Beyond - s.h. x f!reader
Chapter One: She Might be It
a/n: here’s chapter one of my purely self-indulgent fun, which shouldn’t be taken very seriously, if at all. haha. wanted to play around with one of my favorite tropes, so here we are with modern day!rich!fake husband!steve harrington x afab!reader.
warnings/tags: hugely unedited; mentions of alcohol; parent loss, both parties; r has a sister and father; smut in later chapters, so 18+, minors dni; additional tags to be added.
masterlist
-
The rooftop is crowded, bodies brushing against your shoulders and hips as you try to blend in, ignoring the creeping insecurity that you’re merely an imposter trying to fit into a world you were never meant to. It’s a foreign land you’ve found yourself in. A stranger in unknown territory as you listen to the sounds of lively conversation and clinking glasses.
The air is thick with the smell of expensive colognes and perfumes, bringing to your attention the soft spray of vanilla you’d spritzed on earlier, bought off some discount rack at the mall. Yet another reminder of the chasm separating you from them. From the elites of society you can’t help but compare yourself to.
All around are women garbed in designer dresses, men decked to the nines in finely tailored suits. Beneath, when you look out to the cityscape, is an electric hub of activity below. Cars spill in and out of busy streets, headlights illuminating the night sky.
You’ve found yourself at some rooftop lounge situated in the heart of the city, which you know for certain is well outside of Robin’s and your budget, but Eddie insists. And when Eddie insists, neither of you argues. You merely humor him, milling about bodies around the bar illuminated in glowing neon lavender, fingers curled around a flute of champagne that you’re sure likely cost at least half of your monthly rent.
You didn’t buy it. No—the man who did has long since disappeared into the throng of bodies, seeking out conversation with close companions, leaving you to wander aimlessly about the space, did. And you find it hard to focus on anything but when you’re constantly reminded of your own humble beginnings everywhere you turn.
Robin and Eddie have drifted toward the rest of Corroded Coffin, likely catching up after months of him being on tour, leaving you to people watch in silence, very much a tiny fish in a sea of wealth. And there, in the center of the sea of swirling bodies, stands none other than the man who bought you your drink himself, decked head to toe in a suit, freshly from the office, one hand in his pocket, the other elbow leaning on the bar as someone regales him with a story he seems uninterested in. His head bobs as they speak, mouth drawn tight, light catching on the thin wires of his glasses.
He glances your way and suddenly the room feels like it shrinks. As if it hones in on where you stand. You’re a girl in a spotlight you never yearned for, drawing the attention of Steve and the man he’s presently talking to, your hand coming to rub along your bicep as he waves you over into the fold. Heart hammering in your ribcage, you make your way over, heels clacking against the rooftop, stomach fluttering when Steve’s hand brushes your shoulder as he pulls you nearer to him, asking if his companion will excuse the two of you.
You dip your head to the man standing beside Steve. Definitely older than the two of you—likely in his forties, with wrinkles bracketing his mouth, the beginnings of salt and pepper throughout his hair. And when they’re gone, muttering they’ll see Steve come tomorrow at the office, you shift so you can stand as he is with one elbow against the bar, skin basked in neon lavender light. Your other hand holding your glass raises your glass to his, earning a huff of laughter from his full lips.
“Using me as a distraction, are we?” You tease, taking a few sips of your bubbly drink. “Didn’t think we were on that level yet, Harrington. This is—oh, I don’t know, the third time we’ve hung out, is it?”
“The fourth, actually.” When you’ve finished off your drink, he waves the bartender over for another, even despite your multiple protests. “It’s on me. We’re meant to be celebrating. You’ve finished…year three of veterinary school, Eddie told me. Impressive.”
“Yes, I just finished my last final the other day. And I am definitely looking forward to some down time.” Another champagne flute is pushed across the bar toward you, your fingers curling around the stem. You gently tip the glass in Steve’s direction, watching those eyes of his trail along your face, taking in your features. Curiosity piqued, you continue, “Keeping tabs on me, Harrington?”
“Always Harrington to you, huh?” He chuckles, extending an arm to lead you away from the bar. “You looked a little out of place. Figured you’d like a little company, even if you don’t consider me a friend just yet.”
“In case you couldn’t exactly tell, this isn’t my usual crowd.” Nose wrinkling humorously, your elbow loops with his as he walks you over to one of the many smaller barstools situated along the roof. “Well, we can always fix that. Tell me, Steve, what brings you here tonight other than Eddie’s demanding? You seemed a little off kilter when we first got here.”
“I’ll need another drink for that,” he laughs, the light of the moon catching on his wire frame glasses. “There is a quieter area inside. We could play a game of pool. Catch up.”
You’d like that, so you tell him as much. There’s a boldness you feel as he leads you into the mouth of the building, the gazes of those around you shifting your way, likely because no one can imagine Steve Harrington entertaining Cinderella in a room full of royalty.
He’s not wrong that the inside of the building is quieter. There’s a second bar in here, various bodies lining couches as the two of you steal away toward the pool table. Your throat tightens at the couple sitting across the way, the man’s nose running along the side of his partner’s. Intimate. A closeness that has heat thrumming in your gut as your eyes dart up to find Steve looking at you. Inside, you’re really given a chance to see him. He’s draped his jacket over the side of the pool table, revealing a black tie and thin gray button up. The corded muscles in his arms ripple and jolt as he unfastens the buttons around his wrists and rolls the sleeves up to the elbow, revealing golden tan skin lined with dark hair that matches the fullness of his wild mane atop his head.
Steve, though a mere acquaintance, is handsome. Highly so. To deny that would be choosing to ignore what’s so plainly there. You’ve only seen him after work. Always dressed to the nines in suits and slacks, professional at all times. But now he’s carding his fingers through his voluminous hair and sidling up beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours, ordering another bottle of champagne for the two of you, murmuring, “As we were saying, I think it’s about time you call me something other than Harrington or Mr. Harrington.” And you’re struck with his charm. The little smirk that crawls along his lips making something foreign flutter in your chest.
