**Diary Entry**
When I heard my parents were coming, I panicked. Desperate, I begged a homeless girl to pretend to be my fiancée for just one evening. As she walked into the restaurant, my mothers eyes widened in disbelief.
Have you lost your mind? she nearly shouted, recoiling as if caught stealing. Me? In this? Pretending to be your fiancée? Yesterday, I was scraping food from a bin!
I locked the door behind us, leaned against the wall, and sighed.
Youve got no reason to refuse. Ill pay you more than youve ever dreamed of. One evening. Play the part. For my parents. Just a performance. Or have you forgotten how to act?
She was silent. Her fingers, wrapped in threadbare gloves, trembled. Her heart pounded like it wanted to escape. *Could this be the start of something new? Or just the end of all this suffering?*
And so it begana story none of us saw coming.
I was wealthy beyond measure. My name was Oliver Whitmore. Young, stern, with piercing eyes and an unreadable expression. My face graced the covers of *The Economist*, my name on lists of Britains most eligible bachelors. Education, wealth, influenceall flawless. Yet my parents, living in France, never stopped asking:
When will we meet your girlfriend? Why are you hiding her?
Then they announced they were coming. Tomorrow.
I wasnt afraidjust uncertain. Not because I feared their judgment, but because no woman I knew fit the role. I loathed actresses. Couldnt stand falseness. I needed someone real. Someone unexpected.
That night, as I drove through Londoncold, congested, glowing with streetlightsI saw her. By the Tube station, strumming a guitar, a sign propped beside her: *Not charity. Just a chance.*
For the first time, I stopped.
Whats your name?
She looked up. Her voice was rough but steady.
Why does it matter?
I almost smiled.
I need a woman who knows how to survive. Someone real. Like you.
Her name was Emily. Twenty-seven. An orphanage, runaways, nights on the streets, rehab, and a guitarher only constant.
The next evening, she stood before the mirror in a suite at The Savoy. Her hands shook as she smoothed the emerald silk of her dress. Freshly styled hair, subtle makeupshe looked like a different person.
Theyre already at Claridges, I said, adjusting my cuffs. Late for our own charade.
Do you think theyll believe it?
I studied her.
Youre the only one who could ever win over my mother.
At the restaurant, everything seemed under control. Almost.
My father was quiet, observant. My motherelegant, sharp, able to dissect a person with a glancefixed her gaze on Emily.
How did you meet my son?
I felt Emily tense. She met my eyes, and I nodded.
In a bookshop, she said. I dropped a copy of Wildes *Dorian Gray*. He picked it up and we laughed.
Wilde? My mothers brow arched. You read literature?
As a child. The orphanage librarian let us take any bookif we promised to return it.
Silence. My mother set her wineglass down, never breaking eye contact.
An orphanage? Her voice waveredsomething unreadable flickering beneath.
Thenthe unexpected.
Emily straightened, gathering every ounce of strength.
Im lying. Im not your future daughter-in-law. Im homeless. Just a woman who, for once, felt like a person.
Instead of outrage, my mother stood, crossed the room, and embraced her.
Darling I started with nothing too. Someone gave me a chance. Im glad you took yours.
I said nothing. Just watched. The act was over. Reality had begun.
She told the truthand was met not with scorn, but warmth. None of us knew then how much would change. My mother saw not a fraud, but resilience. My father remained cold.
This is absurd, Oliver, he muttered, cutting through the silence. You bring us a street performers fantasy?
My choice, I replied. Not yours to judge.
After dinner, Emily stepped outside. Kicked off her heels, leaned against the brick wall, and weptnot from shame, but release. Shed been honest. And no one turned away.
I followed, holding her coat.
Youre not going back to the streets. Youll stay with me. As long as you need. A pause. You deserve better.
I dont want pity.
Im not offering it. Im giving you a choice.
And so began our jagged, honest life. I worked late, relentless. She studiedborrowed books, attended lectures, cooked, cleaned. Sometimes she played the guitar againnot for coins, but because something inside her had woken.
Youve changed, I told her once.
For the first time, Im not afraid of being thrown out.
A month later, my father left. No wordsjust a note: *Choose her, and my fortune is no longer yours.*
I tossed it into the fire.
Money comes and goes. Lose yourself, and youre worth nothing.
Three months later, Emily showed me a pregnancy test.
This cant be, she whispered, sitting on the bathroom tiles. Were not even
I held her.
I dont know what this is. But its right.
There were court battles over the estate. Tabloid whispersBillionaires charity case. A difficult birth, fear, pain.
And thena new life.
Emily wrote a book. Stood on stages not as a beggar, but a survivor.
I was a fiancée for an evening, shed say. Now Im his wife. Because he saw me as human.
Last week, we returned to Claridges. Emily held our daughters handten years old, wild curls, bright-eyed.
See, love? Right here, your father smiled for the first time. Here, we became a family.
I stood beside them. No regrets.
I didnt marry a princess. I chose a queenone who once sat on the pavement, asking not for alms, but a chance.
