Chapter Text
The office reeked of leather and cigar smoke, though Louis knew his father didn’t usually smoke—it was purely for aesthetic. Everything about this room was designed for one purpose: intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, stacked with books Louis doubted had been read. The desk, massive and carved with meticulous detail, dominated the center of the room like a throne. Even the sunlight streaming through the tall windows seemed subdued, filtered by heavy velvet curtains as if it dared not shine too brightly in the presence of Gerald Tomlinson.
Louis sat slouched in a squeaky leather chair opposite his father’s desk, his legs casually stretched out and crossed at the ankles, a picture of consistent defiance. It was a performance, though. Inside, his stomach churned, but he refused to show it to his father.
“Do you understand the damage you’ve done?” Gerald’s voice was sharp, every syllable clipped with precision honed from decades in harsh politics. His father didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. His brutish tone was more effective than a shout, slicing through the air like a razor.
Louis didn’t look at him, instead letting his eyes wander to the framed photographs on the wall. Gerald shaking hands with senators, standing on a stage at some charity gala, grinning as though he had the world at his feet. Which, Louis supposed he would if this political season went his way.
“I didn’t think it would be such a big deal,” Louis muttered, the words lazy but purposefully provocative. His father hated that tone. It was one of the few ways Louis still had any power in their conversations.
But, Gerald didn’t take the bait. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a sleek tablet, and placed it on the desk in front of him. The screen lit up, and Louis' gut clenched. There it was: the video.
In the grainy footage displayed, Louis was in the middle of a shouting match with Gerald in an apparently not-so-private restaurant. A family brunch, another one of his mother’s half-hearted attempts at mending fences. The argument had started with something trivial—what, Louis couldn’t even remember anymore—and escalated into Gerald declaring in a cold, clear voice that Louis would never be fit to carry the Tomlinson legacy. Louis, fueled by frustration and maybe a bit too much bottomless champagne, had responded by saying something along the lines of “Maybe I don’t want your shitty legacy in the first place.”
The video cut off just as Louis shoved back his chair, leaving the table and the restaurant behind in a storm of anger.
“This,” Gerald said, his voice icy, “has been circulating for two days. Do you have any idea how hard my team has been working to contain it? And do you have any idea how little that matters when something like this goes viral?”
Louis shrugged, though his chest felt tight. “So I had an argument with my father in what we thought was a private space. Big deal. Families argue. People will forget about it in a week.”
“No, they won’t.” Gerald leaned forward, his hands steepled on the desk. His perfectly tailored suit barely creased with the movement. “Not when I’m running for governor. Not when the headlines are already questioning whether the Tomlinson name is built on integrity or privilege. And certainly not when my own son confirms every criticism by acting like an overindulged child.”
“Maybe they wouldn’t question it so much if you weren’t running on a platform solely on ‘family values,’” Louis shot back, unable to stop himself. His father’s hypocrisy made his blood boil. Family values were just a convenient slogan, not something Gerald had ever actually cared about.
Gerald’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Louis thought he might actually lose his typical calculated composure. But then his father leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
“Enough, Louis. Enough of your petulance, enough of your excuses. This is the last straw. Either you fall in line, or you’re done.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Louis swallowed hard, his bravado faltering for just a moment. “What does that mean? Done with what?”
“Your access to the trust fund. Your name on the foundation board. Your lifestyle, your independence—all of it. I’m not going to bankroll your rebellion any longer.”
Louis' throat went dry. He knew his father was capable of pulling the rug out from under him, but the finality in his tone made it clear this wasn’t an empty threat like it had been in the past. “So, what?” Louis asked, his voice tight. “You want me to beg for forgiveness? Grovel at your feet?”
“No.” Gerald’s expression turned calculating, the look that always set Louis on edge. “What I want is for you to fix this. Prove that you’re not the spoiled, reckless alpha the press has painted you to be all week. I have a solution.”
Louis' stomach sank. He knew that tone, the way his father’s words curled with an edge of triumph. Whatever he was about to propose, it wasn’t going to be good.
“You’re going to bond with an omega,” Gerald said smoothly, as if announcing the weather. “Someone respectable. Stable. Someone who can counteract the narrative that you’re unfit to lead. My team has already drawn up a list of potential candidates.”
Louis stared at him, completely stunned. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “You’ve got to be joking. It’s 2025 and you want to arrange a bond?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Gerald’s eyes bore into him, unrelenting. “This is how we rebuild your image, Louis. A stable bond will humanize you in the eyes of the voters. And it will send a clear message that you’re ready to take responsibility for your actions.”
