Chapter Text
Taylor never, once in her whole life, for a single second, considered she would ever get an escort. Well, technically, a luxury companion-for-hire. Still.
For one, because she was… well, her. And being her came with many responsibilities and expectations. Things that were never really laid out in the open, but could be, in some way, considered consensus. After all, was there any need to spell out that one of the most famous women in the world wouldn’t ever have to pay for company? Certainly, that wasn’t something people even considered. Let alone linger on.
Secondly, because she tried not to think of herself as an impulsive person. She always thought things through before committing to them, planned ahead, calculated, tried to picture all possible outcomes of her every move before making a decision. That was what she told herself, at least. And what people, her fans and haters alike, seemed to believe. Hell, she even had a whole song about it.
But, mostly, Taylor thought she would never need to. All expectations and bullshit aside, she thought she had found it. Love. She thought by now the wedding her family would spend that much time organising would be hers. But alas, the sibling who was getting married was her baby brother. And the man with whom she figured she’d have taken that step already not only was, as of four months before, her ex; he was also her brother’s best man.
Austin had, gently, with a wide-eyed puppy-like face tainted with what looked an awful lot like pity, asked how Taylor felt about Joe remaining his best man. He offered, more than once, to ask his college buddy Wyatt instead, to uninvite the man she spent six years loving, to excommunicate that same man who had turned into one of his closest friends of all upcoming family gatherings.
However Taylor, as much as she did paint herself (and much more often saw herself painted) as a cold, machiavellian woman, could never in any way stand between Austin having his day with his fiancée being the best of days. And, she knew, that meant enduring what would surely be a very long week standing far too closely to the man who dilacerated her heart into a million pieces not even a whole semester ago.
All of which meant that very firm stance on who she was, escort-hiring-wise, had very definitive, sudden and concerningly been tore to the ground with a simple combination of overpriced wine, a night in with Gigi and an extensive, carefully curated Alanis Morisette playlist.
The thing is, her relationship with Joe (or at least the remainders of it) was a complicated one. She figured real love always was. She felt angry. Tired. Resigned. Sad. Relieved. She hated him, loved him, missed him, sometimes all at once.
Most days she hated herself most of all. That version of her that was a byproduct of all the years, her ups and downs, everything she conquered and overcame, her regrets and the things she would do over again a million times. Unavoidably, that version of her that was so deeply touched, so undeniably marked by the handprint of the people she once loved, who once loved her. By Joe. That version of herself he couldn’t recognise, let alone love, anymore.
But once the alcohol kicked in, mercifully, she was able to move past her even more complicated relationship with herself, and truly hate Joe. Or, at the very least, spite him. And on that matter, Gigi, being a best friend, was oh so very helpful.
“You know what you need?” Gigi said, swirling the remnants of wine in her glass with the kind of deliberate slowness that meant she was building up to something. Her voice had taken on that particular tone, the one that usually preceded either brilliant advice or spectacularly terrible ideas.
Taylor cradled a throw pillow like a life raft, taking a very generous sip of the Bordeaux they’d opened a few minutes before. “A time machine?”
“Close. You need to make Joseph Alwyn eat his fucking heart out.”
Taylor sputtered, wine catching in her throat. “Oh my God, Gigi-”
“No, seriously. Picture this: you walk into Austin's rehearsal dinner with someone absolutely stunning on your arm. Someone successful, charming, completely devoted to you. Someone who makes everyone in that room realise what an absolute moron Joe was for letting you go.”
The idea settled in Taylor's chest with a strange mix of appeal and terror. “And where exactly am I supposed to find this hypothetical perfect person who's willing to fake being madly in love with me for a week?”
Gigi's smile turned almost predatory. “That's the beauty of it. You don't have to find them. There are... services for this kind of thing.”
“Services.” Taylor's voice was flat.
“High-end companionship. Ultra-exclusive, ultra-confidential. Think of it as hiring an actor for the performance of a lifetime.”
Taylor set her wine glass down, suddenly very much sober. “Absolutely not.”
“Before you shut this down completely, just think about it,” Gigi pressed, leaning forward. “You're going to spend an entire week watching your ex-boyfriend stand next to your brother, probably giving some toast about love and commitment and forever, while you sit there alone, trying to convince everyone you're fine. You know what people are going to say.”
The words hit like a physical blow because they were true. Taylor could already hear the whispered conversations, see the pitying looks. For a second, she considered for about the billionth time texting Austin and not being The Bigger Person™. She, once again, shut the idea down.
“It's not that simple, Gigi. I'm not just some random person who can hire an escort without consequences. What if they recognise me? What if they're a fan? What if they decide to sell their story to the tabloids afterward?” Taylor's voice rose with each sentence. “My career, my reputation-”
“Which is exactly why there are services that cater to people like you,” Gigi interrupted. “People with everything to lose. They're not just random escorts, Taylor. These are professionals who understand discretion because their entire business model depends on it. And let’s be honest, you’re not exactly drowning in other options.”
Taylor didn’t answer. Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Little Bro
Can’t wait to see you next week. Joe says he’s looking forward to catching up. 😊
Taylor stared at the message until the screen dimmed. The throw pillow tightened in her grip.
“Gigi...” Her voice was quiet now. “I’ve spent months pretending to be okay. Smiling through shows. Telling myself I was being ‘mature’ by not making Austin pick a side. And now I’m supposed to sit there and watch Joe toast to eternal love like he didn’t leave me in the wreckage?”
Gigi reached for her hand without a word.
“Even if I were insane enough to consider this,” Taylor said slowly, “what kind of person am I supposed to hire?”
“Someone completely opposite to Joe,” Gigi said immediately. “Outgoing where he's reserved, passionate about their work where he's... whatever Joe does these days. Someone who actually shows up for you instead of making you feel like you're asking for too much just by existing.”
