The email notification blinked on Harper's cracked phone screen the moment she stepped off
the bus. Her fingers trembled as she read the subject line again and again:
Welcome to the Eli Rivers Creative Residency: Finalist Confirmation
Her heart thudded. A part of her still thought this was an elaborate prank Layla cooked up. But
the sender was legit. The contract was attached. There were instructions, itineraries, and a
travel stipend waiting to be claimed.
She hadn't even auditioned.
Only three girls were chosen from hundreds. And somehow, Harper Lane—broke, unknown,
with nothing but her stories—was one of them.
The contest was supposed to find a girl who could fake-date Eli Rivers and help breathe drama
into his collapsing career. The public wanted a scandal. The label wanted sales. The PR team
wanted to light a fire—and so they planned to hire a fake girlfriend who could generate
headlines and look good beside him.
Most contestants had recorded confident video monologues, showing off their charisma and
chemistry. But Harper? Layla had lied. Told them Harper was too sick to perform on camera,
then sent in her stories instead.
Somehow, it worked.
Harper stood frozen on the bus stop, staring at her phone screen as the city buzzed around her.
She almost didn't hear the train's whistle as it pulled into the station. It was a grimy, cramped
platform, just another forgotten part of the city where people didn't stop to linger, but Harper
didn't care. She wasn't there for the scenery.
She was on her way to the mansion.
The trip to the train station had felt surreal, every step weighed down by the lingering doubt in
her stomach. There were other girls—more confident, better dressed, and with fancier smiles
than hers. What did she have? A broken past, a ragged notebook filled with scribbled words,
and a ghostwritten identity. She hadn't even entered the contest, let alone expected to win.
But here she was, with her phone buzzing in her hand and a ticket to Eli Rivers' private
residence in her pocket.
The train ride had been quiet, mostly. Her seat was by the window, the fog of her breath fogging
up the glass. As the countryside blurred past, Harper tried to gather her thoughts, but the
rhythm of the train had a way of quieting everything else. No distractions. Just the low hum of
the wheels beneath her, the occasional click of a distant conversation, and her pounding heart.
She checked the time on her phone, biting her lip. The train pulled into the station at the
outskirts of the city just as the sun started to set, casting everything in shades of orange and
purple. The light was kind of beautiful, almost like the beginning of a new chapter.The town of
Blackridge Hills was polished and quiet, like it had been made for Instagram photoshoots and
music videos. A car—black, sleek, and definitely expensive—was already waiting at the station
for her. A man in a navy suit held a sign: Harper Lane.
She almost laughed. Her name didn't belong on signs like that.
As she approached, the man nodded. "Ms. Lane, we've been expecting you."
The car ride from the station to the mansion felt even more distant. The sleek black car was far
too quiet, the driver's eyes always forward, the only sound the soft hum of the engine as they
cut through the city and into a quieter, more secluded area. They passed through iron gates, tall
enough to make Harper feel small, and into the long driveway that wound like a snake toward
the house.
She had no words. All she could do was sit back and stare.
The mansion wasn't just big. It was intimidating.
Marble floors, sweeping staircases, chandeliers that looked like they belonged in museums.
Every surface gleamed like it had never known dust, and the air smelled faintly of white roses
and money. Too much money.The driver opened the door. Harper stepped out, blinking up at the
massive house. Mansion? Castle? All of the above?It was bigger than any school she'd
attended.
Inside, soft music drifted through the foyer. Harper stood just inside the foyer, backpack clutched
to her chest like armor. A woman in a sleek navy blazer—Lena, from PR—was talking into her
earpiece while typing rapidly on a tablet. When she noticed Harper still lingering by the door,
she gestured impatiently to woman with a clipboard and with a practiced smile she greeted her.
"Welcome to the Rivers Foundation Creative Residency. "This way. You'll be staying in the east
wing. Follow me."
Harper followed silently, her boots squeaking slightly against the polished floor.You're in Room
8, East Wing. Orientation begins in an hour in the sunroom—down the hall, second right."