“By tying myself to some omega I don’t even know?” Louis barked out a humorless laugh. “That’s not responsibility, that’s PR.”
“Call it whatever you want,” Gerald said coldly. “But you will do this. You’ll choose someone from the list, or I’ll choose for you. Either way, the arrangement needs to be finalized within the month if it’s going to make any impact on the political field.”
Louis' fingers curled into fists at his sides, the nails digging into his palms. His father’s words echoed in his mind, and with each repetition, the bile rose higher in his throat.
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to tie myself to some—some political drone you hand-picked off a spreadsheet,” Louis spat, his voice rising despite his best efforts to keep his composure. “I’m not a puppet.”
Gerald’s expression barely flickered. If anything, the hint of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth, as though Louis' defiance was something he’d expected, maybe even welcomed. “This isn’t about you, Louis. This is about protecting our family, our legacy. Something you clearly don’t value right now.”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” Louis snapped, his frustration boiling over. He took a step forward, planting his hands on the edge of the desk. “This isn’t about the family. This is about you. About your campaign. Your career. Don’t dress this up as some noble sacrifice I’m supposed to make for the greater good.”
“Call it what you like,” Gerald replied, his voice almost infuriatingly calm. “But the facts remain. If you care about your future—your independence, your name—you will do this. You’ve given the press too much ammunition already, Louis. You need to disarm them.”
Louis straightened, running a hand through his hair as he turned away from his father’s desk. The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in on him. His father always managed to do this—take control of every situation, mold it to his advantage, leave Louis feeling like a pawn in some grander scheme.
“It’s not happening,” Louis said finally, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. He turned back to face his father, his jaw set. “I’m not playing house with someone just to fix your image. If I’m such a liability, cut me loose. You’ve been threatening to do it for years, so go on, follow through.”
Gerald didn’t so much as flinch. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No, I’m being realistic,” Louis shot back. “You want me to live a lie, tie myself to some stranger, pretend to be this perfect alpha son so you can win a few more votes? Do it without me.”
“I wouldn’t have to ask this of you if you just behaved like a responsible adult in the first place,” Gerald said, his tone sharp now, his mask of calm slipping just slightly. “But here we are. And let me be clear, Louis: this is not optional. You’re twenty-six years old. It’s time to grow up and start thinking about someone other than yourself.”
Louis let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable. You talk about thinking about someone else, but you don’t care about me or what I want. This is just another way for you to control me.”
“It doesn’t have to be permanent,” Gerald said suddenly, cutting through Louis' tirade. His words hung in the air, and for a moment, Louis just stared at him, caught off guard.
“What?” Louis said finally, his voice laced with suspicion.
“The bond,” Gerald clarified, leaning back in his chair. His hands folded neatly on the desk, as if he were delivering a business proposal. “It doesn’t have to last forever. Just long enough to convince the public that you’re stable, capable, and committed to the values our family represents.”
Louis barked out another laugh, though this one was tinged with disbelief. “Oh, great. So now I’m supposed to just take and break a bond, like that’s something you can turn on and off whenever you want? You do understand the emotional and physical toll that takes, right?”
“Plenty of people do it,” Gerald said with a shrug. “A few public appearances, a carefully managed narrative, and once the election is over, you can end the arrangement. No one will care by then.”
“No one will care,” Louis repeated, his voice low. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “Do you even hear yourself? A bond isn’t some disposable tool, Dad. It’s—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t get it. You’ve never treated bonds like they meant anything more than a political strategy.”
“And you’ve never treated your position like it comes with responsibilities,” Gerald retorted, his voice rising now to match Louis'. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s had to make sacrifices? Who’s had to put the greater good ahead of their personal feelings? Grow up, Louis. This is how the world works.”
“The world you built, maybe,” Louis snapped. He pointed a finger toward the tablet, still glowing on the desk. “But not mine. Not the one I want to live in.”
“Then you have a decision to make,” Gerald said, his voice dropping back to that infuriatingly calm tone. “You can walk out of here and live however you like. But don’t expect a penny from me, you can kiss your master’s program goodbye. Or,” he continued, his eyes locking with Louis', “you can choose someone for a bond. Make it believable for a few months. Do this one thing, and you’ll have everything you need to maintain the life you’ve built.”
