Fake Fiancé, Real Filth

MF Contemporary Romance
by Isla Wilde

Free with Kindle Unlimited

Pairing: MF (Male/Female)
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Fake Dating, Forced Proximity, One Bed, Praise Kink, Neighbors to Lovers, He Falls First, Dirty Talk, Blue Collar

He’s supposed to be pretend. The things he does to her are anything but.

Gemma Cross is a razor-sharp marketing strategist one promotion away from the career she’s been killing herself for. When her boss assumes the ring on her finger means she’s engaged, she confirms the lie — because at this firm, “stability” is code for has a man, and she’s not losing this promotion to a guy with a Volvo and a golf handicap.

Nate Corsaro is her hot, tattooed, across-the-hall neighbor who runs a custom tattoo studio and has a grin that should come with a warning label. He agrees to play fake fiancé in exchange for her marketing expertise — but their “practice” kisses and bedroom rehearsals quickly turn into the filthiest, most honest sex either of them has ever had.

What starts as a professional arrangement becomes something neither of them planned for: mornings in his kitchen, nights in her bed, a family wedding with one bed and thin walls, and the growing, terrifying certainty that the best thing in both their lives is the one thing built on a lie.

She’s afraid that needing him means losing control. He’s afraid that being needed means being discarded once he’s served his purpose. And when a careless word threatens to undo everything, they’ll have to decide: walk away clean, or fight for the real thing hiding inside the fake one.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Fake engagement that becomes devastatingly real
✅ Hot tattooed blue-collar hero x corporate heroine
✅ “We should practice so it looks real” (spoiler: it was always real)
✅ One bed, thin walls, hand-over-mouth quiet sex
✅ Praise kink + possessive dirty talk that will ruin you
✅ No third-act breakup — just two scared people choosing each other
✅ HEA guaranteed (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, emotional)

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic MF scenes including light restraint), strong language, workplace politics, and depictions of anxiety and past emotional abuse. Intended for readers 18+.

📖 Read Chapter One Free

Not sure yet? Read the full first chapter right here.

Chapter One: The Ring

The salmon was overcooked.

That was the thought occupying approximately twelve percent of my brain while the other eighty-eight percent white-knuckled its way through the most important client dinner of my career. The fish was dry, the asparagus was limp, and I was about to close a six-figure rebranding deal with a man who believed women belonged in the kitchen—which, given the state of the food, was ironic.

“What Gemma is proposing,” Martin said from the head of the table, gesturing toward me with his wine glass like I was a prize poodle he’d groomed himself, “is a complete repositioning of the Hargrove Hospitality brand for the under-forty luxury traveler. Gemma, walk them through the deck.”

I stood, smoothing the front of my blazer, and clicked to the first slide on the screen behind me. Breathe. Sell. Close.

“The Hargrove name has sixty years of trust behind it,” I said, making eye contact with Richard Hargrove Sr. first—the patriarch, the wallet, the man whose approval meant everything and whose resting expression suggested he’d rather be literally anywhere else. “But trust without relevance is a museum piece. Beautiful to look at. Nobody’s booking a weekend there.”

A flicker of something in his eyes. Not offense. Interest.

I walked them through the data—occupancy trends, competitor positioning, the social media audit that showed their Instagram looking like it was run by someone who’d learned the platform from a pamphlet. I didn’t soften it. These people were hemorrhaging market share to boutique hotels with better lighting and a TikTok strategy, and they needed to hear it from someone who wasn’t going to blow smoke up their asses for the retainer fee.

Twenty minutes later, I clicked to the final slide—projected revenue impact, phased rollout, the whole package tied up in a bow—and watched Richard Sr. lean back in his chair.

“That’s ambitious,” he said.

“That’s the point.”

His son, Richard Jr.—Ricky, because of course—grinned. “I told you she was good, Dad.”

Richard Sr. ignored his son, which seemed to be a lifelong habit, and studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “We’ll move forward. Martin, have your team send the contracts.”

Martin beamed like he’d personally birthed me from his forehead. “Excellent. I knew Gemma would impress you.”

The table relaxed into post-deal small talk—wine refills, dessert menus, the performative bonhomie of men who’d just agreed to spend a lot of money and needed to feel good about it. I sat back down, tucked my portfolio under my chair, and let myself exhale for the first time in an hour.

You did it.

I reached for my water glass, and that’s when it happened.

Richard Sr., seated to my left, glanced down at my hand—specifically at my left hand, where my grandmother’s art deco ring sat on my fourth finger, right where it had sat every day for the last two years. It wasn’t an engagement ring. It was a dead woman’s cocktail ring that happened to look enough like one to keep handsy men at conferences from asking if I was “here alone.” It was armor. A lie I wore so casually I’d forgotten it was one.

“Your fiancé’s a lucky man,” Richard Sr. said. Warmly. Like it was a compliment. Like he’d just decided I was a full human being because a ring on my finger suggested some man had claimed me.

My brain did the thing it does in crisis: it split into two tracks. Track one, the rational track, said: Correct him. It’s not an engagement ring. It’s your dead grandmother’s. Simple, clean, no big deal.