Your lip pinches between your teeth at the notion—at the roiling heat in your gut at the purr in his voice. Hip pressing into the corner of the table, you shift to face him, head tilting to the right slightly. “Okay, Harrington. You start. Tell me about yourself.”
“That’s so very broad,” he teases, moving to set the pool table. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What does a normal day like this look like for you? Was always curious. Is it always flowing drinks and sneaking women off to quiet rooms to chit-chat? Or am I special?”
“You know, I forget who you’ve been best friends with since kids sometimes, and then you go and remind me.” He snorts, lining up the balls on the table. “It’s actually not all that exciting. Since my dad passed, I’ve been preoccupied with…all of the details of that. His will, stakeholders, lawyers—you know, all very exciting.”
“I’m sorry, Eddie told me and I meant to go to the funeral—”
“Don’t even worry about that.” He waves a hand in the air. “And no, I don’t sneak off women to quiet rooms for chit-chat. I don’t usually have time for stuff like this.”
“Late night rendezvous with your best friend’s best friend?”
He lets out a guffaw at that, shaking his head. “And sleep. Apparently it’s a hot commodity for someone who newly inherited a business. Who knew?”
“I think it’s a hot commodity for most,” you joke, sliding back up beside him. Your elbow brushes the bare skin on his forearm, palms pressing against the edge of the table. “I work at a restaurant after classes. I’m sure it’s…not the same as running a company, but the no sleeping thing…”
He grips one of the poles and tosses you one. “Know how to play?”
“Are the rules different here?” You smirk, lip quirking upward.
“No, guess they’re not. You can be stripes.” He pauses, like he’s contemplating something, and bumps your elbow back. “You’re different than I remember.”
“This is the first time we’ve really spoken alone,” you remind him, grasping your champagne glass and taking a sip. He does the same, eyes trailing yours over the lip as you lean forward over the table for the break. You manage to sink one of his, grinning wryly. “So you know I’m in veterinary school and that Eddie is my best friend. You’ve also known Robin for a bit. I grew up in Hawkins, which is basically bumble fuck. You’ve lived in the city your whole life, haven’t you?”
He takes his turn next, hips angling a bit as he gets into position, those broad forearms shifting with every movement. You turn a bit to take another gulp of your drink, the familiar heat of your buzz starting to settle in. “Grew up here. I’m an only child to Elise and Rowland Harrington. And now I’m the inherited CEO of the company for the time being.”
“For the time being?” You muse, shoving him jokingly out of the way as he sinks one of your balls and it’s your turn once more. “How can one be a CEO for the time being?”
“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this conversation,” he laughs, eyes lingering on the side of your face as you attempt to sink another ball but it bounces against the exterior with a hollow thump.
You take turns around the table, talking about surface level topics. Laughter ebbs and flows in the spaces between you, an endless banter that flows easily between two friends. And it’s in that moment the knowledge of such solidifies for you. Steve’s company is pleasant, the two of you feeding off of the other’s energy as the drinks continue to flow between the two of you.
He wins the first game and you poke him squarely in the chest, watching those dark eyes of his grow darker as they linger on your face. “Mr. Harrington, we’re going for round two. And you’re going to tell me something no one else knows. I think it’ll truly solidify our friendship.”
“Oh will it?” He smirks, turning to set the table once more. He pours the two of you another glass as soon as you’re ready for the next game, glass clinking against his. “You’ll tell me one?”
At your nod, he moves to line up for the break, and with the clash of his cue stick against the cue ball, he blurts out, “There’s a condition in my father’s will that I need to marry, otherwise it goes to my shit head of a cousin, Theobald Cletus. And don’t you dare call him anything but, because he’ll never let you live it down if you do.”
“Theobald Cletus?” You snicker, leaning in to take your turn. “People don’t really have ritzy names like that, do they? I thought that was just a celebrity thing. Like naming your kids after inanimate objects”
“He sure does,” he clears his throat and gets into position, knocking one of your halls into a pocket. “Anyway, I’m coming up on the date I’m supposed to be married. People are already giving me a hard time because I’m young, and then I have this over my head on top of it all.”
“Haven't you thought about dating?” At his narrowed eyes, you splutter out, “Right. You already said you don’t really have a lot of free time. I’m sure dating is the furthest thing from your mind. Uhm—if it makes you feel any better, I’m drowning in student debt because most of my money is used for rent and helping my dad take care of my little sister.”
He stops in his movements and rubs a thumb along his jaw, thoughtful. “I just had a funny idea. But I’m pretty sure it’s because you’ve coerced me into drinking two bottles of champagne—”
“I did nothing of the sort!” You gasp, thumping the back of your hand into his stomach. He laughs jovially, one of his hands coming up to steady you when you nearly trip over your heels. “What was this funny idea, anyway?”
“We could…get married. Would solve all problems.”
You laugh.
And then laugh again.
Because there’s no way Steve Harrington just suggested what he had.
“I’m serious,” he continues, hand carding through those messy strands of hair. “We would be helping each other.”
You laugh again, palm pressing against your forehead. “I think we’re a little drunk. But what you’re insinuating…”
“I’d help you pay for college, and you’d help me secure the company from Theobald.”
“By becoming your wife,” you tell him slowly, uneasiness creeping up slowly. “You do realize what you’re suggesting.”
“It sounds crazy, I know.”
“Actually insane.” Your head nods up and down rapidly, watching the man swallow thickly before you.
He palms the back of his neck. “It would solve all our problems, though.”
“You’re just casually offering to pay for my college. It’s veterinary school,” you explain, as if he’s not fully understanding.
“Between my inheritance and my salary, I think I’ll be fine,” he says plainly, like it’s some minor inconvenience, when it feels like a daily cloud over your head.
“Your wife.” You emphasize the word, hoping it breaks through his skull the severity of what he’s proposing.
“Yeah,” he exhales deeply.