Louis stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching taut between them. His mind raced, every instinct screaming at him to tell his father to shove his plan where the sun didn’t shine. But behind the anger, there was the nagging reality of what he stood to lose if he walked away. His freedom. His independence. Everything he’d fought so hard to claw back from his father’s grasp.
He hated that he was even considering it. Hated that Gerald always seemed to win.
Finally, Louis turned on his heel and headed for the door. “I’ll think about it,” he muttered, his voice tight.
“Good,” Gerald called after him, his tone tinged with satisfaction. “I’ll have the list sent to your email.”
Louis didn’t look back. If he did, he might lose the last shred of composure he had left.
—
Louis had learned long ago that if you wanted to go unnoticed, you had to master the art of looking completely unremarkable. He stood in front of his full-length mirror, pulling a navy hoodie over his head and tugging the drawstrings tight until the fabric framed only the barest sliver of his face. A baseball cap followed, the brim casting a shadow over his eyes, and a pair of plain jeans completed the look. He glanced at himself and frowned. Always too clean. Too deliberate.
He reached for a slightly battered jacket hanging by the door. Perfect. The addition of the worn leather made him look less Louis Tomlinson, son of political royalty and more just some guy. Which, at this moment, was exactly what he wanted to be.
Grabbing his backpack and slipping on some scuffed sneakers, Louis slipped out of his family’s high-rise apartment. The lobby was quiet at this time of day, only the faint hum of the elevators breaking the silence. He avoided making eye contact with the concierge and headed straight for the side exit. He loved his city, but he hated the way it felt like every step he took was under a magnifying glass.
His favorite café was tucked away on a narrow street lined with overhanging trees, its small green awning drooping slightly at the corners. Louis had been coming here since he started his master's program. It was one of the few places where he felt like he could breathe, where the walls didn’t whisper his last name back at him.
As he pushed open the door, the familiar chime of the bell overhead greeted him. The space was small but cozy, with mismatched chairs and tables that had clearly been salvaged from a dozen different thrift stores. A small stage where open mics would be held on Tuesday and Thursday nights sat in the corner, surrounded by plants. The walls were lined with shelves of secondhand books, and a handwritten sign near the counter promised free refills if you could beat the barista in a game of chess that sat next to the register. Louis smiled despite himself.
Behind the counter, Niall was bent over a steaming espresso machine, his hair sticking up in every direction. He wore an apron that read Espresso Yourself in big, blocky letters, a gift Louis had given him as a joke that he now refused to take off. Louis had known Niall since undergrad—he was loud, opinionated, and one of the few people Louis could trust not to treat him like a headline waiting to happen.
“You’re late,” Niall called without looking up, his voice cutting through the hiss of the milk steamer.
“For what?” Louis replied, pulling his hood back as he approached the counter. He dropped his backpack onto the floor and leaned against the worn wood. “I’m not on a schedule.”
“You’re just always late,” Niall said with a grin, finally glancing up. His smile faltered for a moment as he took in Louis' face, then his hoodie. “Rough morning?”
“Rough lifetime,” Louis muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just give me the usual. Extra shot, though.”
“Extra shot or two?” Niall asked, already reaching for a cup. “You look like hell, mate. You need it.”
“Yeah. Thanks for the compliment,” Louis said dryly. “I needed that.”
Niall didn’t press, though Louis knew he wanted to. Instead, he worked quietly, the sound of beans grinding filling the space between them. Louis glanced around, letting himself relax for the first time that day. A couple sat by the window, heads close together, a notebook open between them. A woman in the corner was sketching on a tablet, her headphones firmly in place. No one looked twice at him. No cameras. No questions. Just peace.
Niall slid the cup across the counter. “Here. On the house, since you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
Louis snorted but didn’t argue, taking a long sip of the latte. It was bitter and bold, a touch of cinnamon, just the way he liked it. He leaned against the counter, his eyes wandering to the guitar propped up against the wall near the register.
“Still writing?” he asked, nodding toward it.
Niall shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel. “When I’ve got time. Which, between work and keeping your sorry ass in check, isn’t much.”
Louis laughed, the sound lighter than he expected. “Keeping me in check? Since when is that your job and not my dad’s government drones?”
“Since you walked in here wearing that,” Niall said, gesturing to Louis' hoodie. “What are you hiding from today? The press? Your father? Yourself?”
The words stung more than Louis wanted to admit. He looked away, staring into his coffee as if it held answers. “All of the above,” he said finally.
Niall leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “You gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?”
Louis hesitated, then sighed. “He wants me to bond with someone.”