Track two, the survival track, said: Martin is watching. Martin who told you last quarter that he “values stability.” Martin who promoted Jeff Callahan over Lisa Park because Jeff “has roots in the community” and Lisa “seemed like she might leave.” Martin who is deciding in the next eight weeks whether you or Brad Kemper gets the Associate Director title, and Brad is married with two kids and a Labrador named after a craft beer.

Track two won.

“He really is,” I said. And smiled.

Richard Sr. smiled back, satisfied, and returned to his crème brûlée.

Martin, from across the table, caught my eye. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look on his face said: Good. That’s what I like to see.

I excused myself to the restroom, locked the stall door, and pressed my forehead against the cool metal partition.

What the fuck did you just do?

The rest of the dinner was a blur of handshakes and cab logistics. Martin walked me to my car in the restaurant parking lot—a habit he had with female employees that he thought was chivalrous and I thought was mildly suffocating, but tonight I couldn’t afford to care about that.

“Excellent work tonight, Gemma. Really first-rate.”

“Thank you, Martin. The Hargrove account is going to be a great case study for—”

“I wanted to mention,” he said, stopping beside my car with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels like a man about to deliver good news he wanted credit for, “the AD decision is coming up. You know that.”

“I’m aware.” I have a countdown app on my phone, Martin. I’m aware.

“You’ve been doing exceptional work. The Hargrove close tonight—that’s exactly the kind of performance we’re looking for at the leadership level.”

“I appreciate that.”

He paused. Glanced at my hand again. The ring.

“I have to say, it’s nice to see you settling in personally, too. I know that’s not a professional consideration”—it absolutely was a professional consideration—”but it matters to the culture here. We promote people who are building something. A life, not just a résumé.” He smiled. “Your fiancé seems like a great guy. When’s the wedding?”

The parking lot was cold. My blazer was too thin. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

“We haven’t set a date yet,” I said, because that was the only answer that didn’t require inventing a human being on the spot. “We’re enjoying the engagement.”

“Smart. Don’t rush it.” He patted my shoulder. “Drive safe, Gemma.”

He walked to his Audi. I got in my car, closed the door, and sat in the dark with my hands on the steering wheel.

You just confirmed a fake engagement to your boss. Your boss who is deciding your career trajectory. Your boss who now expects to eventually meet a man who does not exist.

I dropped my head against the steering wheel and the horn blared. A valet twenty feet away startled. I waved an apology and pulled out of the lot.

The drive home was twenty-two minutes of escalating panic disguised as NPR.

By minute five, I’d convinced myself I could walk it back. Martin, I misspoke. It’s a family ring. I’m not engaged. Funny misunderstanding! Except he’d told Richard Hargrove. And Richard Hargrove had told Ricky. And Ricky had winked at me on the way out and said, “Congrats on the engagement and the account.” So now the client—the six-figure client I’d just closed—also believed I was engaged, and correcting it would make me look either dishonest or unstable.

By minute twelve, I’d decided I could just… never mention it again. Let it fade. People forget things. Maybe Martin would forget.

Martin did not forget things. Martin had a memory like a vindictive elephant and a calendar full of team-building events where spouses were invited.

By minute eighteen, I was catastrophizing at full capacity: fired for fraud, blacklisted from the industry, living in my parents’ basement while my mother said “I told you so” about something, though I wasn’t sure what yet. She’d find the angle.

I parked in front of my building—a converted brick rowhouse split into four apartments in a neighborhood that was either “up and coming” or “recently gentrified,” depending on who you asked—and sat in the car for a long minute, collecting myself.

When I finally got out, I saw him.

Nate Corsaro. My across-the-hall neighbor. Sitting on the front stoop in the yellow glow of the porch light, legs stretched out, a beer in one hand and a sketchbook in the other. He was wearing a gray henley pushed up to his elbows, and even from fifteen feet away, I could see the ink on his forearms—dark lines and botanical shapes disappearing under the bunched fabric.

He looked up when he heard my heels on the sidewalk.

“Hey, neighbor.” Easy grin. Dark eyes. The kind of face that made you forget, briefly, that you were in the middle of a personal crisis. “Fancy tonight.”

“Client dinner,” I said, and my voice sounded almost normal.

“You win?”

“I always win.”

He laughed—a low, warm sound that carried in the quiet street. “Yeah, you do.”

I climbed the steps past him, fishing for my keys. My hands were shaking slightly, which I hated. I didn’t shake. I was a person who held things together.

“You okay?” he asked. Not pushing, just noticing.

“Fine. Long night.”

He nodded, went back to his sketchbook. As I opened the front door, I caught a glimpse of what he was drawing: a detailed peony, half-finished, all delicate linework and shadow. His hand moved across the page with the kind of easy confidence that made you want to watch.

I didn’t watch. I went upstairs, unlocked my apartment, kicked off my heels, and stood in my dark kitchen staring at the ring on my finger.

Then I called Priya.

She picked up on the second ring. “Tell me everything. Did you close it?”