“And you think it would work?” Your words are quiet and shaky, a hoarse edge filling the tone of them.
Not that you’re considering.
You’re just curious. That’s all.
Right?
He shrugs. “I mean, people fall in love fast all the time.”
Your hand waves wildly in the air. “Just a whirlwind romance. No big deal.”
“Again, just a funny idea.”
You laugh. “Yeah, very funny.”
The two of you continue as if everything is normal. As if he’s not just thrown out into the open the suggestion of a fake marriage. That ease that flows between the two of you continues, even despite it, bodies shifting about one another as you finish your second game and Eddie and Robin finally find you, commenting that it’s probably a good time for the girls to head back to their apartment.
You walk alongside Steve with the rest of the group as you all walk out onto the busy city streets. Eddie lights a cigarette just as Steve asks for a moment alone with you. With a hesitant wave to your friends, you walk a short distance away with him, heart thundering away at what he might ask you now.
Surely, you can’t. Surely he hadn’t meant those words back inside the building. And yet, now that you’re both a little more sober in the chilly summer air, he repeats the suggestion.
“Just…I know it sounds crazy. But think about it.” He holds out a hand and you pass him your phone, watching as he puts his number inside and presses it back into your awaiting palm.
“Sounds like the plot of some book. Definitely not real life.”
He chuckles brightly and nods in agreement. “Just—just think about it.”
And as you walk back toward your awaiting Uber and glance out the window, capturing the gaze of the man standing with his hand in his pockets on the sidewalk, you find that you actually do.
-
The days that follow pass as they normally would.
It’s almost like you’ve forgotten Steve’s proposal of marriage. If one could even call it that. You’re not sure standing on a side street in the middle of the night, still humming with the remainder of your drinks in your bloodstream, staring up into the face of someone who was still very much a stranger, despite the way you’d exposed yourselves to one another that night counts as one. Had shared the deepest insecurities plaguing the both of you at the present time. Him, with his need for a wife to satisfy the wishes of his father’s will and the safety of the Harrington business. And you, with the endless swirl of debt that dangles like an ax over your head, awaiting your judgment day.
Every day thereafter on your summer break you wake up and prepare for the day as normal. Carry on your routine as it was before. Waltz through your apartment and greet Robin on your way to the coffee pot that’s nearing the end of its life, make yourself a fresh brew, and scroll through social media as you await the silence that follows endless percolating, signaling the coffee is ready. You’re about two cups in by the time you are ready for the day, tossing on what little makeup you wear, and slipping into your work attire. During your summer sessions, it’s generally a pair of dark slacks and a black top. Something simple and sophisticated for the restaurant you work as a waitress at.
You greet your normal customers for the evening, tend to their needs, and slip into the break room to scarf down whatever food the cook’s had on reserve. That evening it happened to be a salad someone had returned to the wait staff. You’ve made good tips for the evening—nothing to write home about, but enough that you’ll be able to cover a good bit for what your father will need to care for Caroline. Mostly food or clothes, now that she’s at the stage in life where she grows out of things way too quickly for either of you to keep track of. Last week it had been new shoes, and last you’d spoken to her, she had muttered breathlessly over the phone in her excitement to get to her play date, that she happened to need new jeans. So you split your tips into two and mentally made a note to pull up the website she had sent you and place an order later that evening to have it shipped home for the upcoming school week.
Only that day in particular is different from the ones before it. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that it’s only going to get worse once your father calls you gruffly explaining how he’s been let go of a job he’s had for twenty some-odd years. Your heart aches at the way his voice breaks off at the end, the hurt evident in his voice, the anguish over not knowing how he’s going to pay for everything. You offer to give him extra that week, uncertain of how you’ll also manage to then pay rent for your apartment, but before he can even protest you’re routing him some money over to his bank account—throwing in a little extra for Caroline.
It gets worse later that evening when you’re late to work because you’d missed your usual subway. Your boss is less than thrilled; merely offers you a huff and threatens a write up then next time you’re late. One more of which—for similar reasons—would lead to an eventual firing. And you need your position to stay afloat; especially those vital summer hours, where more tourists fill your section, eager to tip a little extra.
But the icing on the cake. The moment that really drives the knife into your already aching chest is the way Robin looks at you when she enters your shared apartment. Drapes her jean jacket over the coat rack at the door and huffs out a great sigh, glancing down at something on her phone. Always effervescent, Robin’s quiet roils the nerves already rolling in your belly. Your suspicions of the day going from bad to worse are proven correct when she sits down on the coffee table in front of you and claps her hands in front of her, chewing on her bottom lip.
“What’s going on, Rob?” Tiredness oozes from your voice, legs and brain already aching from your long day. You’d ended your shift with a table full to the brim with business men who had barely looked up from their phones to acknowledge your presence. One of them looked so similar to Steve it nearly struck you quiet. Steve, who you still have a text sitting unanswered in your inbox from.
“So, you know how Nancy and I have been dating for a few months now…”
“Well, yeah.” You laugh uneasily. “I’m the one who set the two of you up, remember? She’d been working part time at the restaurant and I noticed her looking at you and all of that—asked her if she’d be interested and the rest was history.” You’re not quite understanding the morose expression on her face, the downturn of her lips, the overall downtrodden demeanor.
“We’re thinking about taking the next steps, babe.” Her hands fold in front of her, nervous energy making them shake in her lap. At the upward arch of your brows, she proceeds, “We’re moving in together at the end of the summer. And before you freak out and panic, I’ll be covering my portion of the rent until then! Don’t even worry about it. And I’ll definitely help you figure out other living arrangements, I’ll screenshot listings and—”
“Robin, it’s fine—”
She shakes her head vehemently, hands carving broad slices in the air. “I feel so bad, and I told Nance, maybe we should wait until your winter session with school. But I just figure we’ll be saving money, I’ll be closer to her job and my job and I—”
“Robin,” you interject, palm coming to curl around her forearm. Your voice wavers, but you swallow your tears. It’s likely only a result of all the issues cropping up out of the blue, you remind yourself. None of which are her doing. And you’re happy. All you’d ever hoped for when introducing them was for them to find deep, lasting love in one another. “I’m happy for you.”