Taylor found herself nodding despite her reservations
“But here's the thing,” Gigi continued, her voice growing more thoughtful. “If you really want to mess with his head, if you want to show him just how much he underestimated you...”
She trailed off, and Taylor raised a brow.
“What?” Taylor asked, though she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
“A woman.”
“Gigi, I can't-” she started.
“Why not? You've been out to your close friends for years. The only reason you haven't been public about it is because you've been with Joe, and everyone just assumed...”
“Exactly. Everyone assumed. My entire public image is built on that assumption.” Taylor's voice was tight with anxiety. “Do you know what would happen if I showed up with a woman? The speculation, the questions, the fucking think pieces about my entire dating history?”
“So what if they speculate?” Gigi challenged. “You're not confirming anything by bringing a date. People bring friends to weddings all the time.”
“Not friends who look at them like they want to devour them,” Taylor shot back.
“Which is exactly what would make Joe lose his mind,” Gigi said with satisfaction. “Seeing you with someone who actually desires you, who isn't afraid to show it. Someone who makes him realise that maybe the problem was never you being 'too much', maybe the problem was him not being enough.”
“It's too risky,” she whispered.
“Everything worthwhile is risky,” Gigi said gently. “And honestly? Maybe it's time people knew this part of you. Maybe it's time you stopped hiding pieces of yourself to make other people comfortable.”
Taylor was quiet for a long time, staring at her hands wrapped around the throw pillow. The truth was, she was tired of hiding. Tired of letting people make assumptions about who she was and who she loved.
She hated that Joe had broken her heart. But she hated more that she had let him do it.
Maybe Gigi was right. Maybe it was time to stop hiding pieces of herself to make other people comfortable. Maybe it was time to make a move that was undeniably hers.
“This is insane,” she said finally.
“Completely insane.”
“And probably the worst idea you've ever had.”
“Oh, definitely.”
Taylor looked at her best friend, who was watching her with barely contained excitement.
“Tell me more about this service,” she heard herself say.
Gigi's grin was triumphant. “Now we're talking.”
Two hours and another bottle of wine later, Taylor found herself staring at a sleek black business card with nothing but a phone number embossed in silver. No company name, no website, no social media handles. Just ten digits that somehow felt both innocuous and terrifying.
“It's not what you think,” Gigi had explained, refilling both their glasses with the dregs of their third bottle. “I mean, sure, some people use it for sex, but most of the time it’s just elevated arm candy. Plus-ones for galas. Divorce buffers at Thanksgiving. No awkward solo seating charts.”
“How do you even know about this?” Taylor asked, turning the card over in her fingers.
“Bella mentioned it once. Said half of Hollywood and Silicon Valley uses services like this. It’s practically a tax write-off for tech bros who don’t know how to talk to humans.”
Taylor narrowed her eyes. “That’s either extremely comforting or a damning indictment of modern relationships.”
“Why not both?”
They'd spent the better part of an hour crafting what Gigi dramatically called The Requirements. It started as a joke - someone who could handle social landmines and outshine Joe without breaking a sweat - but the list grew unsettlingly detailed.
“She has to be articulate,” Taylor had said, “but not fake deep. The kind of person who can talk to my mom about Europe without sounding like a walking Lonely Planet.”
“She also has to be hot,” Gigi had added. “Like, criminally. The kind of woman who makes people stare, then feel bad for staring.”
Taylor had nodded at that one. “But not, like... obviously queer-coded. She needs to be soft enough that my grandaunts won’t start praying mid-dinner. Okay, here’s a weird one,” she murmured. “She can’t be a fan.”
Gigi blinked. “Of what?”
“Me.” Taylor gestured vaguely to her whole self. “Like, not a fan of the music. At all.”
“That's going to significantly limit your options.”
“I’m serious,” Taylor said, slouching deeper into the couch. “Imagine hiring someone and they’re quoting my lyrics in a toast or humming melodies through the week. What if they post something later? Or spend the whole week asking me sign stuff? What if they start the week pretending and end it pitching a tell-all memoir?”
Gigi winced. “Okay, fair. That’s a PR nightmare waiting to happen.”
“Exactly. I want someone who doesn’t care that I’m Taylor Swift™. Who doesn’t have a secret playlist or, God forbid, a Tumblr archive.”
Gigi gave her a long look. “So you want a smart, beautiful, emotionally competent woman who’s never interacted with Western pop culture?”
Taylor sighed. “Okay, yeah, I know how it sounds.”
“Jazz lesbian?” Gigi offered.
“Or, like, death metal. Just... someone whose world doesn’t already revolve around me.” Taylor traced the rim of her wine glass with one finger. “I don’t want to feel like a product. Not in this. I want someone who sees me. Not the brand.”
Gigi reached for her hand, gave it a squeeze. “Then we find you someone who’s never streamed folklore and wouldn’t know a Billboard chart if it bit her.”
By the time they'd finished outlining every requirement, Taylor was drunk enough to actually consider the idea as a reasonable one.
Finally, she picked up Gigi’s phone, after she convinced the model to surrender her personal one, as ‘using her own wouldn’t be advisable’. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”
“Use a fake name,” Gigi advised, flopping sideways onto the couch. “Something boring but believable.”
Taylor stared at the dial screen. “Alison,” she said. “Alison... Smith.”
“Wow. You went full suburban witness protection.”
“It’s my middle name and... I don’t know. Smith just feels safe.” She glanced sideways. “And generic enough not to tempt Google.”
Then, before she could think too hard, she hit Call.
The phone rang twice before a smooth, professional voice answered, not unlike the maître d’ at a too-fancy restaurant. “Pyrite Companions, this is Marcus. How may I assist you this evening?”
Taylor's throat went dry. “Hi, I... I was referred by a friend. I need to inquire about your services.”
