Page 1 of Marrying My Professor

1

ELARA

“You make Mike sound like a catch,” the man in the grey suit says as he elbows Mike. His name is Thomas. Or Tom. I can’t remember which, and honestly, in a room full of men who all wear the same cologne and the same smug smile, it barely matters.

“That’s because he is.” I wink, swiping a glass of champagne off of a passing waiter.

“Darling,” Mike Daniels, my client for the night, whispers through his teeth.

I laugh softly, the sound light and practiced, even as my spine stiffens beneath the halter strap of a dress I definitely cannot afford to own. In fact, everything about me tonight is borrowed or constructed: the gown, the heels, the hair blown out by a salon that will be taken out of my paycheck at the end of the night. Even my smile. Especially my smile.

“Excuse me,” I say, batting my eyelashes. “I can’t stop talking about this guy.”

Mike shifts beside me, small and slightly overwhelmed in the thick, polished crowd filling the ballroom of his law firm’s New Year’s party. Golden lights cascade across marble floors, servers glide between partners with trays of champagne, and everyone here looks like they were born knowing the weight of a hundred-dollar bill or the exact difference between faux leather and the real thing.

Everyone except me.

That is exactly why I am here. I am a girlfriend for hire, brought in to make a man look settled, stable, and safely domesticated. My role is to help Mike pass as the devoted college sweetheart, the kind of man who has been with the same woman for years and looks perpetually on the brink of proposing. At this firm, the path to partner is not earned on billables alone; it also requires a clean family narrative, a wholesome image, and a woman who looks like a future wife.

And Mike? He hired me because he doesn’t have one.

Not that it’ll help him much. The two men overseeing this year’s promotions don’t strike me as the sentimental type. They’re too obsessed with my tits to really care about what’s coming out of my mouth, but I will say whatever Mike wants me to, because I’m here to sell the fantasy.

“Sorry about the missus, Thomas,” Mike says, cheeks going pink. “Courtney can be just a little overzealous.”

So his name is Thomas. Good. That means the other one is probably Tom. If it’s not, then I’ve invented an entire man in my head, which honestly wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve done on a job. And for the record my name is not Courtney. That’s my girlfriend for hire name.

“Don’t apologize for your beautiful girl,” the man in the chocolate-brown suit interrupts, his grey hair silvered perfectly under the chandelier. His name really should be Tom. He has Tom energy from head to smug toe: wandering eyes, whiskey breath, the confidence of a man who has never been told no by anyone whose opinion mattered. “She’s trying to woo us.”

“And I think it’s working, Joseph,” Thomas snorts, and the man who I assumed was Tom—apparently Joseph—laughs as he licks his lips.

Where the hell did I get Tom from?

I blink multiple times to keep from rolling my eyes and instead, I curl my hand around his bicep, leaning in just enough to seem smitten, my breasts brushing his arm in a way that draws the attention of the entire circle of attorneys. Pageant-smile locked, unwavering.

“He is a winner,” I say brightly, finishing my champagne in one swallow because the bubbles are cheaper than courage and easier to stomach than reality. The crystal-glittering room feels too big, too rich, too much like a world that would spit me out if it knew my real address. I tilt toward Mike, warming his ear with a playful whisper. “Totally a shoe-in for the top of the food chain, don’t cha think?”

“You’re right, Mikey. She is persistent,” the only other woman in the circle replies. Her voice is cool, her purple-pink matte lipstick even cooler. She’s wearing a pale pink strapless dress that screams upper-middle-class respectability, and she’s been staring at the deep plunge of my gown like it personally offended her sense of propriety. Her name is Susan and I remember that because she is the other person up for partner besides Mike.

“I’m just my man’s biggest cheerleader.” I cock my head innocently, watching her eyes narrow another millimeter. “You know what that’s like, right?”

She presses her tongue against her top teeth, her expression threatened and annoyed. A small twinge of guilt hits me. Underneath all the sparkles and bullshit, I’m a girls’ girl. And she probably deserves to be partner way more than Mike. But for the next two hours, he’s my boyfriend, and she’s competition. So she goes down.

Thomas and Joseph laugh, joined by the other lawyers in a polished, synchronized chorus of amusement. It’s the kind of laughter that sounds rehearsed, like they all learned it during their first year of billables. Mike’s hand circles my waist, sweaty and suddenly too tight, gripping my hip with a nervous force that genuinely surprises me. Hard enough that it stings through the fabric. And if there’s even the faintest bruise there tomorrow, Mikey is looking at a five-hundred-dollar fine from the agency.

He leans down and presses a kiss to my temple, the motion stiff and too quick, murmuring against my skin, “Pull it back.”

Ah. There it is. The real reason he’s single.

Because there’s always a reason. Some men are shy, some are lonely, some are awkward in a way that’s almost endearing. I tend to like those. But Mike? Mike is the kind who mistakes a performance for possession. The kind who hires a girlfriend for the evening and then forgets she isn’t actually his.

He doesn’t want me to flirt. He wants me to be pleasant, supportive, pretty… but silent, unless directed otherwise. Invisible in the exact way that makes him look important.

Which means the rest of my night just got significantly more boring.

And I want to leave. God, do I want to step out of these shoes and into the nearest rideshare home. But there’s twenty thousand dollars on the line if I get him through this evening without incident and sell the fantasy from start to finish. Tuition is due in two weeks. I can’t afford pride, and I definitely can’t afford to walk.

I slide my hip sideways, knocking his hand loose as I point at Joseph’s empty bourbon glass.