She flew forty million miles to get married. He dumped her on the livestream.
Travel journalist Sadie Bell has one job: survive her own destination wedding, file the story, and save her family’s dying magazine. Then her fiancé ends their engagement in front of twelve million viewers, on Mars, under a ten-foot banner with her name on it.
Enter Beckett Vale — the billionaire who built the resort, has ninety days of prepaid sponsorships riding on a honeymoon nobody’s having, and a solution so unromantic it’s almost soothing.
Thirty days. One contract. One marriage, strictly promotional.
There are only two problems. The first is the villa, which has one bed and a decorative silk border that fools absolutely no one. The second is that Beckett Vale keeps doing the single most dangerous thing a fake husband can do.
He keeps asking what she actually wants.
Between an escaped floral amenity, a concierge with the soul of an artist and the judgment of a firework, and a mother-in-law who arrives wearing ivory and leaves owning the narrative, Sadie is about to break the only clause that matters.
Do not make it real.
A fake-marriage romantic comedy with forced proximity, one bed, a contract nobody should have signed, and a guaranteed happily ever after. No cheating, no cliffhanger.
