother's retiring."
Now he looks up. "That's good news?"
"She's naming me successor."
"That's good news."
"Only if I get married."
Miles drops his label maker. It clatters on concrete like punctuation. "What?"
I explain the whole thing—Beatrice's ultimatum, Dorian Hale and his merger-friendly cheekbones, the lie I told about already having a boyfriend. Miles listens with that particular stillness he gets when processing disasters, calculating damage in real-time.
"So... what do you need from me?" he asks slowly, starting to catch up.
I take a deep breath. "I need you as my fake boyfriend."
"What the fuck, Rae?" he explodes, color draining from his face.
There's panic in his eyes. My response is rushed and nervous.
"I need someone I trust. Someone who won't sell me out. Someone who can handle my grandmother's interrogation techniques." I take a breath that feels like swallowing glass. "Look, I know this is insane. I know I'm asking too much. But Miles..."
My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. The words are on the tip of my tongue—'I can't do this alone'—but I don't say it. I can see in Miles' eyes that he's heard it nonetheless.
The silence stretches between us like a tightrope. His hands are completely still on the label maker, knuckles white. I can see him cycling through every possible response, every exit strategy, every reason to say no.
"Rae, this is..." He stops, swallows hard. "Your grandmother. Your father. The entire board! You're asking me to lie to all of them?"
"I know..."
"And pretend to be... what, exactly? Your serious, marriage-discussing boyfriend?" His voice pitches higher with each word. "I don't even own a suit that fits properly."
"Miles—"
"We talked about this, remember? That we shouldn't do it, that it'll ruin our friendship," I open my mouth, ready to explain that it's just an act, it's fake, it doesn't count, but Miles continues. "Even if it's fake! And brunch is tomorrow? Tomorrow?"
He sets down the label maker with shaking hands.
"I can't... Rae, I'm not... I work in a warehouse. I do spreadsheets. I'm not the guy who fakes relationships with old-money heiresses."
The word 'heiress' sits between us like an accusation.
He's right. This is insane. I'm asking him to step into my family's twisted games, to lie to people who eat liars for breakfast.
"Forget it," I say, already backing toward the door. "You're right. This is crazy. I'll figure something else out—"
"Wait." The word comes out strangled.
Miles stares at the roses like they might offer him an escape route. His jaw works like he's chewing on words he can't quite swallow. When he finally looks at me, his expression is pure panic.
"Okay," he whispers, barely audible.
"Okay?"
He nods once, looking like he might throw up. "Yeah. I'll..." He stops, runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. "God. Okay. I'll do that for you."
Business marriage with BFF
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