It doesn’t lessen the sting of the news. The timing of it all, the knowledge that in a few weeks you’ll either have to move back to Hawkins with your family, or try and foot the bill on rent all on your own. With year four of school coming upon, you know you’ll be working less. Spending hours upon hours studying when you’re not in class, and starting up clinicals in the midst of it all. You’ll be barely scraping by as is, simply trying to keep a roof over your head.
But you don’t give her insight to any of that. They’re not her burdens to carry, nor were they ever meant to be.
Robin heads off to shower after you hug her for a long while in your living room, murmuring your reassurances in her ear until her smile slides back into place and the tension eases from her form. It’s then and only then, when you hear the water running in the bathroom, you pull out your cell phone and dial Eddie’s number.
He answers on the second ring, groaning, “Are you okay? It’s one in the morning, and you’re usually sleeping like the dead by now.”
“Can I ask you a question?” You ask, biting your bottom lip nervously.
“Always.” There’s a rustle on the other end, like the shifting of bedsheets in his hotel room.
“Would you love me even if I did something stupid?” Your heart clenches. You can’t believe you’re even considering the thoughts running wild in your mind. The prospect of opening that message from Steve Harrington where he’d sent you a simple, “Here’s my number, think about it.”
“You’ve done a lot of stupid shit. I mean, look back on high school. Like that time you planted that whoopee cushion under the principal’s chair, so when they sat down and started the morning announcements, everyone thought Higgins ripped ass.”
You groan at his choice of memory. “That was your idea, asshole; you were just too chicken-shit to do it—”
“I was trying to graduate.” He did that year, and you’d been so happy for him, knowing how hard he’d worked to get there against all the odds stacked against him.
“Moving on. You would?” A frown stretches along your lips, heart hammering away behind your sternum.
There’s a deep huff on the other end. In your mind, you can picture the deep set lines around the corners of Eddie’s mouth, concern evident in those umber eyes. “You’re worrying me now. What are we talking about?”
“I’ll tell you later,” you mutter breathlessly, already swiping up into your text threads. “I just needed your blessing.”
“Wait, wait—wait! What am I giving my blessing for?! Don’t you dare hang up the phone—”
The line clicks as you hit the end call button and pull open the message from Steve. There’s a small image of his face pulled from social media for his icon, his face obscured by sunglasses, jeans snug against muscular thighs. Fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, mind churning, before you begin typing away.
You: So if I were to marry you. BIG IF. What would that entail?
Husband?: Meet me at Caldwell’s tomorrow? I have meetings until 2pm, we can grab coffee there at 3pm and talk business.
You: Stop. He’s trying to seduce me. Oh no.
Husband?: HAHA — you’re hilarious. I’ll send you the address.
Husband?: (Address Link)
You: Didn’t know they sold coffee this expensive.
Husband?: It’s on me.
You: So it’s a real date.
Husband?: Something like that.
Husband?: Talk to you tomorrow.
-
Caldwell’s is gorgeous. An array of pinks, beiges and creams. Like something out of a Pinterest daydream. Endless sprawling plants line the ceilings. Plush couches and eclectic wooden decor outline the walls and interior seating section. You’re amused by the fact Steve chose here of all places for your meeting. So opposite of where you imagined he might choose.
Almost even more amusing is that your prospective husband-to-be looks out of place in the brightly illuminated space in his dark outfit. In the few times you’ve seen him, you’ve noticed a pattern: gray, black, the occasional pop of maroon, and navy blue make up most of Steve’s wardrobe. And sure, it's no detriment to him, because he looks handsome as ever, but it brings a smile to your face as you capture his gaze from across the coffee shop. Your lips quirk upward as you wave. His answering smile makes something unfamiliar quiver in your chest, though you pay it no attention and clutch your bag tighter to your chest, phone in the other, and make your way over.
He’s already placed an order for you. Texted you a few minutes prior so it was ready at the table he’d situated himself at. You settle down on the chair across from him, catching the laptop in the center of the table, a leather satchel on the plush bench beside him. He’d foregone his glasses today, you notice, eyes meeting the constellations of birth marks along his face and neck, drifting down into the collar of his shirt.
“You look nice,” he mutters, glancing down at your workout clothes. Nothing more than a cross body bag, pair of leggings, tee shirt and running shoes. You know he’s only being kind, a snort falling from your lips, eyes rolling. “I’m not kidding.”
“I meant to change. But, uh, something came up and I sort of needed to rush here.”
No, you had no intention of telling him you’d fallen asleep after you’d gone for a run around the neighborhood. You’d been reading a book on your couch and woke to the pages folded across your face. It had taken a bit to rub out the crease in one of your cheeks, evidence of one too many sleepless nights at the restaurant you worked at.
“I got your iced coffee…thing. Although, I don’t know how you consider that coffee. The barista threw in so much sugar,” he says, pointing to your drink. Your fingers open the straw wrapper before you hastily, giving him a thumbs up with the first splendidly perfect sip. “Good?”
“It’s actually perfect. And it’s meant to taste like a cinnamon roll, if you must know. But in all honesty, ‘Happy wife happy life’ starts with getting your wife’s coffee order right,” you laugh, not missing the way his cheeks flush. He clears his throat, fingers tapping along the spacebar on his laptop. “Sorry. Just trying to get used to the fact this…might actually happen. I figure if I repeat I’ll be your wife about, oh I don’t know, a thousand more times I should be okay.”
He folds his hands in front of him, and you wonder briefly if this is how it’s like sitting in a conference room with him. Stern demeanor, an edge of severity that has your feet curling inside your shoes, that tension in his jaw which highlights the perfectly sculpted features sitting mere inches across from you.