“Of course.” He didn’t miss a beat. “Before we proceed, I should let you know all new clients must complete a confidentiality agreement and verification process before we can discuss specific offerings or rates. It’s in place to protect both our companions and our clientele. Are you comfortable with that?”
“Yes,” Taylor said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.
“Excellent. May I have a name for our records?”
“Alison Smith.”
“Thank you, Ms. Smith. Is the number you're calling from the best way to reach you?”
“Yes, but I should mention, this is a very sensitive situation. The highest level of discretion is absolutely essential.”
“Understood,” Marcus said. “Complete confidentiality is the cornerstone of our service. All records are encrypted, and all engagements require mutual NDAs. Is there anything you’d like to share up front in terms of requirements?”
Taylor took a breath, feeling the wine and adrenaline take over her brain’s decision-making HQ somehow. “I need someone for a week-long family event. Someone... a woman. Outgoing, professionally successful, comfortable with high-pressure social situations. And...” she paused, knowing how this was going to sound, “And they can’t be a Taylor Swift fan.”
Silence.
Then, politely: “I’m sorry, did you say-?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “No fans. Of her music. Of her persona. Any of it.” She could hear the disbelief rising in her own voice but pushed through. “Look, I know it sounds bizarre. But the person I’m... avoiding... has a very personal connection to that name. I don’t want any reminders. I want someone completely disconnected from it. It’s complicated.”
That, at least, wasn’t a lie.
“Not bizarre at all,” Marcus replied smoothly. “We’ve received far stranger client specifications. I’ll note that preference clearly. Before we proceed, you’ll need to complete our confidentiality and verification process. That includes standard identity and financial screening, plus an initial consultation fee.”
“How much are we talking?”
“The consultation fee is five thousand, which goes toward your final booking if you proceed. Our rates for extended engagements like yours typically range from fifteen to thirty thousand, depending on the specific requirements and companion selected.”
Taylor nearly choked on her wine. Gigi's eyes went wide.
“That's... fine,” Taylor managed. “What kind of background check?”
“Standard verification of identity and financial capacity. We're very selective about our clientele, as I'm sure you understand. We'll also need to know the specific dates, locations, and nature of the events you'll be attending.”
“And the confidentiality agreement?”
“Ironclad. Both parties sign extensive NDAs. Our reputation depends entirely on discretion, Ms. Smith. Any breach of confidentiality results in immediate legal action and substantial financial penalties.” Taylor felt some of her anxiety ease. “If you're ready to proceed, I can email you the preliminary paperwork. Once that's completed and processed, we can arrange a consultation to discuss specific matches.”
Taylor looked at Gigi, who was nodding enthusiastically.
“Send the paperwork,” Taylor heard herself say.
“Excellent. I'll need an email address.”
Taylor rattled off one of her secondary email accounts, the one she used for online shopping and other mundane activities.
“Perfect. You should receive everything within the hour. The consultation can be arranged as soon as tomorrow if you're working with a tight timeline.”
“The wedding is in two weeks.”
“Not a problem at all. We've arranged successful long-term companions with much shorter notice. Welcome to Pyrite Companions, Ms. Smith. We look forward to helping you create the perfect experience.”
The line went dead, and Taylor stared at her phone for a long moment, hardly believing what she'd just done. Her laptop chimed with a new email notification, and there it was: a message from an encrypted email address with a link that required two-factor authentication to access.
“Holy shit,” she whispered.
“Holy shit,” Gigi agreed. “You actually did it.”
“I actually did it,” Taylor said, blinking slowly. “I just committed to spending thirty thousand dollars on a fake girlfriend.”
Gigi leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “You just committed to spending thirty thousand dollars to make Joe Alwyn wish he’d died in 2018.”
Taylor considered it.
“You know what?” she said, voice quiet but sure. “That might actually be worth it.”
· · ·
Taylor woke up to sunlight stabbing through her curtains like it had declared war on her personally and the immediate, overwhelming certainty that she was going to die. Her mouth tasted like she'd been chewing on drywall, her head felt like it was being split open with a rusty axe, and there was a very concerning buzzing sound that she eventually realised was her phone.
She fumbled for it with one eye cracked open, squinting at the screen through the haze of what was definitely the worst hangover she'd had in a long time. The time read 11:45 AM, which explained why the sun seemed so personally offended by her existence.
Across the room, Gigi was starfished on the couch, snoring softly. The coffee table was a crime scene: three empty bottles, a cork stabbed into a houseplant, and a napkin scribbled with bullet points.
Taylor’s phone buzzed again.
Her stomach dropped as the previous night came flooding back in horrifying detail.
The escort service. Holy fucking Jesus.
“Oh god,” she whispered, her voice coming out as a croak. “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
She scrolled through her notifications with growing panic. Most were the usual: muted text chains, Instagram mentions, a reminder to approve album art, calendar alerts. But there, sitting at the top of her email inbox like a neon sign advertising her poor life choices, was a message from Pyrite Companions.
Subject: Welcome, Ms. Smith - Next Steps for Your Consultation
Her finger hovered over the email for a full thirty seconds before she finally opened it.
Dear Ms. Smith,
Thank you for your interest in Pyrite Companions. We have received your completed confidentiality agreement and initial consultation fee of $5,000. Your payment has been processed and your account is now active.
Based on our conversation last evening, we have identified three potential companions who meet your specified requirements. We would like to schedule a consultation call at your earliest convenience to discuss these options in detail.
Please reply with your preferred times for a confidential consultation. We recommend scheduling within the next 48 hours to ensure adequate preparation time for your upcoming events.
We look forward to providing you with exceptional service.
Best regards,
Marcus Cao
Senior Client Relations Specialist
Pyrite Companions
Taylor stared at the email in horror. The consultation fee. Five thousand dollars. She quickly opened her banking app, and sure enough, there it was: a charge to something called “PC Consulting Services” for exactly five thousand dollars, processed at 4:23 AM.
