The world thinks I’m a call girl.
He chose me to be his fake fiancée.
I’m not going to law school to become some rich man’s arm candy. Hell, no. I intend to be a high-powered lawyer or nothing.
That all goes to hell when I’m photographed with the president’s playboy brother.
How can I get a job at a respectable firm if everyone thinks he pays me for a good time?
Now that the president is involved, it’s clear: I’m trapped being Graham Blackpool’s fake fiancée.
The ring on my finger is all politics.
But it’s starting to feel so, so real.