“I guess we should probably talk out the details,” he says, shifting his laptop to show you the document he’s typed up. At the top he’s written the title of your ‘marriage contract’ and you also don’t miss the NDA agreement tab just beside it. “So my father said as long as I was married a year after the reading of the document, I would satisfy the will and the company wouldn’t be transferred over to my shitty cousin, Theobald. Which would mean we need to marry soon. I’d like the sooner the better…since you go back to school in a few months. And I’d like to maintain the appearance that we’re spending time together. So we’ll need to go on a honeymoon as well. But we’ll get to the details of that later.”
You know Steve has a pretty substantial social media following. It’s natural for someone who is not only the son of the late Mr. Harrington, but someone who has also modeled for his mother’s clothing brand, and thus other companies. And you suppose it’s also natural for someone who is friends with other socialites and people like Eddie Munson, who is part of one of the biggest up and coming bands.
You’ve been on the receiving end of comments on Eddie’s photos long enough to understand people are interested in everything going on in their favorite celebrities' lives. You can’t even count on two hands the amount of times people have asked ‘is she dating Eddie?’ To which you’ve always laughed and scrolled out of the photo. But for someone like Steve, someone who has been notoriously private and maintained an air of mystery for so long, to post a photo with his new bride-to-be? You’re not sure about that one. All you can assume is it’ll be explosive.
“Okay, I’m listening,” you tell him, glancing about the room.
No one is looking; not really, at least. But you can’t help the fear that wells over anyone overhearing what you’re planning on doing. Negotiating a marriage contract, talking through the terms of said marriage, actually planning to marry.
“We will marry in a month.” He coughs, like he can’t believe he’s speaking that sentence out loud. Neither can you, but you’re certain if it’s baffling to you, it must be to him as well. “If you agree to it. My mother knows enough wedding planners and has enough connections in the city that we won’t have to worry about scheduling or anything like that. It shouldn’t be too hard to make it happen.”
“A month.” Thirty days. June seventeenth of this year will be your anniversary. A thought in itself that has your stomach clenching. “We will get married in a month.”
“A month,” he repeats, nodding patiently at your thoughtful expression, brows drawn high on your forehead, lines etching into creases between your brows. “In front of all our closest family and friends.”
“In typical holy matrimonial fashion, yeah.” Only there’s nothing holy about this union.
This ruse, if done properly, will set you both up to achieve everything the other lacks.
“Okay, uhm…what else is in this contract?” you ask, giving him permission to continue through the remainder of the document.
You’ll stay married for three years, giving you enough time to sustain the image needed to set forth. Steve agrees to pay for your tuition on a per semester basis throughout. Sorrow creeps into your heart at the thought desperation has brought you to this moment, and you briefly wonder if Steve senses it when he stops mid-sentence and brushes a thumb along the back of your hand.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks softly, your eyes lingering where your skin meets. Your head shakes, and he continues, “Are we going to be faithful to each other?”
“Oh—I hadn’t really thought about that.” Your eyes lift to meet his dark ones, shoulders shrugging. “I mean, I don’t really think I’d enjoy people gossiping if they caught either of us with someone else. But this is a fake marriage, so…uh, I mean, if you need to uh…take care of business elsewhere I suppose I wouldn’t—”
“I don’t really date much these days,” he laughs, easing your seemingly silly fears. You find that one very hard to believe, but he proceeds before you can think much further on it, “Or at all, really.”
“Right. So, uh, you’re going to be good for three years with just your ha—”
“I’ll manage just fine.”
You whistle. “Brave, Harrington.” He snorts, eyes rolling. “I don’t date much either these days. Always too busy. When I’m not in school, I’m working. So you’ll have yourself a faithful wife.”
You’ll attend as many social gatherings as you can given your schedule. Be it family gatherings, galas, charity events, and the like. It’s all meant to uphold the image of a supportive wife, though you don’t really find issue in it. At the base level, Steve is an easy person to get along with, so you suppose it’ll be like spending an evening with a friend.
And there, at the bottom of the contract, after he’s walked you through the remaining details of your nuptials, is a line for both yours and his names.
“Do we really need a contract, though?” Your finger taps his screen, pointing to the NDA next. “And the NDA? Are you really thinking I’m going to admit to people how absolutely insane this whole idea is? We’re like one of those cliché romance novels as it is. Two people who are practically strangers choose to fake their marriage, minus the falling in love bit.”
“It would make me feel better, yes.” He folds the laptop shut. “You don’t have to make a decision right now, but—”
“I want to do it,” you blurt out. The hard line of his mouth softens, cheek jolting. “I want to marry you. I, ah, want to be your wife.”
It’s impulsive, you know. But if you allow yourself to think too long about it, you’ll talk yourself out of it.
“Are you sure?” And suddenly it’s like the whole room shifts, eyes locking on the couple that’s not really a couple sitting in the corner of the coffee shop. “You…agree to it. Really?”
“Looks like we’re getting hitched June seventeenth, Harrington.”
-
If there’s one thing Steve is, it’s a gentleman. He opens the door for you as you waltz into the jewelry shop, hand lingering on your back as he leads you toward one of the many display cases revealing different engagement and wedding rings, as well as earrings, necklaces, and other pieces.
It suddenly dawns on you what you’re here for. An engagement ring, and your wedding rings. Plural, for both you and Steve when you solidify your marriage in only a month’s time in front of your closest family and companions. The weight of his palm guides you toward one of the many illuminated displays, eyes peering in on a selection of halo engagement rings.
“The Mrs. Harrington-to-be. Have those caught your eye?” The gentleman behind the counter admonishes, sliding out the set of glittering rings. “Gorgeous, truly. Also new. She has good taste, Mr. Harrington. Would you like to try it on?”