“Gigi,” she whispered, her voice strangled. “Gigi, wake up.”
Her best friend stirred slightly but didn't open her eyes.
“GIGI.” Taylor's voice came out as a panicked yelp.
This time Gigi's eyes snapped open, immediately squinting against the light. “Jesus Christ, why are you yelling? And why does everything hurt?”
“Because we drank three bottles of wine and I HIRED AN ESCORT.”
Gigi sat up so fast she nearly fell off the couch. “Oh shit. Oh shit, that actually happened.”
“They took my money, Gigi. Five thousand dollars. They want to schedule a consultation call. They have three potential candidates.” Taylor was spiralling now, her voice getting higher with each word. “What the hell was I thinking? I can't hire a fake girlfriend. I can't show up to Austin's wedding with some random woman and pretend we're in love. What if she's terrible? What if she's obvious?”
“Okay, okay, breathe,” Gigi said, though she looked fairly panicked herself. “Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe you can just... not follow through?”
“I already paid five thousand dollars!”
“Rich people lose five thousand dollars in their couch cushions all the time.”
“I'm not that rich!”
Gigi gave her a look. “You’re a billionaire, Taylor.”
“Okay, fine, but that's not the point!” Taylor was pacing now, which was a mistake because it made her head pound worse. “I made an impulsive, wine-fueled, career-ending decision. I agreed to lie to my family, hire a stranger to pretend to love me, and possibly out myself to the entire Internet in the process.” She paused, clutching her head. “A woman, Gigi. A professional woman escort.”
“First of all, iconic,” Gigi muttered, rubbing her temples like she was trying to reboot her brain. “Second, let’s not catastrophise before coffee. You didn’t sign a blood pact. You can still back out.”
Taylor dropped onto the couch.
“I want to back out,” she said. “I really do. But I also don’t want to sit through a four-day wedding marathon watching Joe give toasts and smirk while I try not to cry into a goddamn canapé.”
Gigi didn’t answer right away.
Then, soft but steady: “So don’t back out.”
Taylor blinked at her.
“Maybe this won’t be a disaster,” Gigi went on. “Maybe it was a moment of clarity. A very expensive, wine-fuelled moment of clarity. But still, something honest. Like, maybe you finally admitted you don’t want to do this alone.”
Taylor stared at the carpet.
“Think about it,” Gigi continued. “You’ve been spiralling for weeks, about Joe, about the wedding, about having to act like everything’s fine. Now? You have a way out. A slightly deranged, wildly expensive way out, but still. It’s something.”
“A ‘way out’ that involves lying to my entire family.”
“You were already going to lie to your entire family by pretending you're fine.”
Taylor opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Gigi had a point.
Her phone buzzed with a text message, and she glanced down to see it was from Austin.
Little Bro
Hey, Soph said she as a nice cousin to introduce to you. You two can meet if you’re better with the whole Joe thing
Taylor stared at the message. Something snapped into place.
“That's it,” she said, her voice suddenly steady, decisive. “I'm doing it.”
“Really?”
“Really. I'm going to hire the most gorgeous, successful, charming woman they have, and I'm going to show up to that wedding looking like the happiest I've ever been in my life.”
Gigi's hangover seemed to disappear as she grinned. “Now that's the petty Taylor I know and love.”
Taylor looked back at the email, her finger hovering over the reply button. “But first, I need about six Advil and a gallon of coffee.”
“And maybe a shower. You smell fucking awful.”
“Thanks for the honesty, I guess.”
“That's what friends are for.”
· · ·
By three o'clock, Taylor felt marginally human again. She'd managed to choke down some toast, downed enough coffee to wake the dead, and taken the longest, hottest shower of her life. Gigi had finally gone home around noon with promises to check in later and threats of bodily harm if Taylor chickened out.
Now, sitting in her home office with a legal pad covered in nervous doodles, Taylor stared at the email she'd sent two hours earlier:
Available for consultation call today between 3-5 PM EST. Please advise best time.
The response had come back within minutes, professional and efficient: 3:30 PM works perfectly. I'll call you at the number you provided.
Which meant she had exactly twelve minutes to either follow through with this insanity or fake her own death and move to a remote island somewhere.
Her phone rang at exactly 3:30.
“Ms. Smith? This is Marcus from Pyrite Companions. Thank you for making time for this consultation.”
“Of course,” Taylor managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
“I’ve reviewed your initial requirements,” Marcus continued, “and I believe we have several strong options. But before we get into specifics, I want to confirm that we’re aligned on the scope of services you’re looking for.”
“Okay.”
“You mentioned needing someone to portray a romantic partner for a week-long family event. Is this strictly for appearances, or would you prefer a more... comprehensive arrangement?”
Taylor's brain felt like it had short-circuited. “Comprehensive?”
“Intimate companionship, if you will. It's quite common for our longer engagements, and all of our companions are prepared to provide those services should you desire them.”
“Oh. Oh no. No, thank you. I don't- That’s- Uh, that's not what I'm looking for.”
“Of course, that's perfectly fine. I simply wanted to make you aware that should your needs change during the engagement, additional arrangements can be discussed directly with your chosen companion. There would be additional fees, naturally, but we like our clients to know all their options.”
Taylor made a strangled noise of acknowledgment.
“Now,” he said smoothly, “let me walk you through our top three matches based on your criteria.”
Taylor grabbed her pen, though she wasn't sure what she was planning to write down.
“First is Elena. She's 29, originally from Barcelona but has been in New York for eight years. She speaks four languages fluently, has extensive experience with high-profile social events, and specialises in what we call 'intellectual companionship.' She's well-versed in art, literature, current events, and can hold her own in any conversation. Her background story is that she works in art curation, sophisticated but general enough to deflect nosy questions.”
