Chapter 2
His name was Nathan Cole.
His profile said he was thirty-five, theater-trained, experienced in commercial work, emotionally grounded, available for private events.
He was also the cheapest man available on my original wedding date.
That should have embarrassed me.
Maybe it did.
But terminal illness has a strange way of burning shame out of you. When the future becomes short, pride starts looking ridiculous.
I sent him the truth.
Not all of it, but enough.
I told him my fiancé had left after my diagnosis. I told him the wedding was already paid for. I told him I did not need romance, intimacy, or a legal marriage unless he agreed to a symbolic ceremony only.
I just wanted to walk down the aisle once.
I expected him to delete the email.
Instead, the next morning, he replied.
I will do it under one condition.
I stared at that sentence for a full minute.
My first thought was money.
My second thought was worse.
I called him anyway.
Nathan’s voice was quiet, steady, not overly kind in the way people become when they are trying too hard not to sound uncomfortable.
“What condition?” I asked.
“I want to meet you first,” he said. “In person. No agency manager. No contract language. Just us.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m standing beside you on that day, I need to know what I’m actually agreeing to.”
I laughed once, bitterly.
“You’re agreeing to act.”
There was a pause.
Then he said, “Maybe. But I don’t like lying to a woman in a wedding dress.”
May you like
That should have been the first warning.
Nathan Cole was not very good at staying fake.