“Isn’t that bad luck?” You glance over your shoulder to Steve, who merely shrugs at the suggestion. You suppose it can’t be too much poor luck when you’re already lying to everyone around you as it is and allow the jeweler to slide the ring onto your ring finger for size. It’s a gorgeous piece, you can’t deny. A giant central diamond with a sparkling halo and glittering band. But it’s not quite you. Too fantastical and bright—well outside of your comfort zone and liking. Instead, your eyes gravitate around the many display cases for something simplistic. Something timeless.
If you’re going to be married to Steve Harrington for three years, you want something understated and more in line with your preferences. “Do you have anything a little less…bold? I—well, I want to wear this every day proudly. But I don’t know if it’s impractical for my job.”
“My fiancée is going to be a veterinarian,” Steve explains, drawing you tighter to his side.
“You’re thinking of something smaller?” The attendant looks to Steve worriedly, mouth downturned at your words. Steve only waves a hand and they dip their head. “What about these?”
You walk around the counter, looking into the cases imploringly. Steve is there at your back, glancing over your shoulder as you shop about, stumbling on a round engagement ring with diamonds set lovingly into the band. They’re simple—albeit still extravagant—but they’re better suited to your tastes. Understated and classic.
“How about Mr. Harrington puts this one on?” The man grins, eyes bright as Steve takes the ring and lowers it to your presently bare finger.
“Still want to marry me, honey?” Steve asks, wry grin in place as he rests the ring on your first knuckle. He doesn’t slide it up. Not right away.
The nickname is new. Sends a flood of liquid heat to roll in your gut, heart fluttering rapidly behind your ribcage as you nod and he pushes the ring up into place. You glance down and marvel at it as his fingers wriggle it into place near the base of your knuckle, his thumb brushing overtop before swiping across your skin. It’s perfect. As perfect as fake engagement rings go.
You both tell the worker as much, before proceeding to find a matching wedding band for your new ring, and then search for Steve’s. Steve settles on a metal and you’re presented with a few options of styles. Steve’s preferences are more simplistic, his wedding ring a simple shiny silver. Your breath skitters when you teasingly ask him to marry you, before sliding the ring up his finger. Inhaling sharply, your eyes dart upward to your future husband’s, softening when he glances down at his finger and smiles to himself. That smile falters only for him to ask to purchase the ring, and it’s soon thereafter you leave the shop and ready yourselves for your dinner with Eddie and Robin, where you’ll deliver your engagement news.
Images of their reactions already preconceived dance in your mind. You’re prepared for Eddie to have a fit over the whole thing. Can already hear Robin’s frantic rant wherein she tells you all the reasons why this is a bad idea.
So you suppose it should come to no surprise when you sit down, now beside Steve to present yourselves as a couple, and are met with the unamused the looks on their faces when you exclaim, “We’re engaged!”
Robin glances at Nancy. Laughs nervously to herself, chokes on her water. Her girlfriend places a hand on her arm, mouth opening to speak, just as Robin cries out, “Babe. I’m gonna be really honest with you. Steve’s great, I love him, but are you really thinking this one through. You two have hung out a collective…four times. What do you really know about each other? I mean, we left you two alone because we wanted you to maybe date, but holy shit Eddie, if we knew they were going to do this—”
“You told me you wanted my blessing for whatever stupid thing you were about to do,” Eddie interjects, swiping a hand down his face. “I didn’t think that you meant marrying my best friend. And hey, asshole—I didn’t say you could ask her to marry you.”
“I haven’t technically asked her,” he says, holding up your hand to show off your still bare ring finger. “Well unless you count the party the other day.”
Eddie’s eye twitches. “He asked you at the par—”
“You haven’t even asked her to marry you with the ring, you dingus?!” Robin’s vein in her forehead throbs, her head leaning into Nancy’s as the girl beside her shifts to run a hand along her arm.
“I wanted to make it special,” he admits, wincing at the sight of Eddie practically turning red before you. “In front of our closest friends.”
“You’re going to ask her properly.” It’s Eddie who speaks next, his eyes drifting to lock onto yours. “If you two idiots are going to actually get married, he’s asking you properly.”
Maybe now is the right time to tell them it’s fake. Nothing more than an equally beneficial agreement between two consenting parties. Your mouth opens to tell them as much, to try and assuage their fears, when a waiter walks out with a champagne bottle on ice and a dessert plate with Marry Me? written out in decorative chocolate. Head already reeling from that, you fail to notice Steve dropping down onto one knee in his perfectly tailored suit, despite the fact he’ll likely wrinkle, with that velvet ring box open and your sparkling ring set into the center.
All eyes in the restaurant take you in. Some with phones held aloft, because naturally they’ve noticed Eddie Munson and Steve Harrington. Your hands tremble as you finally look into his eyes, knowing this agreement is very much fake, but the nervousness that wells in your belly isn’t. Ever the gentleman, Steve reaches across your lap and grasps your left hand, staring you squarely in the eyes.
It’s grounding, even despite catching Eddie, Robin and Nancy watching with bated breath on the other side of the booth, to have him there to offer support. In one month, your future husband.
“Honey, I know it hasn’t been very long, but people have always said ‘when you know, you know.’ And I know there’s no one I would want to spend the rest of my life with other than you.” There’s a collective inhale all around the room, or maybe that’s your own breath hitching in your lungs as he pulls the ring free and Eddie’s hand reaches across the table to retrieve the empty box. Steve breathes your full name into the open space, and it sounds like a gentle caress down your spine. “Will you make me the happiest man alive and be my wife?”
This part—this part, you haven’t thought out. Haven’t really allowed your mind to wander down the path of public displays of affection with your very fake husband. At the wedding, when the officiant declares he may now kiss his bride, sure. Maybe a little hand holding at a social gathering or family event. But this part? The engagement itself, the portrayal of a happy couple in front of prying eyes? No.
And still, you nod your head all the same, letting out an excited “Yes,” that you hope isn’t too over the top, and cover your mouth delicately with one hand as he slides the ring into place on your left one. Cheers erupt into the room, mixing together with the clinking of utensils against glasses, prompting the two of you to lean forward in an embrace.
