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We fed them parts of the story throughout dinner but I didn't want to tell them everything. We have to wait to give out all the details on our own. I don't want my parents telling somebody and then that somebody leaking it to the press before we want it to be leaked.

Demi. She was tense when we walked in here and the way I just said, "She's my girlfriend," without a warning probably made her even more tensed, but as dinner went on, we both knew our plan and it worked out. We fell into the act and managed to pull it off just right. It didn't feel as forced as I thought it would have. As it should have. It felt... easy.

"How's your work going?" Mom turned to Dad.

They're divorced but they don't hate each other and I don't know how to feel about that. The only reason they got a divorce was because Dad didn't have enough time for Mom at one point. He was working too hard, failing with a few deals and making millions off of the others. And Mom wanted him more than the gifts he was sending for her. When she realized he couldn't give that to her anymore, she left. She left me with him and refused to take custody when he asked.

And what happens to an unwanted child? They're not taken care of.

"It's going good," he nodded, glancing at her. "Why?"

"I'm just curious, what do you mean 'why'?"

"You'll jinx it."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I won't jinx it, Graham. I don't wish you the worst, despite what you think," she said angrily.

He watched her while she rolled her eyes and finished off her wine, pouring more for herself.

I ignored their constant fighting and focused on my food and Demi. It makes me sick looking at my parents.

They argue like they always did but my mother is still in love with the sick bastard that is my father. I don't care how good of a husband he used to be, in the end, he wasn't. He was never a good father, to begin with, anyway, so I have every reason to hate him as his son. He went ballistic after mom left. That was the worst time of my life since I was living with him and nobody was here to help me deal with him. He took it all out on me. The frustration, the anger, the sadness. Until he couldn't.

Until one day, I was finally old and big and confident enough to throw his hands off and give him one good shove. I remember that day like it was yesterday.

I was sick of it. Sick of the yelling, the scoldings, the slaps, the beatings. If it was a bad day at work, it was slaps and punches and kicks. If it was a loss at work, it was heavy kicks and punches. Sometimes being pushed into the wall and bumping my head. Every week, I had a new bruise, a new cut somewhere on my body.

That night, I had enough. At seventeen, I was done with his bullshit.

I was sitting at the kitchen counter, finishing up an assignment for school when he stumbled in drunk. He was in his office and came out to get more alcohol with his empty glass in his hand. He put it down on the table beside me and grabbed the back of my collar, fisting it. I froze, waiting for him to tell me what to do. "Pour me another drink. Quickly," he ordered.

I took the glass as he let me go and grabbed the whiskey from the cabinet, pouring him another drink and handing him the glass. "Haven't you had enough?" I didn't think he heard me. Just my luck, he did.

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing," I said quickly, defensively.

"You think you get to decide when I should drink now?" He laughed humorlessly and downed his drink, throwing the glass on the countertop once he finished, the shards flying everywhere.

I had stopped flinching when he moved closer now, expecting the blows. But it was hard not to flinch when he picked up a shard and came closer, threatening me with it.

"You're a pain in the ass, Vince. Did you know that?" he slurred, staring at me.

My jaw clenched as he moved the shard around carelessly. It was when he lost his balance and the shard pierced right through the skin on my chest that I lost my mind. I grabbed him by the collar and then shoved him several paces back.

I remember the shock on his face. It was like he never expected me to retaliate. Like I wasn't capable of it in his eyes.

I don't remember the rest very clearly. I was yelling, telling him never to fucking touch me again, saying I'd kill him if he hurt me again, bleeding profusely from my chest from where I was stabbed with the glass. I had to drive myself to the hospital because he simply passed out on the couch after that. That's where the scar is from. That single shard of glass.

I blinked, snapping out of my thoughts when I felt Demi's elbow digging into my side. I turned to her, lifting my brows.

"Why aren't you eating?" she asked softly.

"I'm not hungry," I mumbled, pushing my plate away.

She eyed me but didn't say anything more.

My mom never skips dessert, so some ice cream was brought in for everybody. The fancy bowl just sat in front of me, the ice cream slowly melting away.