Taylor nodded slowly. “So it’s all... roleplay?”
“All our companions have carefully crafted professional personas that are believable but vague enough to avoid detailed scrutiny. Elena's 'career' in art curation explains why she travels frequently, has sophisticated taste, and can afford designer clothing, but doesn't require her to have deep technical knowledge of any specific field.”
Taylor found herself nodding along. It was disturbingly well thought out.
“Elena's rate for a week-long engagement would be twenty-eight thousand, plus expenses.”
Taylor nearly choked but managed to keep quiet.
“Our second candidate is Riley. She's 31, from Portland originally, very outgoing and charismatic. She has a background in theatre, which makes her particularly good at sustained character work. Her persona is that she's a freelance marketing consultant, which explains irregular hours and the ability to take a week off for a personal trip. She's done several wedding scenarios and gets excellent reviews for her warmth and authenticity.”
“What's her rate?”
“Twenty-five thousand for the week, plus expenses.”
“Okay. And the third?”
“Ah, now this one might be particularly interesting for your situation. Her name is Jordan. She's also 31, grew up in Chicago, and she's... let's say she has a very authentic disregard for popular culture. She genuinely doesn't follow celebrity news, pop music, social media trends. She's more into independent films, obscure books, jazz music. Very intellectual but in a completely different sphere from mainstream entertainment.”
“She wouldn’t recognize me?” Taylor asked.
“Unlikely,” Marcus said, with a touch of humour. “She once asked if Beyoncé was a skincare brand.”
Taylor actually laughed.
“Jordan's usual persona is that she's a freelance writer and editor, working on a novel. It's perfect for someone who needs to appear successful but keeps irregular hours and can be vague about specific projects. She can, however, adjust that according to your needs. She tends to be very flexible on that front.”
“What's she like personality-wise?”
“Confident without being aggressive, naturally affectionate but not clingy, excellent at reading social situations and adapting accordingly. She's done long-term bookings with several high-profile clients who needed someone who could handle family events, business functions, that sort of thing.”
Taylor found herself leaning forward. “And her rate?”
“Thirty thousand for the week.”
“Why is she more expensive?”
Marcus paused thoughtfully. “Jordan has been with us for four years and has an exceptional track record with complex, high-stakes arrangements. She's particularly skilled at family dynamics, which can be more challenging than business events. Plus, she's selective about her bookings, she only takes on clients she feels confident she can serve well.”
“She sounds perfect.”
“I thought you might say that. Would you like me to arrange a preliminary meeting? We typically do this over video call first, then if there's mutual interest, we can arrange an in-person meeting before finalising the contract.”
“How does this work exactly? The meeting?”
“We'll do a thirty-minute video consultation where you can both assess compatibility. Should you decide to move forward, we'll arrange a longer in-person meeting to work out details, establish your relationship backstory, and finalise logistics.”
“Backstory?”
“How you met, how long you've been together, key details about your relationship that you'll both need to know. It doesn’t need to be elaborate, just believable. The more personal texture you include, the more seamless the performance.”
Taylor realised she was holding her breath. "Right. Okay. Let's set up the video call.”
“Perfect. I can arrange something for tomorrow afternoon if that works for you?”
“That works.”
“Excellent. I'll send you a secure link and instructions. Now, Ms. Smith, I do need to address something. While we've been using aliases up to this point for your privacy, video calls make anonymity... challenging. Jordan might recognise you during the call, despite not being a pop culture fan.”
Taylor's stomach dropped. “Oh.”
“This is completely normal with high-profile clients. Jordan has worked with several recognisable individuals and maintains absolute discretion. Everything is covered under our confidentiality agreements, both hers and yours. She's never had a single breach of privacy in four years with us.”
“What if she's... uncomfortable? With who I am?”
“Jordan is a professional. If anything, knowing your public profile will help her better understand the stakes and tailor her approach accordingly. But I can assure you, she won't be starstruck or treat you any differently than any other client.”
Taylor felt a mix of relief and terror. “Okay. Yes, let's do this.”
“Wonderful. I’ll send you details within the hour.”
After hanging up, Taylor sat in her office for a long time, staring at her phone. Tomorrow, she was going to have a video call with a woman named Jordan who she might potentially pay thirty thousand dollars to pretend to be in love with her for a week.
She picked up her phone to text Gigi.
Taylor
Video call tomorrow with potential fake girlfriend. I might throw up.
The response came back immediately.
Gigi
OR it’s all gonna be perfectly fine. Stop panicking and start planning what you're going to wear.
· · ·
The next afternoon, Taylor had changed outfits three times before settling on a simple black sweater and shorts. She'd positioned her laptop so the lighting was flattering but not obviously staged, and she'd spent twenty minutes debating whether or not to wear makeup before deciding on just enough to look put-together.
At exactly 2:00 PM, she clicked the secure video link Marcus had sent.
The screen loaded to show a woman with shoulder-length dark hair, sitting in what looked like a tastefully decorated apartment with high windows. She was prettier than Taylor had expected: striking without being intimidating, with breath-taking green eyes, tanned skin and an easy confidence that came through even on screen. She had sharp, remarkable features. A woman way too beautiful to be just American; maybe some Middle Eastern mixed heritage.
“Hi Alison,” the woman said, then paused for just a moment, her expression shifting slightly. “Or… should I say, hi Taylor.”
Taylor’s stomach flipped. “So, you know who I am.”
“I do now.” Jordan's smile was warm but professional. “Though I have to admit, I probably wouldn't have if my fifteen-year-old niece wasn't obsessed with you. She has your poster on her bedroom wall and plays your songs on repeat when I babysit.”
Taylor groaned. “This is literally my worst-case scenario.”