“Like… a real bond? Or one of those political ones where you shake hands and smile for the cameras?”
“Both. Wants it to be real, believable to anyone,” Louis' lips twisted into a bitter smile. “He’s already got a list of ‘respectable omegas’ lined up. It’s all very thoughtful.”
“Jesus.” Niall whistled low. “And you’re actually considering it?”
“Fuck no, not really,” Louis snapped, though even as he said it, the weight of his father’s ultimatum pressed down on him again. “But it’s not exactly as simple as walking away. He’s got his hands in everything, Niall. If I tell him to piss off, he’ll make sure I regret it.”
“You sure you’re related?” Niall said dryly.
Louis let out a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Sometimes, I wonder.”
Niall studied him for a moment, then nodded toward the guitar. “You should play. Clear your head. You’ve been staring at politics and headlines about yourself for too long.”
“Maybe I will,” Louis said, though he didn’t move. Music felt farther away than ever, buried under the expectations and demands that came with his last name.
Louis took his coffee and retreated to the farthest corner of the café, where an old, slightly wobbly table sat tucked against the wall. He dropped into the chair with a heavy sigh, his backpack landing unceremoniously on the floor. The dim light overhead flickered once before settling, casting a warm, uneven glow over the space. It wasn’t much, but it was his favorite spot—hidden, quiet, and just out of sight enough to let him pretend the world wasn’t breathing down his neck.
From his bag, he pulled out a thick textbook titled Foundations of Political Theory and flipped it open with the enthusiasm of someone preparing to face a firing squad. The dense text stared back at him, mocking him with its endless jargon and convoluted arguments.
He hated this. All of it. The lectures, the readings, the constant pressure to prove himself in a field he had no real passion for. He wasn’t bad at it—far from it, actually. But the thought of spending the rest of his life buried in debates over policy and public perception made his skin crawl.
He tried to focus on the page in front of him, but the words blurred together, and his thoughts kept circling back to his father’s ultimatum. Eventually, he caved, pulling his phone from his pocket and opening his email. Sure enough, there it was—an ominous subject line reading Potential Omega Candidates. He stared at it for a moment, debating whether to even bother. With a resigned sigh, he opened the email.
It was worse than he’d expected.
The list was neatly formatted, each name accompanied by a headshot and a brief summary of their credentials. All women, of course. His father would never even entertain the idea of what he called an “unconventional match”. Louis could practically hear him now: “We’re traditionalists, Louis. The voters expect stability, not scandal.”
Louis scrolled through the list, his frustration mounting with each profile.
Isabelle Danvers: Ivy League graduate, heir to a pharmaceutical empire, fluent in four languages.
Charlotte Whitaker: Political consultant, well-connected in Washington, known for her “poise and charm.”
Emily Harrington: Philanthropist, frequently featured in lifestyle magazines for her “grace and elegance.”
They were all the same. Polished, prim, and painfully boring. The kind of women who probably rehearsed their smiles in the mirror and had never once set foot in a place like this café. Louis could practically feel their disapproval radiating from their headshots, as if they already knew he wasn’t the kind of alpha they’d typically be drawn to bond with.
He let out a groan, slumping back in his chair. “Kill me now,” he muttered under his breath.
“Careful what you wish for,” Niall’s voice cut in, breaking through Louis' frustration. Louis glanced up to see his friend sliding into the chair across from him, a grin tugging at his lips. He set a mug of tea on the table and leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. “What’s got you looking like you’ve swallowed a lemon?”
Louis turned the phone around and slid it across the table. “Have a look.”
Niall picked it up, his eyebrows shooting up as he scanned the email. “Oh, this is rich,” he said, his grin widening. “He actually sent you a list? With headshots? What is this, a personal political dating app?”
“More like a prison sentence,” Louis muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “They’re all so… predictable. It’s like he picked them from a catalog of ‘perfect political wives.’”
“Well, let’s see,” Niall said, scrolling back to the top of the email. He scrolled to Isabelle Danvers’ profile and let out a low whistle. “Pharma heiress, huh? Bet she’s never had to wait in line for anything in her life.”
“She’d probably sue me if I so much looked at her wrong,” Louis said flatly. “Next.”
Niall swiped to Charlotte Whitaker and raised an eyebrow. “Ooh, a consultant. Think she’d give you tips on how to survive your father’s next lecture?”
“Not funny,” Louis said, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “Keep going.”