I faced Demi when she held her spoon in front of my mouth. "Yours is all melted. Take mine," she nodded.

I felt my parents watching us. She shot me a pointed look. We have to act, that's the whole point of this. And I'm wasting time going down the dark side of memory lane. I opened my mouth, taking the spoonful she fed me before she had some herself.

My parents slowly fell back into their own conversation and she turned to me. "What are you thinking about now?" she asked in a whisper while leaning back in her seat.

"Memories," I answered quietly.

"Good or bad?"

"Bad."

She stared at me.

"Really bad," I exhaled.

She paused, reading my face. "The scar on your chest kind of bad?"

I held her gaze, hoping the surprise didn't show on my face.

"I don't know what happened, but it's not rocket science. I know how to read a room," she mumbled, glancing at my father.

My jaw clenched. I didn't want her to ask about this.

"I won't ask questions," she whispered, glancing at my fists in my lap. "Don't worry."

I turned to my parents. "We're heading out." I stood up.

Demi stood up with me, smiling politely. "Thank you for dinner."

"Pleasure's mine," Dad nodded at her. He acts so nice around her. He likes her. Weirdly enough, out of all the people he's met thanks to me, he likes Demi the most. I don't know what he sees in her, I would know if I asked, but Dad and I don't talk. We haven't exchanged a word tonight either that was directly to each other. But he almost... trusts her. With me. It's like he thinks she's good for me. I may not like my father, but I know him. Enough to read him.

My mom decided to leave too, so Dad walked us all out.

Demi and I strolled, waiting till Mom left as we reached our car. I know my Dad and I know he's watching from the door. He's smart, he doesn't believe us completely right now. We have to put on a show. It's crucial. The show has to be believable even for an asshole like my father.

As we reached the passenger side, Demi walked a foot ahead of me, I reached forward and grabbed her hand, pulling her to a halt.

She stopped beside me, facing me. "What now? Are you going to get the door for me?" She chuckled softly, glancing at the house. She realized he was there too.

"Should I?" I lifted a brow at her, leaning in only slightly.

Her eyes narrowed. "You can't even flirt for pretend."

"Oh?" I mused, grabbing her waist and pulling her in front of me before backing her up against the car slowly.

She stared at me.

"How's that for flirting?" I asked.

"It's not flirting if you say it's flirting," came back her witty reply. She's... teasing me.

I put my hands on the roof of the car behind her. "Shall I not warn you then? Should I just do it?" I leaned down, stopping a few inches from her lips.

"Don't kiss me," she whispered, "not in front of your Dad, even if it's just pretend. It's weird."

"It's what we signed up to do, sweetheart," I mumbled, glancing at her lips while she swallowed, suddenly seeming nervous as she rested her arms around my neck.

"Just do it if you're going to," she mumbled, glancing at my lips. "Get it over with."

The thought of kissing her felt weird. It wouldn't if I remembered the last time I did it. I still don't remember that whole night, only bits and pieces. Little flashbacks. Her under me, on top of me. The tattoos. Kissing her neck... or was it her kissing mine?

Thinking about that night was enough courage. We did all that and we don't even remember what it was like. We can't do it again, this contract isn't an excuse for that. We can say we did it, but we can't actually do it. Kissing her again is probably the closest I'll get to remembering something from that night.

"Are you doing it or not?" she huffed.

Show or not, kissing her isn't a big deal. We have to do this, we can't be hesitant.

I leaned down as she tilted her chin up, her lips meeting mine in a slow kiss. As my lips moved against hers, as her nails dug into the back of my neck, as her fingers ran through my hair, I remembered. I remembered what it was like to kiss Demi Tiffany Vaughn that night.

It felt like I won the biggest game on the ice. That same feeling. That adrenaline, that hyper-awareness of my surroundings. That same way, I was hyper-aware of her. The way her body pressed into mine, the way she kissed. It was new and yet all too familiar. It was good.

Something I could do without getting sick of it. And that's why she's perfect for this job. Because I don't ever see myself getting sick of Ms. Tiffany here. Ever. Assistant or fake girlfriend, doesn't matter. I'll probably never let this one go.

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