His arms circle your waist and his lips brush your ear, chills dancing along skin.
“Kiss me,” he whispers into your skin.
Your head dips and you lean back just enough to capture his gaze before he’s leaning forward and pressing the chastest of kisses to your lips.
After that it’s endless congratulations as people pass in leaving, the looks of pure unadulterated happiness from coupled up spectators around the room, as if recalling their own proposals or simply reminiscing on the love they share. Across from you, Eddie, Nancy and Robin start pouring champagne.
Eddie downs his first drink swiftly, before reaching across the table to grab your hand. “Speak up, both of you. Why the rush to the altar?”
“It’s uh…” you start, shoulder brushing with Steve’s. “It’s—well, it’s a long story.”
“We have nothing but time,” Robin points out, leaning back comfortably against the plush booth.
They remain quiet as you both explain the whole situation. The events that have brought you both to this moment, the reminders that you’re both capable of making your own decisions (albeit silly ones), and that it’s only for the required amount of time. It’s a positive business decision for the both of you, Steve expresses, though you wish he’d maybe avoided that one because Eddie’s face is nearly purple by the end of it. Nancy remains quiet at Robin’s side, while Robin nods here and there throughout, awaiting the perfect moment to explode over the whole ordeal.
“I hope this isn’t because I’m moving out—”
She speaks, just as Eddie lets out, “When you asked if I’d love you for making a stupid decision, I didn’t mean this one! I thought you two would go on one date after we saw you walking together. Not get married!”
“But it’s…” your voice drops to a whisper, “not a real marriage.”
“Babe, when you say it like that, it doesn’t really make it better,” Robin murmurs, placing a comforting hand on Eddie’s forearm.
“I think it actually makes it worse,” Nancy adds, wincing slightly.
-
All in all, Eddie, Robin and Nancy eventually come around to the idea. There’s multiple drinks passed around the table before they do start to understand, but once the idea has settled a bit in their minds, they start to question the event itself. Robin and Nancy will be in the bridal party, naturally, and Eddie’s the decided best man. Luckily, this aids in dissipating a lot of his anger—either that or he’s trying to appease you both—and the group is excited by the end of the night for the ordeal. A big party, you remind them, think of it like a big party.
Full of hundreds of strangers.
But there are important matters to be taken care of before then.
Your heart throbs as the driver pulls up in front of the Mrs. Harrington’s home. It sits outside of the city in an eastern county. A large cream house, grandiose in comparison to anything you’ve ever known, with sprawling property and modern decor sits atop a sprawling driveway. It looks like you’ve stepped out of a Pinterest catalog. What with the endless black and gray detailing, floor to ceiling windows, and a porch that overlooks a small body of water.
Though you’ve told your friends the arrangement is purely an arrangement and nothing more, both Steve and you have decided in order to prevent any doubt over the situation, your families need to be kept in the dark. The thought supplies you with hefty guilt, but you tip your head up all the same and clink your glass of wine with both Elise Harrington and her son’s.
“To a bright and happy future and hopefully grand babies,” she toasts, and your chest burns at the idea. Quietly, she adds, “If you two should want them, that is.”
You’re surprised by how easy going she is with the whole thing. Upon arriving she immediately commented on how pretty you were, kissing you on both sides of the cheek before ruffling her son’s hair. He’s told you enough that for most of his life, their relationship has been strained, but that with the death of his father she’s been trying. It warms your heart seeing them now, caught in a moment as she cups his cheek fondly and waves you both into the kitchen.
You recount how you met. A wonderful evening at a rooftop bar. Conversation flowing simply between the two of you, a few months of quiet relationship kept from the public eye, and a pure desire to not wait to spend forever together. It’s simple and it’s partially true, and she latches onto it without hesitation, hand immediately reaching out to look at your ring.
Bringing Steve to Hawkins takes place the next day after an early morning flight. You call your father the day before and tell him there’s something very important you need to tell him. Steve steps out of the rental car and opens your door on the other side, drawing you as close as possible as he tucks a wine bottle under his other arm.
“Are you nervous?” You tease him, catching the way his knuckles pause mid-air over the door. “They’re both harmless. Caroline probably will scroll through TikTok the whole time we’re here.”
Only you’re wrong.
Instead, you’re immediately met with the screech of a younger tween when your father opens the door and Steve introduces himself, the girl practically throwing herself into your arms as you reach out to grasp her. From above your shoulder, where you struggle to hold her up, she shoves at Steve with a wild glint in her eye.
“Did you bring home a boyfriend?!”
“Nice to meet you, Caroline. Your sister has told me all about you,” Steve says, rubbing at the place she’s dug her fingers into playfully.
Your father leads you both into the living room, your eyes catching on all the papers and bills strewn about the kitchen table as you pass by. Steve’s ignorant to it all, his hand still clutching yours tightly as the two of you settle down onto the couches there. Fondness brims in your chest when your father reaches across and shakes Steve’s hand again, his kind grin settling into the wrinkles surrounding his mouth.
“Holy shit, is that a rock?” Carole gasps, breaking up the moment. Your eyes drop down to where your hand rests over Steve’s, sunlight catching on the sparkling stones. “That is a rock! Wait, you’re Eddie’s friend. You’re that Steve. Your dad was the owner of that company, and you model and…don’t you own a football team? Your mom is also that big designer in the city! You’re, like, really rich, I bet.”
“Care,” you warn, shooting her a glare to calm down. “I, ah, have known Steve for a little while now and I know it’s crazy but…I’m in love with him.” The words taste wrong on your lips, throat tightening as you continue, “When you know, you know, right?”
The words leave you with a wince, and you’re not sure if you imagine Steve’s fingers tightening around your own, but it brings you a semblance of comfort. Thankfully, your father speaks next, “I knew your mother for two weeks before I asked her to marry me. We were married for twenty three years, you see, Steve. So if my daughter says she loves you, I trust wholeheartedly and believe you’re the one for her.”