“Relax.” Jordan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not a fan. No offence, I just don’t listen to pop music. I’m more of a Billie Holiday and Coltrane kind of girl. My niece has tried to convert me multiple times and failed spectacularly.”
Taylor snorted before she could stop herself. “She has good taste.”
“She sure thinks so. But the point is, you don’t need to worry. I know who you are in the cultural sense, but I couldn’t name a song if you paid me.”
Taylor studied her. Jordan looked calm. Steady. Like she did this sort of thing all the time, probably because she did. No gawking, no edge of curiosity.
“And you’re not going fangirl or anything?” she asked.
Jordan’s smile didn’t waver. “God, no. First rule of the job: I’m whoever you need me to be, for however long you need me to be it. Your celebrity doesn’t change that. If anything, it gives me a clearer blueprint.”
“A blueprint?”
Jordan nodded. “I know now that you need someone who’s completely unimpressed. Who treats you like a person, not a brand. Someone confident enough to stand next to you without trying to outshine you, but who also won’t disappear into the wallpaper.” Her eyes sparkled with something that looked a lot like mischief. “Someone who can make your ex-boyfriend wonder how the hell he let someone like you slip away.”
Taylor felt something loosen in her chest. “You think you can do that?”
“Honey," Jordan said, her smile turning predatory, "I'm going to make that man question his entire existence.”
Despite everything - the absurdity of the situation, her lingering anxiety, the fact that she was literally interviewing someone to pretend to love her, Taylor found herself laughing. Really laughing, loud, unrestrained and even a bit embarrassingly, for the first time in a long while.
“First, we build the story. How you and I met, how long we’ve been together, the little details that make a couple believable. Then we prep: dress codes, public behaviour, expectations with family. I’ll give you a framework, but you’ll lead the emotional cues. The more consistent we are, the less people question it.”
Taylor nodded slowly. “The wedding is a week-long circus. Nashville. My brother Austin’s marrying into old money, and they’re treating it like the royal nuptials. Formal dinners, brunches, a horse-drawn carriage is probably involved.”
Jordan smiled like she’d heard worse.
“And the ex?”
“Joe,” Taylor said. Voice clipped, professional. “Best man. We were together six years. Broke up four months ago. He and Austin became close during our relationship, so of course he's still invited.”
Jordan nodded, making mental notes. “Who ended it?”
“He did.” The words came out more bitter than Taylor intended. “Said he needed space to figure himself out. Apparently six years wasn't enough time.”
“Ouch.” Jordan's expression was sympathetic but not pitying. “And you want to show up with a gorgeous girlfriend to make him regret that decision?”
“Something like that.” Taylor shifted in her chair. “Look, I know how this sounds-“
“It sounds like you're human,” Jordan interrupted. “Trust me, I've seen much pettier revenge fantasies. At least you're not asking me to seduce him away from his current girlfriend, or to seduce her away from him.”
“He doesn't have one. As far as I know.” Taylor paused. “God, that makes me sound pathetic, doesn't it? Keeping tabs on my ex.”
“It makes you sound like someone who cared about someone for six years and is still processing the end of that relationship.” Jordan's tone was matter-of-fact. “Which is normal. What's not normal is having to do it in front of Nashville society and whatever high-profile guests will be there.”
Taylor felt a flutter of relief at Jordan's understanding. “There'll be some famous people, yeah. Actors, musicians, politicians. The kind of crowd where everyone's watching everyone else.”
“Perfect. I love an audience.” Taylor laughed, but the nerves returned instantly when Jordan asked, “Now, logistics. You mentioned staying in the same room?”
“The estate has guest suites, but they’re all set up for couples,” Taylor said. Her cheeks burned. “I figured it would look weird if we asked for separate rooms. I can sleep on the couch or-”
Jordan raised an eyebrow. “Taylor. You’re paying me thirty thousand dollars to be convincing. Couples don't sleep in separate beds unless there's trouble in paradise, and trust me, that's not the story we want to tell.”
“Oh. Right.” Taylor hadn't thought that through. “I just... I wanted to make sure you knew that I'm not expecting... I mean, Marcus probably told you I specifically said no-”
“No sexual services, I know.” Jordan's voice was just as professional as it had been through the whole call. “Though I should mention, just to be clear, if anything physical ever does become part of the arrangement, it would be your decision, and we’d renegotiate boundaries and fees before anything happened. But for now? We’re just sharing a bed like grown-ups. I won’t hog the blankets, I promise.”
Taylor snorted despite herself. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”
“Gets easier,” Jordan said, smile widening. “Trust me, by day three of the wedding you’ll be correcting people on our fake love story.”
Taylor shook her head, grinning despite herself. “Okay. Let’s talk about the story.”
“Great. How’d we meet?”
“Mutual friends. Something low-key. Not dramatic, not suspicious. Maybe through a random industry mixer.”
“And how long have we been together?”
“Three months?” Taylor offered. “Feels new but solid. Intimate, but still exciting.”
“Three months is perfect,” Jordan agreed. “Just long enough that people believe we’re real but not long enough that they’re offended they haven’t heard of me before. What's my background? What do I do for work?”
“I thought maybe academia? Or something adjacent. I didn’t want it to sound like you’re trying to network.”
Jordan tilted her head. “Actually... we can use my real background. I did my Master’s at Brown, liberal arts focus, and started a PhD in counselling psych before I pivoted into companion work.”
“You were studying to be a therapist?”
Jordan smiled faintly. “Still am, in a way. Just... with less red tape and better clothes.”
Taylor let out a startled laugh.
“We can say I’m a licensed mental health counsellor who works privately,” Jordan offered. “Gives me credibility at formal events, explains the schedule flexibility, and adds a little mystery.”
“That’s perfect,” Taylor said. “It’ll play well with my mom.”
Jordan made a quick note somewhere offscreen, then looked up. “Now tell me this, what’s our dynamic? Publicly, I mean. Flirty? Reserved? Touchy?”
