Inherited Complications

Entertainment District, Toronto

Ellie sat in the first row with her bag at her feet and her knees bouncing hard.

The theatre was doing that thing theatres always did during auditions. Too quiet, but not peaceful. Every cough sounded intentional. Every page turn felt judgmental. The stage lights were half-on, which somehow made everything worse, because now she could see the dust floating in the air and she was pretty sure one speck had been staring at her for a full minute.

Fake fiancée.

She mouthed the words again, silently, testing the shape of them. Fake. Fiancée. A woman hired to stand next to a man and convince the world they were in love. Ellie had done her homework. She’d watched at least four movies where people pretended to date and then accidentally caught feelings. She’d read essays about emotional labor in relationships and one truly unhelpful Reddit thread about contractual romance that spiraled into an argument about astrology.

The character wasn’t pretending to love. She was pretending to belong.

Ellie understood that part too well.

She flipped through the audition script, the pages already soft from over-handling. She had highlighted things, underlined others, added notes in the margins that now just said things like confident here? and eye contact!!! and one desperate smiley face that she didn’t remember drawing.

Her fingers wouldn’t stop moving. She twisted her ring, adjusted her braid, tapped her foot, untapped it, crossed her legs, uncrossed them. Her brain kept hopping ahead to the moment she’d forget everything and combust quietly onstage.

She reread the opening line for the tenth time.

I know this is unconventional, but I’m very good at pretending.

That was promising. That was honest. That was dangerously close to home.

“Elena Bennett,” the stage manager called.

Ellie flinched, then popped to her feet too fast. Her bag tipped over. Lip balm rolled out. She stared at it for a beat, then kicked it gently back into the bag and hurried backstage.

She pressed her back against the wall and whispered, “Okay. Okay. You are charming. You are stable. You are a woman someone would logically hire to fake love.”

She pointed at her own reflection in a dark mirror panel. “You have range. You have depth. You once cried convincingly in a Starbucks bathroom. This is nothing.”

She inhaled. Exhaled. Smiled too wide. Reset the smile.

Then she walked out.

The lights hit her immediately. The director sat three rows back, arms crossed, face set in that neutral, assessing expression that meant nothing and somehow everything. Her scene partner, a man she vaguely recognized from commercials, stood opposite her, already in position. He smiled politely. Safe. Prepared. Annoyingly calm.

Ellie opened her mouth.

“I know this is unconventional,” she began, voice steady, “but I’m very good at pretending.”

Good. Nailed it. She took a step closer, feeling the rhythm settle in her chest.

“I can remember birthdays, favorite foods, the exact face someone makes when they’re lying to themselves.” She lifted her chin. “I can sell sincerity.”

Then her mind went blank.

Completely empty. A white, echoing void where words should have lived.

Oh no.

Her heart kicked into her ribs. Her palms went damp. The silence stretched. The director tilted his head a fraction, already losing patience. Her scene partner blinked, confused but polite, waiting for his cue.

Say something. Any version of something.

Ellie laughed, sharp and a little breathless. “Sorry,” she said, staying in character because panic had apparently decided to be professional. “That wasn’t part of the pitch. I just realized I don’t know your coffee order yet, and that feels irresponsible for a fiancée.”

Her scene partner startled. He hesitated, then recovered fast. “I, uh. Black. Usually.”

“Of course you do,” Ellie said, nodding seriously. “Strong opinions. Minimal joy.”

A ripple of something moved through the room. Not laughter, exactly, but attention.

She kept going because stopping felt worse.

“You hired me because your family expects perfection,” she said, circling him slowly now, instincts taking over. “And I look convincing standing next to you. I know when to touch your arm and when to stay quiet. I know when to smile and when to squeeze your hand under the table so you don’t explode at dinner.”

Her brain was sprinting. Her body followed.

“But you should know,” she added, softer, meeting his eyes, “I don’t fake everything. Some things slip through. That’s the risk.”

Silence again.

Ellie glanced past him, straight at the director.

He was not smiling. His pen hovered over his notebook, unmoving. His face said he was measuring the cost of this improvisation against the inconvenience of stopping her.

Which was not great.

She finished the scene anyway, landing on the final line with a hopeful lift in her voice, then stood there, pulse roaring in her ears, wondering if she’d just talked herself out of a role in under three minutes.

The director cleared his throat. “Thank you, Elena.”

Ellie smiled, nodded, and walked offstage with her dignity mostly intact and her brain already replaying every second at double speed.

Back in the wings, she leaned against the wall again and whispered, “Okay. That was either brave or career sabotage. Possibly both.”

She picked up her bag, retrieved the escaped lip balm, and swiped it on with determination.

Fake fiancée, she thought.

She might have overcommitted.

Pearson Airport, Toronto

Julian sat inside Pearson Airport with his carry-on precisely aligned with the arm of the chair and his phone pressed to his ear, staring at a departures board that was already three minutes behind schedule.

“Let me stop you there,” he said calmly. “You don’t get to describe this as a strategic delay when the revised numbers were late because you didn’t review them.”

A pause. Someone was explaining. Julian waited, because patience in small doses was sometimes useful.

“No,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “I am not being difficult. I am pointing out that if the assumptions don’t hold under basic scrutiny, they won’t magically improve in front of the board.”

Another pause. Longer. Defensive.

Julian leaned back, crossed his ankle over his knee. “If you want me to advocate for this, give me something that doesn’t collapse the moment it’s questioned. Otherwise stop reframing accountability as temperament.”

Silence. Then a clipped agreement.

“Good,” Julian said. “Send the corrected model within the hour. And don’t sanitize the language.”

He ended the call before anyone could thank him.

Julian exhaled, once, then immediately dialed another number.

Sebastian Cruz answered on the second ring. “Good morning to you too, corporate executioner.”

“I have to go to Willowridge for a couple of days,” Julian said.

A beat. “Problems?”

Julian checked his watch out of habit. “I’m not sure. The old woman wants me there. Cancel my meetings for the next two days. Anything urgent, flag it to me and—”

Seb cut in smoothly. “And report any stupidity the board manages while you’re gone. I know.”

Julian watched a child sprint past dragging a stuffed bear by one ear. “You’re irritating.”

“You pay me for foresight and restraint. The flair is free.” Seb said then added, “You’re seeing them again,”

Julian opened his inbox and began triaging emails. “Tragic.”

“Want me to arrange pickup at the airport?”

“Someone’s picking me up,” Julian said. “But send me a rental tomorrow.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all.”

“Bring me something back from Alberta. CIAO.”

The line went dead.

Julian lowered his phone and frowned at the screen. Alberta. Beef. Oil. Weather. Whatever.

As his boarding group was announced, the memory surfaced, uninvited but clear. The message from Margaret the night before. Short. Precise. Delivered well past dinner, because she enjoyed timing as much as impact.

All of you need to be in Willowridge in the next two days. No excuses.

No explanation. No softening. Just an order wrapped in inevitability.

Julian hadn’t responded. He hadn’t needed to. Summons from Margaret Hale were not requests, and they never arrived without collateral damage. The rest of the family would be there. His half-siblings, already bristling at the assumption that he was favored, as if favoritism looked anything other than relentless expectation and public correction.

He could make an appearance. He could hear her out. He could leave.

Julian stood, adjusted his jacket, and stepped into line.

Two days. Minimal exposure. Controlled exit.

That sounds like a plan.