Loving Him Was Too Painful

Ivy

There's a very specific kind of panic that hits when you realize you just lied on a government grant application. Not a tiny fib like adjusting your weight on your driver's license. No, I'm talking about a full-blown, bold-faced lie with consequences, signatures, and potential jail time.

I, Ivy Monroe, PhD in psychology, neurotic overthinker, and rule-follower extraordinaire, just told the Midlake Arts & Wellness Institute that I am married.

Spoiler alert: I am not.

It started innocently. I was scrolling through my academic email while chewing on a stale protein bar and avoiding grading ten research papers on attachment styles. And then-bam. There it was. An email titled: CONGRATULATIONS! Welcome to Midlake's Summer Creative Couples Residency!

I blinked.

Then I blinked again.

The email said I'd been selected for a two-month, all-expenses-paid retreat in the mountains. Just me, my "partner," and our shared creative journey. A $50,000 grant for couples who want to blend art and therapy.

I'd applied on a whim, inspired by a late-night rerun of Eat, Pray, Love and one too many glasses of red wine. I figured they'd never pick a nerdy psychologist whose idea of a wild night was reorganizing her spice rack. But they did.

And there, in neat bold letters, it said:

"Note: This retreat is for couples only. No singles permitted. All selected applicants must arrive with their partner or forfeit the grant."

My stomach flipped.

I reread the line at least twenty-three times, as if it would suddenly change to, "Just kidding! Singles welcome! We love lonely intellectuals with control issues!"

But no.

I was stuck.

I mean... it was just a small lie, right? I wasn't hurting anyone. And it was for a good cause-my research on emotional intimacy in long-term relationships. I needed this grant. I needed peace. I needed the space. I just... needed a fake husband.

So I did what any sane, rational adult woman would do.

I panicked.

First, I called my best friend, Elise. She's an ER nurse, always calm in a crisis. Except she laughed so hard, she dropped her phone into a bedpan.

"Wait-you told them you were married? Ivy! You haven't even dated since... what? Brian-the-Barista?"

"It was one date. And he kept quoting Fight Club. It doesn't count."

"Girl, you need help."

Yes. Yes, I did.

Because with just six days until the retreat, I had one choice:

Find a fake husband, or give up the biggest opportunity of my career.

The solution came in the form of Lake Hart.

Well, more like he barged into my life like a leather-jacket-wearing hurricane with stupidly nice cheekbones and a reputation for being allergic to rules.

I met him once at a university networking event. I was there giving a talk on trauma resilience. He was there filming a documentary on academic burnout. He drank whiskey straight, told inappropriate jokes, and stared at me like I was an alien. I called him arrogant. He called me uptight. We haven't spoken since.

And yet...

When Elise casually mentioned he was "in between gigs and desperate for cash," I heard myself saying, "Set up a meeting."

Because I needed someone convincing. Someone bold enough to lie through his teeth, kiss me in public if needed, and survive two months of pretending to be married to me without losing his mind-or making me lose mine.

Lake Hart fit the role.

Too well, actually.

We met at a coffee shop two blocks from campus. He was fifteen minutes late, wearing sunglasses indoors, and sipping a Red Bull like he was born to cause chaos.

"Ivy Monroe," he said with a lazy smirk. "Still wound up like a Swiss watch."

I folded my arms. "Still pretending Red Bull is a personality trait?"

He laughed. Bastard.

I laid it all out. The retreat. The lie. The fake marriage. The shared cabin. The shared bed. The shared shower. My voice cracked slightly on that last word.

He leaned back, eyes twinkling. "So you want me to be your husband."

"Pretend husband," I corrected.

"Right. The kind that kisses you in front of people and shares your toothpaste."