They worked their way down the list, Niall providing a running commentary that ranged from brutally honest to downright ridiculous. By the time they reached the last profile, Louis was laughing despite himself, the tension in his chest easing for the first time all day.
“I can’t believe this is my life,” Louis said, shaking his head. “I’m supposed to pick one of them, bond with her, and pretend it’s all sunshine and rainbows. For months. And then break that bond and go about my life.”
Niall leaned back in his chair, his grin fading into something softer. “You know you don’t have to do this, right?”
Louis sighed, his gaze dropping to the table. “Don’t I? If I say no, my father cuts me off. No trust fund, no connections, no safety net. Hell, he might even kick me out. Everything I’ve worked for—gone.”
“And if you say yes?” Niall asked quietly.
Louis didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The weight of it was written all over his face.
Louis let his head drop forward onto the table with a dull thunk, his arms sprawled out like he’d just collapsed mid-dramatic faint. “This is hell,” he moaned, his voice muffled against the wood. “Actual hell. My personal circle of inferno, curated just for me.”
Niall chuckled, poking at Louis' arm with the handle of his tea spoon. “Oh, come on, mate. It can’t be that bad. You’ve got a list of very eligible, very accomplished omegas ready to be dazzled by your sparkling personality.”
Louis turned his head just enough to glare at him. “They’re accomplished in being the most boring people alive. I’d rather spend a week debating tax reform than bond with any of them.”
“High praise,” Niall said, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “You could just find someone yourself, you know. Skip the list. Convince your dad you’re madly in love with some random omega. Job done.”
Louis froze, his head still resting on the table, but his eyes darted toward Niall. Slowly, he pushed himself up, a spark of something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. “That’s… not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Wait—” Niall held up his hands, eyes wide with alarm. “No. Don’t you dare take that seriously. I was joking.”
Louis ignored him, sitting up straighter, his mind racing. “Think about it. He wants me bonded, right? That’s the whole point. He doesn’t care about the who, as long as it ticks all his boxes.”
“I really feel like he does care about the ‘who,’” Niall interrupted, waving a hand as if to reel Louis back in. “You said it yourself. He’s ‘traditional.’”
Louis shrugged, his lips curling into a devilish grin. “Exactly. So, I find someone who technically fits the criteria but would make his skin crawl. Someone who’s the opposite of everything he’d want but still forces him to keep his word. I do what he asked while making sure he regrets it.”
“That’s psychotic,” Niall said, though he was starting to laugh despite himself. “Do you hear how unhinged you sound? You’d have to find someone willing to fake being smitten with you and let you bond with them. And who the hell’s signing up for that?”
Louis' grin widened as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “There’s got to be some poor, desperate omega enough to agree. Someone who hates people like my father as much as I do. I’d pay them, obviously. It’d be a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“You’re talking like you’re putting out a classified ad,” Niall said, shaking his head. “‘Wanted: one sad fuck willing to pretend they’re head-over-heels for a spoiled alpha. Must be able to survive fancy dinners and tolerate paparazzi.’”
“Exactly!” Louis exclaimed, pointing at him. “It’s genius.”
“It’s insane.”
“It’s brilliant.”
“It’s gonna blow up in your face.”
Louis leaned back with a satisfied sigh, crossing his arms as he stared at Niall. “Oh, it’ll definitely blow up in my face. But it’ll blow up in my dad’s face first, and that’s the part I’m looking forward to.”
Niall groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re impossible. You know that, right?”
“Yep,” Louis said, popping the ‘p’ with exaggerated cheerfulness. “But admit it, this is a good plan.”
“It’s a plan,” Niall said dryly. “Good is debatable.”
Louis' mind was already racing, the pieces of the scheme clicking into place. It was risky, sure, and probably more trouble than it was worth. But for the first time in days, he felt something other than dread gnawing at his chest. It was reckless, impulsive, and probably a terrible idea.
But wasn’t that what made life fun?
Louis should have been studying. The textbook was still open in front of him, its dense paragraphs demanding his attention, but he hadn’t so much as glanced at it in over an hour. Instead, he was hunched over his phone, a furrow etched between his brows as he scrolled through various websites and apps, jotting occasional notes into the margin of his political theory notes.
“Alright, let’s think this through,” he muttered under his breath, tapping his pen rhythmically against the table. “If I’m going to find someone willing to bond with me, they need to be desperate enough to agree but not so desperate that they’ll sell the story to the press the second it’s over. Ideally, they’ll hate my father’s world as much as I do, and—” He paused, smirking. “—they’ll have just enough bite to piss him off.”
