Elena's POV
I don't believe in love. I believe in invoices.
Which is why, at 9:42 a.m. on a Wednesday, I'm sitting in my bookstore-turned-office, sipping burnt coffee from a cracked mug that says Kiss the Cook—I am not a cook—while updating my list of current "Clients."
Client #14: Took him to his ex's wedding. Played "new girlfriend." Got paid.
Client #15: Pretended to be hopelessly in love for his sister's engagement party. Got a bonus when his grandma cried.
Romantic? No. Profitable? Occasionally.
You see,My name is Elena stone and I lease myself out. Not in the creepy way. I run a business called Lease the Love. You need a charming girlfriend for your cousin's destination wedding in Atlanta? I'm your plug. Want to avoid awkward questions at a company retreat? Trust me to hold your hand in front of your boss.
My specialty? "Genuine affection—artfully faked."
Catchy, right?
Now, before you judge me, let me tell you how I got here.
I was raised by a woman who vanished like smoke and a man who thought affection was something you could put on layaway. My mother left when I was sixteen. No big fight, no dramatic exit—just a sticky note on the fridge that said, "Be brave. Love hard. There's leftover rice in the fridge."
Heartbreaking part?: there wasn't.
My dad was a romantic at heart. A failing, broke, hopeless romantic who thought running a bookstore in the digital age was his legacy. He named it Stone's Pages. After he passed, I inherited it—along with debt, water damage,dirty walls,torn books and an entire shelf of unpaid bills.
But I couldn't let it go. Not the shop. Not the memories. So I got creative.
Spoiler? : I have nowhere else to go
I became the thing my mother told me to be: brave. And the thing my dad never was: realistic.
So, Lease the Love was born. Out of desperation, some light sarcasm, and one very sketchy Valentine's Day date where I pretended to be someone's fiancée and got paid in cash and cake.
Since then, I've built a small, quiet empire of lies—tasteful lies, mind you. I have contracts, rules, and boundaries.
Rule One: Never mix real emotions with fake ones.
Rule Two: Always leave before breakfast.
Rule Three: Never stay longer than three weeks.
It's a business, not a fantasy.
---
Of course, my family doesn't know what I actually do. My aunt thinks I work in "Counseling department," which sounds like a job title someone made up at brunch by the way. My cousin thinks I run a book club . My best friend Sammy knows the truth, but she's sworn to secrecy and bribes.
Speaking of Sammy, she texted me at exactly 9:50:
Sam: Still leasing your heart like a used car?
Me: Just passed a 5-star emotional inspection.
Sam: Proud of you, you cold, charming capitalist.
She gets me.
The thing is, I don't hate love. I just don't trust it. It's slippery. People say it's selfless, but most times it's an IOU waiting to be broken. I've seen enough—lived enough—to know that love, the way people sell it, has fine print.
But I do believe in kindness. In showing up when it counts. In pretending well enough to make someone feel like they matter. Even for a weekend.
---
I closed my laptop and looked around the bookstore. Dust in the corners. Romance novels leaning like they'd given up. A creaky fan wheezing above my head like it, too, was tired of my life choices.
Still, there's something comforting in this place. The soft light. The faint smell of paper and old stories. It's mine.
I was just about to heat my coffee for the third time when the email came in.
Subject: Urgent Request – One Month Engagement (High Confidentiality)
Oh, boy. The juicy ones always had bold subject lines.
I opened it.
Client Name: Julian Hart
Need: Fake fiancée for family event.
Duration: One month.
Details: Must act madly in love. Discretion required. Compensation generous.
There was a phone number and a request for a video call. I stared at the screen for a moment. One month was long. I usually cap out at two weekends max. Too long and the lines blur. Emotions get weird. People start using words like "connection."
But the fee… it was ridiculous. Enough to pay off the water bill, the heating bill, and maybe finally fix the broken "E" on the shop sign so it wouldn't say "Ston 's Pages" instead of stone's pages.
I leaned back in my chair, the old cushion hissing its protest.
"Heart on lease," I said aloud, almost to myself.
That was what Sam had jokingly called me once. "You don't date, Elena. You just lease your heart out on short-term rentals."
Maybe she was right.
I took another sip of bitter coffee, squared my shoulders, and typed a reply.
"I'm available. Let's talk details. – E"
---
And just like that, another story began.
Only this time, something told me it wouldn't be business as usual.
Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's this:
You can lease a heart. But sometimes, it gets returned with scratches you didn't plan for.