My Fake Husband Is My Number One Fan

PROLOGUE

After I announced I was leaving Stellara, the pop group project I d poured my life into, I was forced into a contractual marriage with a man I d never even met.

My fianc? didn't even bother showing up for what was supposed to be our wedding.

Instead, he gave me a single, chilling phone call.

His voice was cold, distant, laced with the kind of impatient courtesy you d use on a telemarketer.

This marriage was my family s idea, not mine. As long as you don t cause any trouble, I won t interfere with your life in any way.

I m in love with someone else, he continued, his tone flat and non-negotiable. We ll divorce in two years. I ll compensate you generously.

But what about the journal I found in his house?

The one hidden away in a secret room?

The one filled, page after page, with declarations of his undying love for me?

01

During my college years, I d secretly dropped my last name and became a trainee for a major record label, chasing a dream that felt more real than my own name.

I d like to think I was diligent.

I practiced until midnight every single day, went to sleep holding a split, my muscles screaming in protest.

Every drop of sweat, every strained vocal cord, was a sacrifice on the altar of pop stardom.

But in the end, it wasn't enough.

My buzz, that intangible currency of fame, wasn't strong enough.

I missed the final lineup for Stellara. Four years of my life, gone in a single sterile email from a label executive.

The news, however, sent my parents into a state of pure ecstasy.

You would have thought they d won the lottery. Fireworks wouldn t have been out of place as they celebrated the death of my dream.

The moment I graduated, my diploma still warm in my hand, they dragged me back home to be married off to Maxwell Sinclair, the heir to the Sinclair Group.

I had never seen him. Not once.

All I d heard were whispers, fragmented stories passed around in hushed tones at cocktail parties.

He was detached, ruthless, a predator in a bespoke suit who treated the stock market like his personal hunting ground.

My friends all said he had the face of a gentle, ascetic scholar the kind that makes you want to get closer, to see what cracks lie beneath the perfect, marble facade.

A face that promised poetry and quiet contemplation.

But that face was a lie.

In reality, he was cold-blooded and brutally efficient.

They called him The Scythe, for the way he cut down competitors and unprofitable ventures without a flicker of emotion.

As my friends chatted online, their tone slowly shifted from intrigued gossip to genuine pity for me.

How is Eliza going to handle a man like that? I m genuinely worried for her.

Her life is going to be so hard from now on. He ll crush her.

I switched off my phone, the screen going dark on their worried messages.

My eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, the white plaster swirling into meaningless patterns.

A couple of hollow, miserable laughs escaped my lips, the sound echoing in the silent room.

I closed the group chat and logged into my public account, the one with only a handful of loyal, dedicated followers.

My fingers trembled slightly as I navigated to the drafts folder.

With a deep, shuddering breath, I posted the withdrawal announcement I had been preparing for weeks, the words feeling like a eulogy for the person I had tried so hard to become.

02

Even though my popularity was low compared to the other hopefuls in the project, I still had a few truly dedicated fans. The kind who remembered your first clumsy performance and still thought you shone the brightest.

The moment my announcement went live, my DMs started flooding.

Familiar usernames, one after another, sent messages of support and sorrow, their virtual tears staining my screen.

But in this sea of notifications, one fan stood out, as he always did.

X.S.

Throughout my four years as a trainee, his presence was a constant, a silent pillar of support in the chaotic world of likes and shares.

Any post that mentioned me, any obscure forum thread where my name was whispered, he d be there, defending me, promoting me with a fierce loyalty that baffled me.

He never missed a single one of my updates, no matter how trivial.

Every small event I attended, every tiny showcase in front of a handful of label executives, he d be there, somehow.

Afterward, god-tier fancams and photos would magically appear online, shot with a professional-grade camera, making me look like a real star. He captured angles and moments I didn t even know existed.

He poured money and time into my engagement metrics, into every fan poll and online vote, fighting a losing battle against the tides of popularity.