It wasn’t a simple list of criteria, and the longer he thought about it, the more ridiculous the whole plan seemed. Still, Louis was nothing if not persistent. He had to start somewhere.
He swiped out of his notes app and opened the search bar on his browser. His first thought was the gig economy. Surely there were people out there advertising their services for things as strange as fake relationships. He typed, hire someone to pretend to date you, and hit search.
The results were... unhelpful. He grimaced at the flood of escort services, sketchy “dating coaches,” and blog posts about rom-com plots. One article promised, How to Make Him Fall in Love with You in 10 Days. He resisted the urge to throw his phone across the room.
“Alright, Plan B,” he muttered, pulling up a local community board app. He scrolled past ads for furniture, tutoring services, and dog walking, feeling increasingly foolish with every second that passed. He stopped briefly on a post titled, Willing to house-sit any weird pets! and almost laughed. Was he really about to advertise a political bond on a platform like this?
“God, I’m losing it,” he groaned, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples.
“You’re muttering again,” Niall said, startling Louis as he dropped a fresh cup of coffee onto the table. He slid into the seat across from him, eyeing Louis' phone and the absurd number of tabs open. “What are you doing? Still planning to hire someone to be your fake soulmate?”
Louis didn’t bother denying it. He gestured to his screen with a look of mock despair. “I’m out of ideas, mate. The internet’s a wasteland of scams, and apparently, no one advertises ‘pretend to be in love with an alpha to annoy his politician dad’ services.”
Niall snorted, sipping his tea. “Yeah, wonder why that market hasn’t taken off.”
Louis ignored him, pushing his phone aside and grabbing his notebook instead. He scribbled the word candidate at the top of the page and underlined it twice. “Alright, let’s brainstorm. Where do desperate, chaotic people hang out?”
“Look in the mirror,” Niall said.
“Other desperate people,” Louis clarified, waving him off. “Strangers. People who don’t know me and won’t have any reason to care about the consequences.”
“A bar?” Niall offered, leaning back in his chair. “Late-night crowd’s always full of drama.”
Louis shook his head. “Too unpredictable. I’d rather avoid ending up with someone who thinks this bond means we’re soulmates for real.”
“Fair.” Niall tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “What about uni? There’s always someone in debt up to their eyeballs. You’re surrounded by people who’ll do anything for a quick buck.”
Louis tilted his head, considering it. “It’s not the worst idea,” he admitted. “But it can’t be someone who knows me or my family. I need someone completely outside of that circle.”
“What about community boards?” Niall asked, nodding toward Louis' phone. “You could post anonymously. Something vague, like, ‘Looking for a temporary partner for a high-stakes performance.’”
“And sound like I’m planning a heist?” Louis snorted, though the idea wasn’t entirely without merit. “Maybe if I make it clear there’s money involved. A lot of it.”
“Yeah, because that won’t make you sound sketchy at all,” Niall said, rolling his eyes. “Why not just go to a public park and scream, ‘Anyone here hate politicians and need cash?’ See who raises their hand.”
Louis groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not helping.”
Niall smirked. “You’re right. I’m not. Because this is insane, and you know it.”
“Insane is all I’ve got,” Louis muttered, staring at his list of crossed-out ideas. His shoulders slumped, and he let out a long sigh taking small sips of his drink. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just marry Charlotte Whitaker and resign myself to a life of polite dinners and fake smiles and boring missionary sex.”
“Okay, hear me out,” Niall said, a glint of mischief sparking in his eyes. “What about a sugar baby app?”
Louis choked on his coffee, coughing violently as he stared at Niall in disbelief. “A what?” he spluttered.
Niall shrugged, entirely too casual as he leaned back in his chair. “You know, those apps where rich people pay other people to keep them company. They’re discreet, they’re professional, and honestly, some of the people on there are probably already pretending to like their clients. Sounds like your perfect candidate pool.”
“Why the fuck do you know about sugar baby apps?” Louis asked, his tone caught somewhere between horrified and incredulous.
“Desperate times, mate,” Niall said, completely unfazed. “I didn’t actually use it, but I might’ve downloaded one once, just to see what it was about. Research, you know.”
“Research?” Louis repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism.
“Yeah, research!” Niall said defensively. “Anyway, I deleted it. But now that I think about it, it might be exactly what you need. You’d get to stay discreet, pick someone who’s in it for the money and nothing else, and make the arrangement as weirdly specific as you want. It’s practically made for your situation.”
