Hearing his parents were dropping by unexpectedly, the wealthy businessman begged a homeless girl to pretend to be his fiancée for just one evening. When she walked into the restaurant, his mother nearly choked on her gin and tonic.
“Have you gone completely bonkers?” she hissed, recoiling as if she’d spotted a mouse in her handbag. “Me? Playing your fiancée? Yesterday, I was fishing half-eaten chips out of a bin outside Tesco!”
He clicked the lock shut, leaned against the wall with the exhausted air of a man who’d just survived a board meeting, and said,
“Youve got no reason to say no. Ill pay you more than youve ever dreamed of. One evening. Play my fiancée. For them. For my parents. Its just acting. Or have you forgotten how to pretend?”
She didnt answer. Her fingers, wrapped in threadbare gloves, shook. Her heart hammered like a pub drummer on a Friday night. “Could this be the start of something better? Or at least the end of all this misery?”
And so began a story nobody saw coming.
He was richer than the Crown Estate. His name was Oliver Whitmoreyoung, stern, with a gaze colder than a British winter and a face that gave nothing away. His name splashed across financial columns, his photo forever popping up in “Londons Most Eligible” lists. Money, power, pedigreeall impeccably in order. But his parents, tucked away in their Cotswolds manor, kept nagging,
“When do we finally meet this mystery girlfriend of yours? Why the secrecy?”
Then they announced they were arriving. Tomorrow.
Oliver wasnt scaredjust baffled. Not because he feared their disapproval, but because no woman he knew fit the role. He loathed actresses. Fake smiles made his skin crawl. He needed someone real. Or at least nothing like what they expected.
That evening, stuck in London traffic, he spotted heroutside the tube station, guitar in hand, a sign propped beside her: “Not begging. Just asking for a shot.”
For the first time, Oliver didnt drive past.
“Whats your name?”
She looked up. Her voice was rough but defiant.
“Why dyou care?”
He almost smiled.
“I need a woman who knows how to survive. Properly. No pretence. Like you.”
Her name was Daisy. Twenty-seven years old. Orphanage runaways, nights under bridges, rehab stints, busking for spare changeher life story was written in scars. The guitar was her only constant.
The next evening, she stood before a floor-length mirror in The Savoy, smoothing the deep green silk of a dress worth more than her entire existence. Freshly styled hair, subtle makeupshe barely recognised herself.
“Theyre already at the restaurant,” Oliver said, adjusting his cufflinks. “Fashionably late, as always.”
“Dyou think thisll actually work?”
He studied her for a long moment.
“Frankly, youre the only person who might actually impress my mother.”
At the restaurant, it almost went smoothly. Almost.
His father was politely detached. His mothera woman who could dismantle a person with a single raised eyebrowfixed Daisy with a stare.
“How did you meet my son?”
Daisy felt Olivers gaze. He gave the faintest nod.
“In a bookshop,” she said. “I dropped a copy of Jane Austen, he picked it up and we both laughed.”
“Jane Austen?” His mothers eyebrow arched. “You read classics?”
“As a kid. The care home librarian let us borrow anythingeven the tough stuffif we promised to bring it back.”
A heavy silence. Olivers mother set down her wine glass, eyes never leaving Daisy. Too intently.
“A care home?” she repeated, her voice flickeringsomething between curiosity and memory.
Then, the unexpected happened.
Daisy straightened, squared her shoulders, and said, firm as oak,
“Sorry. Thats bollocks. Im not your future daughter-in-law. Never been in a posh bookshop in my life. Im homeless. Just a woman who spent today feeling human for the first time in years.”
Instead of outrage, the woman in the tailored Chanel suit stood, crossed the room, and hugged her.
“Darling I started with nothing too. Someone took a chance on me once. Im glad you took yours.”
Oliver said nothing. Just watched. For the first time, he understoodthe act was over. Real life had begun.
Shed told the truth and got an embrace, not scorn. None of them knew it was just the start. Olivers mother, unexpectedly soft beneath the pearls, saw resilience in Daisy, not deceit. His father remained ice.
“This is absurd, Oliver,” he said coldly. “Youve dragged us into some Dickensian farce?”
“My choice,” Oliver replied evenly. “Not yours to judge.”
After dinner, Daisy slipped outside, kicked off her heels, and criednot from shame, but relief. Shed told the truth. And nobody walked away.
Oliver found her, coat in hand.
“Youre not going back to the streets. Youll stay with me. As long as you need.” A pause. “You deserve better.”
“Im not after pity.”
“Good. Because this isnt that. Its an opportunity.”
And so began their odd, sharp, but honest life together. He worked punishing hours, ruthless with himself and everyone else. She studied. Borrowed books, scrubbed the flat, learned to cook. Sometimes she played the guitar againnot for coins, but because something inside her had woken up.
“Youve changed,” he remarked once.
“Just the first time Ive not been terrified of being tossed out,” she admitted.
A month later, his father left. No goodbye. Just a note: “Choose sentiment over sense, and my fortune is no longer yours.”
Oliver didnt even read it. Tossed it into the fireplace and said,
“Money comes and goes. Lose yourself, though, and youre worth nothing.”
Three months later, Daisy stared at two pink lines.
“This cant be right,” she whispered, sitting on the bathroom tiles. “Its too soon Were not even proper”
When she told him, Oliver was silent. Then he pulled her close.
“I dont know what this feeling is. But I know its right.”
There were legal battles over the estate his father tried to reclaim. Tabloid sneers about “the tycoon and his down-and-out Cinderella.” A terrifying labour, endless nights worrying over the baby.
And then, a new life.
Daisy became the author of her own storyno longer the girl on the pavement, but a woman whod weathered hardship and come out stronger.
Every time she stood before an audience, she said:
“I was a fake fiancée for a night. Now Im a wife for life. Because one man saw a person, not a charity case.”
Final scenethe same restaurant. Daisy holds the hand of their ten-year-old, a whirlwind of curls and energy.
“See, love? Right here, your dad smiled properly for the first time. Where we stopped pretending and became real.”
Oliver stands beside them. Grinning. Hand in hers. Not a flicker of regret.
He didnt marry a princess. He chose a queenone whod once sat on the pavement with a sign asking not for handouts, but a chance.