And in a way, those words are both soothing and a knife in your heart, what with the ease he accepts your feelings as truth.
The remainder of the evening is spent talking about the wedding details—what little you know, at least—and your offer for Caroline to be in the bridal party. She’s over the moon, naturally, and grows bored immediately after, pulling out her iPhone and scrolling through social media so she can show your father the engagement photo plastered across your page, Steve’s and Eddie’s now.
“Congratulations, you two. I wish I had something fancy to toast with, so the wine you brought will have to do,” he apologizes, moving into the kitchen to pour you all glasses.
“It’s not a problem at all,” you reassure him, thanking him softly when he returns and places a glass in both your hands.
“To your love.” He turns to Steve next, grinning in a way that has your heart sinking. “Welcome to the family, son.”
-
Steve drops you off at your apartment at the end of your evening spent together apprising your family of your news. Neither of you speaks for a moment. He merely rests his palm on the car steering wheel and brushes a thumb over your ring, making sure the stone is in place. It seems like such a silly thing—the slightest of brushes to make sure your fake engagement ring is properly on your finger. But your skin still ignites at the small contact. It’s paired with the crushing knowledge that in a month, in only thirty days, you’ll be standing across from this man and reciting your vows to him, binding yourselves together in marriage.
“Your rent is up at the end of the month with Robin,” he reminds you, eyes shifting your way. You watch his long fingers glide through his hair, ruffling bits of it in his face. A part of you feels intent on fixing it despite yourself, but you remain seated in place, one ankle crossed over your knee. “But I think for those following on social media, it likely looks better if you move in as soon as possible.”
That reminds you of the thousands of new followers you’d received once Eddie and Steve had posted your congratulatory photos from your engagement—as well as once other news sources got a hold of it. The young CEO, friend to one of the hottest up and coming musicians, a girl who has always been in the background of their photos now suddenly took center stage. You’ve propelled into a world you’d never prepared for.
Becoming Steve’s wife was one thing, gaining a spotlight another, wholly untouched territory.
“I think you should move in on Friday.” You know he’s saying you think, but a part of you recognizes it’s what he knows is best for optics. It’s what he wants without forcing you to do so. “There’s more than enough room. I have the penthouse, we’ll have privacy. And it’ll, uh, sell the illusion.”
It’s then and only then that the reality of your situation finally creeps up on you. The understanding of the weight that settles on your ring finger as you glance down at the ring he’d bought you. A ring that should be meant for someone he loves—truly loves, at least—and not someone who is little more than a mere stranger. Your thumb moves to run along the diamond band, hand cupping over the sparkling stones that cost a small fortune.
His palm reaches over and slides over the back of yours, stilling you in your movements. “I’ll help you. And your room is nice. Spacious. Far away from mine.”
Because, you remind yourself, you’ve agreed upon not falling in love—and definitely no consummation of marriage. Even still, there’s a sting to his words. The understanding of a loveless marriage, forged in mere convenience. Two ships passing in the night, nestled on opposite sides of Steve’s spacious lodgings.
“Okay,” you agree, dipping your head and moving to push the passenger side door open. “I’ll move in on Friday. I’ll tell Robin tonight. I should get going; I have to meet with your mother and the wedding planner first thing tomorrow, you know?”
“I’ll see you,” he says, leaning down to look at you on the sidewalk. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Steve.”
Your chest tightens as you watch him peel away from the sidewalk. As he drives down your road, and disappears from view. Your heart throbs at the recollection of your father’s weathered face, smiling as he’d welcomed Steve into the fold of your family like he was already a part of it with a firm shake of the hand and a blessing. Chest aches at the vision of Caroline nearly slamming into your soon-to-be husband’s legs when he’d reached for the door and wished your family well for the rest of the evening. Because you feel like a fraud—are a fraud, really. Your impending nuptials are not refined by fire and forged in love. They’re unlike that of your own parents' relationship—the depth of your father’s love toward his wife had been limitless. Untouchable from anything the world might have thrown at it. No, instead your upcoming sentiments you’ll share with Steve are a mockery of the vows people wait to speak over the altar in front of loved ones their whole lives. They’re a lie told to secure an inheritance and cover a debt. That’s all. And it dawns on you then as you slip into your bedroom, waving to Robin as you pass, and settle down on your bed.
Your mind wanders to that moment back at the restaurant with your friends. How all the eyes turned your way in the room to watch your face drop in shock. It’s the only genuine reaction you’ve had thus far, you realize. Because you hadn’t expected a proposal. Not really. When you’d picked out your ring at the store your mind had been a bleary haze. You remembered hearing the voices of Steve and the jeweler, running over various options that were befitting for someone of Steve’s status, and thus his wife-to-be by default. But they’d slipped into conversation about karats, quality, and cuts. And all you could think about was the fact the rings Steve were looking at cost a few months worth of your rent. All of a sudden you were Cinderella long after the clock struck midnight, your carriage turned back into a pumpkin, your tattered dress the pair of thrifted jeans that sat a little too-big on your frame.
But you once more think of your father’s aging face, the brightness of Caroline’s eyes. You think of the knowledge he’s looking for a new job with little luck because of layoffs in his workplace, the mortgage on his home, the endless list of things Caroline needs. The constant stream of bills you’re footing, the need to try and save them, because if you can’t save them, who can you save? And on top of it all, your college debt, for a program you’re only halfway finished with. With a resounding sigh, you roll over onto your side, snapping a photo of your ring to send to Steve. It looks silly and garish in the dying afternoon light, though you suppose fitting for a wife to a young CEO of a prolific real estate company.
You: I don’t even know if my first name goes well with Harrington.
HubsToBe: It does. It’s a perfect fit. Don’t worry. I can practically hear you worrying from here.
You: Guess we’re really doing this.
HubsToBe: One month until we say ‘I do.’
The second text message rushes in.
HubsToBe: Remember you can back out at any time.
You: I’m not changing my mind, don’t worry. Time to plan a wedding, fiancé. ;)
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