Louis pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache he could already feel forming. “That’s insane, even for me.”
“You said insane is all you’ve got,” Niall pointed out with a cheeky grin. “Why not embrace it?”
“Because it’s insane,” Louis emphasized. “I’m not signing up for some app to hire a sugar baby. That’s a level of desperation I’m not ready to admit to.”
“Not yet,” Niall teased, waggling his eyebrows. “But give it a few days. Once you’re knee-deep in Charlotte Whitaker’s vanilla sex life and political gala plans, you might start singing a different tune.”
Louis groaned, dropping his head back against the chair. “I hate you.”
“No, you hate your life,” Niall corrected, taking a sip of his tea. “I’m just here to keep it interesting.”
Louis let out a heavy sigh, his gaze drifting back to his open notebook. The list of scratched-out ideas stared back at him, taunting him with his lack of progress. As much as he hated to admit it, Niall’s ridiculous suggestion had planted a seed of curiosity in his mind. He wasn’t about to act on it—not yet, at least—but the thought lingered, stubborn and insistent.
—
It was late—well past midnight—and Louis was still awake, sprawled across his bed with his phone clutched in his hand. His room was dark except for the faint glow of his screen, and the silence was broken only by the occasional faint sound of city traffic outside his window.
He’d spent the evening cycling through his ideas. Community boards? Too risky. Bars? Too unpredictable. Asking someone from uni? Too close to his circle. Every option had led to the same dead end, and Louis was running out of time.
Which was why, against his better judgment, he found himself typing discreet sugar baby app into his search bar.
The results appeared instantly, and Louis stared at them for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the screen. This was ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous.
And yet… he couldn’t deny that it ticked all the boxes. Discretion, anonymity, clear boundaries—it was practically tailor-made for what he needed.
“God, I’m at rock bottom,” Louis muttered to himself as he clicked on the first result. The app’s homepage was sleek and professional, with bold letters promising “Confidential connections tailored to your needs.”
Louis snorted.
He hesitated for another moment, his mind warring with itself. But then he thought about his father, about the smug look on Gerald’s face as he handed over that list of omegas like he was doing Louis a favor. He thought about Charlotte Whitaker and her perfectly rehearsed smile, about polite small talk and fake affection.
With a deep breath, Louis hit the download button.
“Desperate times,” he muttered. “Desperate fucking times.”
Louis stared at his phone screen as the app finished downloading, his thumb hovering over it like it was a detonator. It felt surreal—absurd, even—but he was in too deep now. If this was going to work, he’d have to commit. He exhaled sharply, muttered a quiet, “Here goes nothing,” and tapped the icon.
The app launched with a soothing chime, as though welcoming him to a world of polished desperation. The interface was sleek, all neutral tones and clean lines, with an opening message that read, “Find connections that work for you—on your terms.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Louis muttered under his breath, scrolling past the terms and conditions he absolutely did not plan to read.
The first step was setting up his profile. A blank slate stared back at him, waiting for him to shape it into something somewhat appealing despite circumstances. There were prompts to fill out, sections for photos, and a progress bar at the top urging him to reach 100%.
“Name,” Louis read aloud, tapping into the first field. He hesitated, biting his lip as he debated what to put. There was no way he was using his real name.
He typed LT and hit save.
Next came the ‘About Me’ section. The app prompted him with suggestions like “Tell others about your interests, hobbies, and what you’re looking for in a connection.” Louis rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck. He stared at the blank text box, drumming his fingers on the table as he tried to decide how to present himself.
He began to type, the words flowing in short, snarky bursts:
Not here for love or soulmates—just need someone to play along and let me bond with them for a few months. Alpha with a healthy hatred for fake people, especially my father. Bonus points if you hate politicians too and like good compensation.
Louis moved on to the next section: ‘What You’re Looking For’. He tapped his fingers against his mattress, thinking. The app prompted him with polite suggestions like “Describe your ideal connection” and “What kind of partner are you seeking?” but he wasn’t about to sugarcoat this.
With a sigh, he started typing:
Short-term arrangement. No strings, no drama, but a real bond. Need someone who can convincingly pretend they’re smitten with me in public. You’ll be well-paid for your time. Thick skin, discretion of our arrangement, and a sense of humor required.
He reread it once, shrugged, and hit save. No point in overthinking it. This wasn’t about romance or making a good impression—it was a transaction, plain and simple.