Taylor hesitated.
Jordan didn’t push. “Maybe tell me about you and Joe. What did that dynamic look like?”
Taylor's face clouded slightly. “Quiet. Private. We spent a lot of time hiding away from everything. He valued his privacy more than almost anything else, and I...” She trailed off.
“You what?”
“I accommodated it,” Taylor said quietly. “Probably too much. I bent myself smaller and smaller until there was barely anything left.” Her voice dropped even further. “He had... opinions. About me being bisexual.”
Jordan sat up straighter.
“He thought I was going through a phase, pretty much. Said it was convenient that I 'discovered' it right when being queer became trendy.”
It came out in a rush, a truth so old and sharp it still hurt to hold.
Jordan didn’t soften. She didn’t look surprised or sorry, she just looked furious.
“What an asshole,” she said flatly.
Taylor blinked, surprised by the bluntness. “I-”
“No, seriously. What a self-important, insecure asshole.” Jordan leaned forward. “So let me get this straight. You spent six years with a man who invalidated your identity and made you hide who you were... and now you want to walk into that wedding with a woman who looks at you like you’re the goddamn sun?”
Taylor felt her throat catch.
“And,” Jordan added, her voice lowering, “you want to make him realize just how badly he fucked it up.”
When Taylor nodded, it was barely a movement. “I guess I do.”
Jordan’s grin returned, not soft this time; sharp, dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart. We are going to have so much fun.”
Taylor laughed, a little breathless.
“You really think you can pull this off?”
Jordan didn’t even blink. “By the time this wedding is over, Joe will realise he let go of the best thing that ever happened to him. And more importantly-” she leaned slightly forward “-you’ll remember what it feels like to be with someone who sees you for exactly who you are and still thinks you’re incredible.”
Jordan’s tone softened. “Though I should ask: what’s your usual type? So I can calibrate the girlfriend persona.”
Taylor considered this. “I don't really have a type. Joe was quiet confidence, very intellectual, kind of mysterious. But that's not...” She trailed off, realising she was about to say that wasn't really what she was attracted to anymore, that six years of being made to feel like her own personality was too much had maybe shifted her preferences.
“That's not what you want anymore,” Jordan finished for her, regardless.
“How did you-”
“Like I said, psychology background. Plus, you wouldn't be hiring me to make a point if you still wanted what you had with him.” Jordan studied her through the screen. “So what do you want me to be?”
Taylor thought about it. “Confident. The kind of person who doesn't apologize for taking up space. Someone who...”
She hesitated.
“Someone who?”
“Someone who makes it obvious that they think I'm amazing,” Taylor said quietly. “Not in spite of who I am, but because of it.”
Jordan’s expression softened. “I can absolutely work with that.” Then, quieter: “And for the record? You are amazing. I’ve known you twenty minutes and I can already see that. If your ex couldn’t, that’s on him.”
Taylor shifted, uncomfortable but definitely not unhappy. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” Jordan said calmly. “You’re successful enough to afford me, brave enough to try this, and funny enough to make me laugh during a job interview. That’s already more than most people show me.”
Taylor looked at her screen for a long beat.
“Thirty thousand dollars,” Taylor said suddenly. “Plus expenses. That's what this costs.”
“That's correct. A week of my complete and undivided attention, plus travel and accommodation costs.” Jordan's tone remained professional. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Taylor almost laughed. She'd spent more than that on shoes in the past month. “No, it's not a problem. I just... I've never paid someone to pretend to love me before.”
“Hey.” Jordan's voice was firm. “I’m not pretending to love you. I’m pretending to date you. Love is something else entirely. That's real. What I'm offering is professional affection and genuine companionship. There's a difference.”
“Is there?”
“There has to be,” she said simply. “Otherwise, this job would destroy me.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
"Well," Jordan continued, leaning back in her chair, "we should probably talk about boundaries. Physical ones, I mean. I know you said no sexual services, but what about public displays of affection? Hand-holding, casual touches, kissing?"
Taylor felt her cheeks burn again. "I... I hadn't really thought about that part."
“Well,” Jordan continued, still calm, “we don’t have to define everything now. But if we’re going to be convincing, especially in front of family, we’ll need some intimacy markers. What's your comfort zone?”
"I don't know," Taylor admitted. "I've never... I mean, Joe and I were... private. Always. We barely held hands in public."
"Right, but that was Joe. This is different." Jordan tilted her head. "How about we start with the basics and see how you feel? Hand-holding, casual touches, maybe some light kissing if the moment calls for it?"
Taylor's heart was beating faster. "Light kissing?"
"Nothing dramatic. Just enough to sell the relationship. A quick kiss hello, goodbye, maybe one or two moments where it looks like we can't help ourselves." Jordan's smile was reassuring. "We can establish a signal system. If you're uncomfortable with anything, you just let me know."
"A signal system?"
"Something subtle. Touch your necklace, or say a specific phrase, like ‘Let’s get a refill.’ Something natural. That way I know to dial it back without making it obvious to anyone watching."
Taylor nodded. It felt... surprisingly reasonable. Safe.
“You’re very good at this”
“Because it’s not just about being convincing. It’s about protecting both of us.”
Taylor let herself breathe.
Then, like a thought sneaking past her usual well-set filters, she asked, “Do you always get this involved with your clients?”
Jordan was quiet for a moment. "Every client is different. Some want arm candy for work functions. Some want to talk about their lives over room service. Some want... other things.” She shrugged. “What you’re asking for? It’s specific.”
"Does that make it harder?"
"It makes it more interesting," Jordan said honestly. "Most of my clients are men who want to feel important or just like… cheat on their wives without people knowing about it. You're asking me to help you reclaim something that was taken from you. There's a difference."