He was, without a doubt, a top-tier stan.

Many other fans even called him our unofficial promotions lead, the silent engine of our tiny fandom.

His own social media page was a shrine to me.

Every post was a highlight reel of my practice sessions, meticulously edited into a collection he d pinned to the top of his feed, a testament to my hard work that even I had forgotten.

Whenever I posted a clip of a new dance, a piece of complex choreography, he d try to learn it too.

The man in his videos always had his face obscured by shadow or a mask, and his movements were stiff, awkward even.

But there was an earnestness to it, a sincerity that shone through the clumsy execution. He wasn t doing it for views; he was doing it to connect, somehow.

What truly made me remember him, though, were his simple, consistent blessings that ended every comment.

May you find happiness and success.

No over-the-top praise, no dramatic declarations of love. Just those six simple words, over and over, like a mantra.

But today, he broke character.

He sent me message after message, each one a wall of text, a miniature essay poured from a heart I could feel breaking through the screen.

He talked about how he first noticed me at a small promotional event, a face in the crowd under a single, flickering spotlight.

He described how my performances, my sheer will to succeed, got him through what he called his darkest days.

He confessed that the best part of his day, every day, was seeing if I had posted something new. My updates were the anchor in his storm.

His final message felt like the last thread of sanity holding him together, the words tumbling out in a rush of raw emotion.

I m sorry if this is scaring you.

But I can t help it. I have to tell you. Elara, you were a light that shone into my life. The only color in my otherwise monochrome existence.

For the four years since I first saw you, my days have been filled with hope.

You ve become an inseparable part of me.

I stared at the messages, some of them riddled with typos and jumbled letters.

He must have been incredibly emotional, his fingers trembling so much he could barely type, his phone probably shaking in his hands.

Reading his heartfelt words, a mist formed in my eyes, blurring the screen. For the first time in weeks, I didn t feel like a failure. I felt& seen.

After I d calmed down, my own tears wiped away, I sent him a genuine reply.

Thank you so much for your support and kindness over these past four years. It meant more than you know. I wish you happiness and success. Perhaps our paths will cross again.

It felt like saying goodbye to the only part of my dream that had been real.

03

After replying to all the messages, a heavy exhaustion settled over me. I let out a long sigh and closed my eyes, preparing to deactivate the account for good, to close the final chapter on Elara.

Suddenly, a notification popped up on my screen, jarring me from my melancholic haze.

It was my so-called fianc?, the living Scythe, attached to a trending topic that was exploding online.

#MaxwellSinclairBreaksDown

My curiosity, a traitorous thing, got the better of me. I tapped it. A video immediately started playing, raw and unedited.

Under the dim glow of the car s interior lights, Maxwell Sinclair s perfectly sculpted face was starkly visible.

He was slumped back against the supple leather of the passenger seat, his eyes, streaked with fresh tears, staring blankly at the car s ceiling as if searching for an answer in the dark upholstery.

The expression on his face twisted, a slow, agonizing transition from numb sorrow into pure, unadulterated agony.

Finally, he broke completely, his composure shattering as he buried his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, wracking sobs.

The man looked completely shattered, like every last shred of hope had been ripped out of him, leaving a hollow, broken shell.

The comment section below was a wildfire of speculation and disbelief.

Holy hell. The Scythe is crying. Did I miss the memo about the world ending today? Is this a deepfake?

Is he possessed? Someone call an exorcist, NOW. This is not natural.

This is terrifying. Demons, get out of Mr. Sinclair s body, right now! You are not welcome here!

Okay, but for real, what could possibly make the Scythe break down like this? Did Sinclair Group go bankrupt?

That one comment opened the floodgates.

Theories started flying, each more outlandish than the last.

Some said a massive, multi-billion dollar project had been snatched by a competitor right at the finish line.

Others guessed he was having a meltdown over being used as a pawn in a dynastic merger, a loveless pawn in a corporate game.

