Page 33 of This Beautiful Lie
I nodded. “Okay. When do we leave?”
“Monday. I’ll pick you?—”
“No,” I cut him off, too fast. “I’ll meet you at your place. I’ll leave my car there. You don’t need to know where I live.”
Something flickered across his face. Surprise. Disappointment. And something else I couldn’t quite name.
But he nodded, his eyes meeting mine with a softness that made me almost uncomfortable. “Fair enough.”
I stood, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder, before I could talk myself out of this. I was ready to go. Ready to breathe. But before I could take a step, he reached into his briefcase one last time and pulled out a binder.
“What’s this?” I asked, when he handed it to me.
“Just some information you’ll need to know before the retreat.”
I opened it, half expecting an itinerary or packing list.
But it wasn’t either...
It was him.
It was the story of us.
Page after page.
I looked up slowly. “You really did all this?”
He didn’t smile. Just held my gaze.
“If we’re going to pretend,” he said softly, “we should at least be convincing.”
I droppedmy keys on the entry table the moment I got into my apartment, set my bag on the counter, and carried the thick folder to the couch.
I should have left it for later.
Should’ve poured a drink. Watched something stupid. Done literally anything else.
But instead, I curled up with a blanket, flipped open the folder, and started reading.
It was everything.
Pages and pages of details: Places we’d been. Fake vacations we’d never taken. Restaurants we supposedly loved. And I read every word like it was the most gripping piece of fiction I’d ever come across.
Because in a way… it was.
Every detail was meticulous. Carefully crafted, but not cold or clinical like I’d expected. It was flawed in the best kind of way—like someone had tried to tell a love story and ended up revealing more than they meant to.
And then I flipped to a page labeledDean Weston: Personal Background.
My fingers stilled.
This was different. This wasn’t just the relationship.This was him.
Not the buttoned-up version I’d met at the bar. Not the man who could draft a contract without blinking.
Just Dean.
The first lines were simple: thirty-three years old, six-foot-four, two-thirty. UCLA Law. Runs most mornings. Played volleyball in high school.
