The Pitch

The photographs spread across the conference table like evidence at a murder trial. Which, professionally speaking, they were.

Three women. One nightclub. Oliver Blake's arm around all of them, his tie loose, his grin sloppy, his £200,000-a-week career circling the drain at 3:47 AM.

I slid another photo across the mahogany. "This one's from the car park. Notice the champagne bottle."

James Heath, Oliver's agent, looked like he might be sick. "We know what he did, Ms. Pierce. That's why you're here."

"I'm here because every major sponsor attached to Manchester Athletic has called my office in the last six hours." I stacked the photos neatly, corners aligned. "Nike. Adidas. Emirates. They're all threatening to pull. Some are past threatening."

The man at the end of the table hadn't spoken yet. Oliver Blake in the flesh was different from the photographs, less golden, more tired. The easy charm from his cologne commercials was nowhere in evidence. He looked like someone who'd spent the last forty-eight hours realizing exactly how badly he'd ruined his life.

"The match was crucial," I continued. "Title race. National broadcast. And you were photographed leaving a club with three women the night before."

"I know what I did."

"Do you? Because the footage of you stumbling to your car suggests otherwise."

His hands curled into fists on the table. Good. Defensive meant he still cared.

"Manchester Athletic lost 2-0. You were benched at halftime, something about not being able to run straight. The tabloids have been running variations of 'Playboy Blake Parties While Team Suffers' for two days." I pulled up my tablet, scrolled through headlines. "My personal favorite: 'Blake's Midnight Hat Trick: Three Women, Zero Goals.' They're creative, I'll give them that."

"I've seen the headlines."

"Then you understand why I'm here."

James cleared his throat. "Ms. Pierce comes highly recommended. She's handled crisis management for..."

"I know who she's handled." Oliver's eyes met mine. Blue, sharp, more intelligent than his reputation suggested. "CEOs. Politicians. That actress who drove her car into a restaurant."

"She was acquitted."

"Because of you."

"Because she was innocent. I just made sure the narrative reflected reality." I closed my tablet. "Right now, Oliver, your narrative is party boy who can't keep it together for a semifinal. True or not, that's what the world believes."

"And you can change that."

"I can do better than change it." I leaned forward. "I can make it disappear."

James perked up. "How?"

I'd been doing this for twelve years. I'd seen careers implode and rebuilt them from the ashes. I'd turned scandals into redemption arcs, villains into victims, disasters into opportunities. But what I was about to propose was extreme, even for me.

"The problem isn't the photographs," I said. "The problem is the pattern. Oliver's reputation as a commitment-phobic party boy has been building for years. Three women at a club isn't news, it's confirmation."

"So?"

"So we break the pattern. Fundamentally. Permanently." I pulled a folder from my bag, slid it across to Oliver. "You're not a party boy anymore. You're a man who's found stability. Maturity. Love."

Oliver opened the folder. Scanned the first page. His expression didn't change, which impressed me, most people started laughing around the second paragraph.

"You want me to get engaged."

"I want you to appear engaged. To someone serious. Someone the press can believe reformed you. Someone who represents everything the party boy image isn't."

James grabbed the folder, started reading. "A fake engagement? That's your solution?"

"Six months minimum. Public appearances, coordinated social media, living together for authenticity. By the time the engagement quietly ends, mutual decision, remained friends, very mature, Oliver's image is fully rehabilitated. Sponsors see a changed man. Club sees a committed player. World moves on."

Oliver was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "And who's supposed to be this fictional fiancée? You have someone in mind?"

I took a breath.

This was the part I'd been debating since the moment James called me. It was reckless. It was potentially career-ending. It was exactly the kind of personal involvement I'd spent twelve years avoiding.

It was also the only way I could be certain this would work.

"Me."

Silence.

James's mouth actually fell open. Oliver's didn't, which impressed me again.

"I volunteer," I continued, as if I'd just offered to chair a committee. "I know crisis management. I know media. I can handle the scrutiny without slipping up, and I have no personal connections that would raise questions about the relationship's authenticity."

"You want to marry me."

"I want to pretend to marry you. There's a difference." I pulled another document from my bag. "I've drafted a contract. Terms, boundaries, duration, exit strategies. It's all here."

Oliver picked up the contract. Sixty-two pages, twelve appendices, every possible contingency addressed. I'd spent two days on it, which was insane for a proposal I wasn't sure I'd actually make.

"Clause 7.2," he read aloud. "'No romantic or sexual entanglement between parties. Relationship remains strictly professional throughout the duration of the agreement.'"

"Essential for clarity."

"You put that in writing?"

"I put everything in writing. It's how I work."

He set the contract down. Met my eyes again. "Why?"

"Because verbal agreements..."

"Not the clause. The whole thing." He gestured at the photographs, the folder, me. "Why would you do this? Put your face on this? Risk your reputation?"

It was a fair question. I had an answer prepared, something about professional challenges and expanding my portfolio. But Oliver Blake was looking at me like he could see through the spin, and I found myself saying something closer to the truth.

"Because I'm good at my job. Because your career doesn't deserve to end over a bad night. And because..." I paused. "I've never failed. I don't intend to start now."

"That's not an answer."

"That's the answer you're getting."

We stared at each other across the table. Something passed between us, recognition, maybe. Two people who spent their lives performing, finally meeting someone who spoke the same language.

James cleared his throat. "This is... unconventional."

"Unconventional fixes unconventional problems." I stood, gathered my materials. "Take twenty-four hours. Read the contract. Call me when you're ready."

I was at the door when Oliver's voice stopped me.

"Ms. Pierce."

I turned. He was holding the contract, sixty-two pages of boundaries and provisions and carefully worded clauses.

"We announce in 48 hours," he said. "I assume you have a ring picked out?"

Something flickered in my chest. Victory, probably. Adrenaline. Definitely not the way his voice made "we" sound like something real.

"I'll have options sent to your flat."

"Emerald. Art deco setting." He almost smiled. "You seem like an emerald person."

I left before I could analyze what that meant.

In the elevator, I caught my reflection in the polished doors. Composed. Professional. Not at all like a woman who'd just agreed to fake-marry a Premier League footballer she'd met forty minutes ago.

This was a job. Like any other job.

I just had to remember that.