Dude works 100-hour weeks, one comment read. Maybe his idol was the only thing keeping him sane.

Another replied, They call him The Scythe for a reason. Imagine the pressure. Something had to give.

Whatever the reason, I didn t have the energy to investigate further. The sight of his raw grief was strangely unsettling.

I scrolled a bit more, the morbid curiosity fading into weary indifference.

Then I went to deal with the label, to sign the final papers and officially dissolve my contract, retreating from public life to face my new, gilded cage.

04

Late that night, I collapsed onto my bed, the emotional and physical exhaustion of the day weighing me down like a lead blanket.

Just as I was about to drift off, my phone buzzed on the nightstand, a sharp, insistent sound in the quiet room.

I glanced at the screen, my eyes bleary.

It was him.

The broken man from the trending video was sending me a friend request on a secure messaging app.

His note was simple and direct, devoid of any preamble. "Maxwell Sinclair."

I hesitated for a moment, my thumb hovering over the accept button. My first instinct was to ignore it, to postpone the inevitable.

But then I decided to check his profile first. A little reconnaissance couldn t hurt.

His profile picture and background were both pitch-black voids. No signature, no bio, nothing to give away a single shred of personality.

His username was just a single period. "."

It was the kind of profile that screamed "stay away" to both the living and the dead, a digital black hole of a man.

I covered my face with one hand, brushing my hair back as if preparing for battle.

With the grim determination of a soldier marching to their doom, I hit accept.

Less than a second later, a voice message appeared. No text, just the icon indicating a recording.

I pressed play, holding the phone to my ear. A chill went down my spine.

His voice was polite, but utterly devoid of warmth, like perfectly chilled champagne. He sounded like someone dealing with an unpleasant but necessary piece of administrative work. Only his impeccable upbringing maintained the basic courtesy.

Hello, Ms. Bennett. My name is Maxwell Sinclair. I am your contractual partner.

I was more of a texter, especially with strangers who sounded like robotic corporate overlords. I just typed out a simple, Hello.

Maxwell had no interest in small talk. He went straight to the point, each word a carefully placed stone in the wall he was building between us.

Ms. Bennett, I am already in love with someone. She is the only one for me, and that will never change. So, I ask you not to waste any of your time or energy on me.

This arrangement is a merger of interests, nothing more. I will not object if you wish to pursue your own romantic life. In fact, I would encourage it. Similarly, you are not to interfere with mine.

I ve heard from your family that you have a crush on someone who is about to return to the country. I won t stand in your way. I can even help provide cover for you.

I was so stunned by the sheer audacity of it all that I blurted out a question, my fingers flying across the screen.

Are you offering to be my wingman in chasing after my own crush?

His reply was instantaneous. Precisely.

Frankly, I don t want you getting attached to me. It would be a relief to know you have someone else to focus on.

I was momentarily speechless. This was so much more bizarre than I could have imagined.

Do you have anything else to add? he asked after a pause that felt heavy with unsaid rules.

And one more thing, he added before I could reply. This contractual marriage will only last for two years.

After two years, we will get a divorce. You will not try to prevent this. I would prefer not to have this turn ugly for our families.

Fine by me, I replied instantly, a wave of genuine relief washing over me. No problem.

I could almost hear the sigh of relief on his end, a faint exhalation of breath before he spoke again.

In that case, we can dispense with the wedding ceremony. And there will be no need to... fulfill any private marital duties.

We also don t need to publicly announce our marital status. I don t want this getting out. It will be better for both of us in the long run.

I had zero objections. I agreed immediately. This was turning out to be a better deal than I thought.

After laying out all these rules, Maxwell went silent for a long time, as if he were mentally checking off a list to make sure he hadn't missed anything, every loophole closed, every contingency planned for.

Twenty minutes later, a final message came through.

That s all for now.

I do apologize for the circumstances, Ms. Bennett. But in any transaction, the most important things are the tangible assets.