Behind her, the mansion seemed to breathe. Every corner whispered of secrets. Half the walls
were glass, revealing manicured gardens and a pool shaped like a musical note. The other half
were filled with framed awards, magazine covers, and performance stills of Eli Rivers. Younger,
wilder, brighter.
The clipboard lady paused. "Also... congratulations. Mr. Rivers personally selected your work.
Harper's throat dried. "He... what?"
"He read the submission late last night. Said it was the only one that made him stop
scrolling."She barely managed a nod. Her legs were carrying her forward, but her brain had
stalled somewhere between Mr. Rivers and personally selected.Room 8 looked like a hotel
suite. There was a bed with actual sheets, a lamp with three settings, and—miracle of
miracles—a functioning bathroom. Harper stood in front of the mirror, trying to make sense of
her reflection. Her curls were half-tamed, her boots still damp. Her hoodie was two years old
and a size too big. She looked like she'd wandered in off a film set—except not as one of the
stars.
There wasn't time to change.She grabbed the welcome packet and hurried down the hallway,
heart thudding.She took a wrong turn. Then another.
"This place needs a map," she muttered, retracing her steps and trying not to look suspicious.
The sunroom had to be around here somewhere.
A chime echoed from the elevator at the end of the hall. Out of desperation, Harper bolted
toward it just as the doors started to close.
"Hold—wait!" she gasped.
A hand darted out to stop the doors.
She stepped in—then froze.
He was real.
Eli Rivers stood on the other side of the elevator, hoodie up, sunglasses on. Even hidden like
that, she knew him instantly. The jawline. The posture. The stormcloud presence that couldn't
be faked.
He didn't glance up. Just leaned against the wall, music playing from his headphones.
Harper stood very, very still.
Do not fangirl. Do not speak. Do not breathe wrong.
The elevator doors closed with a soft hiss, and then—it jolted. Stopped mid-floor.
The lights flickered.
"No, no, no," Harper muttered, panic rising. Of course, this would happen to her.
Eli took out one earbud. "You okay?"
She blinked. His voice was deeper than it sounded in interviews. Rougher. Like velvet fraying at
the edges."Uh. Elevator. Broken. Kind of hard to be okay about that."
He pressed a button. Nothing. Then sighed, like this wasn't the first time."Great," he muttered.
"They really need to fix this thing."Silence stretched.Harper clutched her welcome folder like a
shield.
Eli glanced sideways at her. "You one of the new finalists?"
She nodded, afraid her voice might crack. "Yeah. Harper."
He stuck out a hand. "Eli."
She hesitated—then took it. Warm. Solid. Definitely not fiction.
"You don't talk much," he said, smirking faintly.
"I'm just… trying not to say something stupid."His smirk widened into a crooked grin. "Good
instinct."The elevator groaned again, still stuck.Eli leaned back against the wall. "You here to
fake my girlfriend right?"
"Something like that." she said softly. "I didn't audition, actually. My friend submitted my work."
Eli looked intrigued. "So you're the mystery girl."Her heart skipped. "What?"
"They gave me ten entries to review. Yours didn't have a video—just the writing. I read two lines
and knew it. You weren't writing a character. You were writing a person. Someone who hurt like
a real human."
Harper's breath caught."Your story," he added, eyes narrowing just slightly behind the
sunglasses, "wasn't flattery. It was honest. Kind of brutal, actually."
"I didn't think you'd read it."He tilted his head. "I almost didn't. I'm glad I did."
Silence fell again, this time thicker.
"You ever been stuck in an elevator before?" he asked.
Harper shook her head.He grinned. "Then you're in for a real bonding moment."
"Lucky me."They stayed like that for a while. Then—finally—a buzz sounded. The elevator jolted
back to life.When the doors opened, a panicked staff member was waiting.
"Mr. Rivers! Ms. Lane! We're so sorry, we didn't realize—"Eli waved it off. "Happens all the time."
He turned to Harper, one hand on the elevator frame. "See you around, Harper the
Ghostwriter."She blinked. "How did you—?"He tapped his temple. "I read between the
lines."And then he was gone.Leaving her standing in the hall, folder clutched to her chest, heart
in her throat.Fiction had officially collided with reality.And Harper Lane wasn't sure she'd survive it.