“I closed Hargrove.”

“Gemma! That’s amazing! That’s—”

“And I also accidentally told my boss and the client that I’m engaged.”

Silence. Then: “I’m sorry, you what?”

I sank onto my couch—shoes off, blazer still on, one leg tucked under me—and told her the whole thing. The ring. Richard Sr.’s comment. My brain short-circuiting. Martin in the parking lot, glowing about “stability” and “building something.”

“So let me get this straight,” Priya said slowly. “Your boss now thinks you have a fiancé. The client thinks you have a fiancé. And neither of them has met this fiancé because he doesn’t exist.”

“Correct.”

“And the promotion you’ve been killing yourself for—the one you’ve wanted since you started at that firm—is now partially riding on this fictional man.”

“Also correct.”

“Gemma.”

“I know.”

“Gemma.“

“I know, Priya.”

I heard her exhale. I pictured her in her apartment, legs crossed on her bed, doing the face she made when I told her something spectacularly stupid—a blend of affection and disbelief that she’d perfected over eight years of friendship.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Let’s think about this rationally.”

“Let’s.”

“You can’t walk it back without looking like a liar.”

“I am a liar.”

“You’re a strategist who made a snap decision under pressure. That’s different.”

“It’s not, but I appreciate the spin.”

“So your options are: come clean and risk tanking the promotion, or…” She trailed off.

“Or what?”

“Or find a fiancé.”

I stared at the ceiling. “Priya, I can’t just find a fiancé.”

“Not a real one. A fake one. Someone who can show up at a couple of events, shake Martin’s hand, be charming, and then quietly disappear after you get the title.”

“That’s insane.”

“More insane than what you did tonight?”

Fair point.

“Who would I even ask?” I said. “I can’t hire an actor. I can’t use a dating app—’seeking: man willing to commit light fraud for professional advancement.’ I’d need someone I actually know, someone who can be convincing, someone who—”

“Someone hot,” Priya said. “Let’s be honest, Martin’s going to judge.”

“Martin’s going to—yes, fine, someone who looks the part.”

“And someone who’d actually do it. Who owes you a favor, or who you could trade something with.”

I was quiet for a moment, and in the quiet, I thought about the front stoop. The henley. The tattoos. The sketchbook.

“No,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“You went quiet, which means you thought of someone. Who?”

“My neighbor.”

“The tattoo artist? The one you said looks like—how did you put it—’if a romance novel cover learned to make conversation’?”

“I was wine-drunk when I said that.”

“You were right, though. I’ve seen him.”

“Priya, I can’t ask my neighbor to pretend to be my fiancé.”

“Why not? He’s hot. He’s charming—you said he talks to everyone on the block. He’s got that whole rough-around-the-edges thing that would actually play well against your corporate polish. Martin would love the contrast.”

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re fake-engaged. We’re both operating outside normal parameters here.” She paused. “Does he owe you anything?”

I thought about it. Three months ago, Nate had mentioned wanting to grow his business—more custom work, higher-end clients. He’d gotten interest from a lifestyle magazine but didn’t have the brand materials to capitalize on it. He’d been frustrated about it in the hallway one night, leaning against his doorframe, running his hand through his hair while I nodded along and thought about how unfair it was that someone could look like that while complaining about marketing.

I knew marketing. I was marketing.

“Not exactly,” I said slowly. “But there might be something I could offer him.”

“Gemma Cross, are you scheming?”

“I’m strategizing. There’s a difference.”

“There’s not, but I appreciate the spin.”

I looked at the ring again. My grandmother’s ring. She’d worn it for forty years—through a marriage, three kids, a career as a school principal when women didn’t have careers as school principals. She’d been practical and fierce and she would have thought this entire situation was ridiculous.

She also would have told me to fix it instead of crying about it.

“I’m going to think about it,” I said.

“You’re going to overthink about it.”

“Good night, Priya.”

“Ask the hot neighbor, Gemma!”

I hung up.

I brushed my teeth, washed my face, changed into an old t-shirt and shorts. Went through the whole nighttime routine on autopilot while my brain ran scenarios and risk assessments and probability calculations like a deranged computer.

Before I turned off the light, I stood at my bedroom window. My apartment faced the street, and from this angle, I could see the stoop below—empty now, Nate gone inside, just the porch light and a crushed beer can he’d left on the railing.

I thought about the way he’d looked up at me tonight. The easy “you okay?” without pressure. The laugh that settled somewhere warm in my chest.

I thought about his hands on that sketchbook, steady and precise, and the tattoos that ran up his arms like a roadmap to somewhere I’d never been.

I thought about asking him to pretend to love me in public, and something in my stomach turned over—not quite dread, not quite excitement, something restless and unnamed that I didn’t have the bandwidth to examine tonight.

I pulled the curtain closed.

I took off the ring and set it on my nightstand.

Then I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and began to plan.

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Gemma and Nate officially move in together. The romance novels get discovered. Every room gets christened. Counter sex callbacks, shower confessions, and the filthiest, funniest, most joyful night of the series.

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