To prevent any future... misunderstandings on your part, I would like to draw up a written agreement for us both to sign.

This agreement will detail everything we ve just discussed, in addition to the post-marital asset division.

How does that sound to you, Ms. Bennett?

I had absolutely no problem with that. This man was all business, and for once, I was grateful for it.

That sounds great, Mr. Sinclair. Send me the agreement once it s ready.

I ll have it for you tomorrow, he replied, his voice audibly brighter, the sound of a problem being efficiently solved.

A thought occurred to me then, a final test of his resolve. By the way, Mr. Sinclair, should we meet before we sign the marriage license?

His answer was swift and decisive, a clean cut.

There s no need to waste time on that. There s nothing to see. We can go directly to the courthouse the day after tomorrow and get it done.

For me, this was perfect. An anonymous, faceless business partner.

Okay, no problem.

05

At three in the morning, while I was deep in a dreamless sleep, Maxwell finalized the agreement.

He sent it to me in three different file formats PDF, Word doc, even a password-protected zip file as if terrified I would go back on my word or claim I never received it.

Even more absurdly, at six o'clock sharp, the doorbell rang. He was at my house with the physical copies.

I was ripped from my bed by my mother before I d even fully opened my eyes and shoved into the bathroom to get presentable.

Hurry up! Your father is stalling for you! Try to look like you re worth the Sinclair fortune! she hissed through the door.

Once she left, I tiptoed to the top of the stairs and peered down through the railing, my heart thumping a nervous rhythm against my ribs.

Maxwell Sinclair was exactly as my friends had described.

He was seated on the main sofa, his posture perfect, his physique like something carved from marble under his tailored suit. The simple, severe lines of his all-black suit only accentuated his elegant, scholarly face.

Even sitting completely still, he radiated a magnetic, forbidden allure. He was the handsome, brooding villain of a novel, brought to life.

I could suddenly understand why my father had taken one look at him and decided he was the absolute perfect, top-tier match for me.

Then, a flash of bright blue caught my eye, a detail that seemed utterly out of place.

It was an intense, electric cobalt.

That color... it was the one I had chosen with my fan club all those years ago. If I ever debuted, that was going to be my official fandom color, the color of our light sticks in a darkened stadium.

And there it was, a thin leather cord of electric cobalt, wrapped snugly around the wrist of this authoritative, powerful man, peeking out from beneath the cuff of his thousand-dollar shirt.

How... interesting.

While they chatted in the living room, my father, bless his heart, kept shooting meaningful glances up the stairs in my direction, his eyebrows doing a frantic dance.

Maxwell, however, remained as serene as a meditating monk. He didn t even twitch an eyebrow, completely ignoring my father s unsubtle cues with a focus that was almost insulting.

He was making a point, using his actions to show me, the unseen audience, just how utterly uninterested he was in his soon-to-be wife.

My father, tired of the silent acting, finally cleared his throat and went for the direct approach, his voice booming with forced cheerfulness.

Maxwell, my boy, why don t you stay for breakfast? Eliza is home, you two could finally meet, break the ice!

There s no need.

Maxwell s voice was deep and final, cutting through my father s bonhomie like a knife.

We ll have plenty of time shackled together in the future. Missing one meeting now hardly matters. Don t you agree, Robert?

My father s mouth opened slightly, a wounded look in his eyes, but Maxwell cut him off before he could say another word, already standing up.

Well, I ll be on my way. The agreement is on the table. Goodbye, Robert.

Without another glance, he strode toward the door.

He was so eager to leave that he was already opening the front door just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, my heart still pounding from my reconnaissance mission.

He could have at least spared a single glance over his shoulder, a flicker of acknowledgement, but he didn t.

He might as well have had NOT INTERESTED tattooed on the back of his head in bold, capital letters.

The heavy door clicked shut behind him, the sound sealing my fate.

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