Taylor studied Jordan's face through the screen. There was something genuine in her expression, steadiness, a quiet kind of care. For the first time since this whole absurd plan began, Taylor felt like she might’ve made the right call.
"So," Taylor said finally. "When do we start?"
"Well, the wedding is in three weeks, right? We should probably meet in person before then. Get comfortable with each other, work out any kinks in our story." Jordan pulled out her phone, presumably checking her calendar. "I could come to you, or we could meet somewhere neutral. Whatever makes you more comfortable."
"You'd come here? To New York?"
Jordan smiled. “Taylor, you’re paying me enough to make this my only priority. And lucky for you, I’m already based just outside the city.”
“Oh.”
“We can meet somewhere semi-private, quiet café, hotel rooftop, whatever works. You probably know a dozen good places.”
Taylor felt a flutter of something; anticipation, maybe, or nerves. The whole thing was becoming real in a way that the phone call hadn't quite managed. “What about this weekend?”
“Friday night?” Jordan offered. “Gives us a few days to practice being around each other, get settled, go out in public, test the waters.”
"Practice being around each other," Taylor repeated.
“You’d be surprised how many couples fall apart when no one’s watching,” Jordan said. “If we can’t sell this to your doorman, we’re definitely not selling it to your ex.”
That was a terrifying thought. "What if we don't have chemistry?"
"Then we figure out how to fake it really, really well." Jordan's expression grew more serious. "Look, Taylor, I've been doing this for years. I've had to manufacture chemistry with tech bros who collect vintage My Little Ponies and oil executives who think climate change is a hoax. Trust me when I say that you're going to be the easiest client I've ever had."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you're genuinely likable, you're funny, and you're not asking me to pretend you're something you're not. You just want someone to see you clearly." Jordan's voice went soft. "That's not hard to fake, Taylor. That's just paying attention."
Taylor felt that catch in her throat again. She looked down. She wasn't used to people talking about her like this – like she was a person worth paying attention to, rather than a collection of achievements and public personas.
"Okay," she said quietly. "This weekend. Should I book you a hotel, or-"
“I’ll take care of it,” Jordan replied. “Less mess that way. And no risk of someone at the front desk asking why Taylor Swift is footing the bill.”
Taylor blinked. “Right. Of course.”
“We’ll start simple. I’ll need to learn the basics — your favorite food, weird habits, what side of the bed you sleep on. Stuff a girlfriend would know.”
Taylor sat up straighter. “Should I make a list?”
“If that helps you organize your thoughts, sure. But honestly, we’ll get most of it just from talking. That’s the part I enjoy.” She paused. Then: “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
"Are you nervous about this because you're hiring an escort, or because you're going to be seen publicly with a woman?"
The question hit harder than Taylor expected. She sat back in her chair, considering. "Both, I think. Maybe more the second one."
"Have you ever been publicly affectionate with a woman before?"
"No. Never." Taylor's voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve barely been privately affectionate. There were a few things, years ago. Nothing serious. Nothing that lasted.”
"Because of Joe?"
"Because of a lot of things. My career, my image, my own confusion about what I wanted." Taylor ran a hand through her hair. "Joe wasn’t wrong when he said I started talking more openly about being bi when it became safer to do it. But that doesn't make it fake."
"No, it doesn't," Jordan agreed. "It makes it smart. And brave, even if it doesn't feel that way."
Taylor chewed her lip. “I’m not sure I’m ready for the speculation. For people to decide what this means. Who I am.”
Jordan was quiet for a moment. "Taylor, can I be honest with you?"
"Please."
“The speculation’s going to happen no matter what. You walk into that wedding with me, and people will talk. They’ll analyse every glance, every gesture. The only question is whether you want to shape that story, or let someone else tell it for you.”
Taylor sat back. Her stomach dipped. She'd been so focused on Joe's reaction that she hadn't fully considered the broader implications.
"Oh god. What if someone recognises you? What if they figure out what you do for work?"
"They won't. I use a completely different identity for my professional life, and I'm very careful about digital footprints. As far as anyone will be able to tell, Jordan Hayes is exactly who we say she is: a therapist from Chicago who happens to be wildly in love with you."
"Jordan Hayes?"
"My name, yeah. I find it's easier to keep track of the truth when you use as much of it as possible." Jordan smiled. "Don't worry, Taylor. I've thought of everything. That's what you're paying me for."
Taylor took a deep breath. This was really happening. In three days, she was going to meet the woman she was paying to pretend to be in love with her. In three weeks, she was going to walk into her brother's wedding and face Joe Alwyn with someone who would make it clear that she'd moved on.
The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Jordan cleared her throat, professional mask sliding back into place.
"Right. So, logistics. I'll send you a contract through Marcus, standard confidentiality agreements, payment terms, that sort of thing. Can you have that back to me by tomorrow?"
"Yes, of course."
"Good. And I'll need some basic information about the other wedding guests, the schedule of events, dress codes, that kind of thing. The more I know going in, the better I can adapt."
Taylor nodded. “I’ll put together a file.”
“Perfect.”
Jordan gave her a small, steady smile that felt like it was personally crafted to disarm and reassure Taylor. “Friday night, then.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Taylor said, almost to herself.
“We will,” Jordan echoed, without hesitation. “And Taylor?”
She looked up.
“Try not to overthink it. We’ll do good, things will be alright.”
The call ended a few seconds later.
Taylor sat in the quiet hum of her office, laptop still open. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.
This was happening. She was going to fake a relationship with a stranger. A stranger who somehow, in under an hour, had made her laugh, made her feel seen, and made her heart beat faster without trying.
She opened her phone and texted Gigi.
Taylor
She’s real. And she’s kind of... incredible.
The dots appeared almost instantly.
Gigi
I TOLD YOU
is she hot???
Taylor
Terrifyingly
Like
Fuck.
Gigi
god I love when I’m right.