Now came the part Louis had been dreading: photos. He opened his gallery and swiped through his options, groaning at how most of them made him look exactly like what he was trying to avoid—a rich, spoiled alpha who didn’t know how to act normal.
He paused on a candid photo Niall had taken of him at a park. He was laughing, wearing a hoodie, and holding a coffee. It didn’t scream pretentious heir, so it made the cut. Next, he picked a shot from a rooftop party, where he was leaning against a railing, half-drunk with his shirt loose and unbuttoned. It wasn’t perfect, but it had a reckless, casual confidence that felt on-brand for him. For his final pick, he chose a black-and-white house gig photo from undergrad, where he was mid-song with his guitar. Artsy and moody enough to balance out the others.
He uploaded the photos and stared at the preview of his profile. It was short, snarky, and straightforward, just like he’d planned.
“Alright,” he muttered, hitting Submit. “Let’s see what kind of chaos this brings.”
The app chimed again, a little too cheerful for Louis' current state of mind: “Your profile is live! Start exploring matches or let them come to you.”
Louis exhaled. He felt equal parts ridiculous and relieved. If this worked, he could finally get his father off his back—without resigning himself to a life of fake smiles and soulless political events.
The app’s algorithm seemed determined to shove every stereotype about omegas right in his face.
The first profile made him wince. A heavily filtered photo of an omega blowing a kiss at the camera was accompanied by the tagline: “Looking for an alpha who can spoil me like the queen I am.” Louis swiped left so fast he nearly dropped his phone.
Next up was an omega with a bio that read, “Rich men only. No limits, no questions.” Louis grimaced. While he respected their boldness, that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. Swipe left.
He kept going. Profile after profile blurred together—pouty lips, over-the-top captions, and bios that boiled down to one thing: rich alpha wanted, preferably with zero expectations and unlimited cash.
Some were even worse. There were ones blatantly advertising themselves for “arrangements” that left little to the imagination. Others tried too hard to appear quirky or ‘not like other omegas’.
One bio read, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best. Also, I love yachts.” Louis swiped left with a groan.
He was beginning to feel like this was a massive mistake. The app seemed like it catered exclusively to people looking for sexual relationships or flashy lifestyles. Louis didn’t care about either. He needed someone real—someone who could hold their own in front of his father’s snobbish circle while also being down-to-earth enough to keep things tolerable and was insane enough to bond temporarily.
But as the profiles scrolled on, his hope dwindled. It wasn’t that he had anything against these omegas; it just wasn’t the right fit for what he needed.
“God, this is hopeless,” Louis muttered, slumping back against his mattress, rubbing his temples.
He swiped through a few more out of sheer stubbornness, but it was all the same: photos that screamed ‘look at me’, bios full of flashy demands, and not a single person who seemed remotely like they’d be willing to play along with his scheme—at least not without making it unbearable in the process or blowing the plan.
Louis' thumb hovered over the screen as another profile loaded. He was ready for more of the same—overly polished photos, obnoxious bios, and demands for private jets and designer handbags. But when the picture loaded, he paused.
The profile was simple. No heavy filters, no gaudy poses. The first photo was of a young omega with messy curls, sitting cross-legged on a vintage couch and holding a mug. His expression was relaxed, maybe a little guarded, but his eyes had a spark of something that caught Louis' attention.
Curious, Louis scrolled down to read the bio.
Not here for my soulmate, just trying to survive college and pay rent by being your arm candy. If you’re a stupid, self-absorbed type to mansplain things, swipe left. If you can make me laugh, I might tolerate you. Bonus points if you like cats. x
Louis found himself lingering on Harry’s profile longer than he had with anyone else’s. There was something refreshingly unpolished about it—no carefully curated perfection, no desperate grabs for attention. Just… a guy named Harry.
He swiped to the next photo, which showed Harry standing behind a counter of what looked like a library. He held a stack of books and was giving the camera a faint, wry smile that seemed to say, ‘This is as much effort as you’re getting’. Louis couldn’t help but grin.
The next image was a close-up of an orange cat perched on a windowsill, one paw stretched out like it owned the world. The caption read: Margot is the real star.
The last picture was different from the others—a blurry candid of Harry caught mid-laugh. He was outside somewhere, his curls windblown, his nose scrunched up like he was trying to hold in a laugh and failing spectacularly. It was unguarded and genuine, the kind of moment you couldn’t fake if you tried.
He was cute, Louis admitted to himself, swiping back to the first photo. More than cute, actually. Harry had this kind of effortless charm that felt worlds away from the polished, calculated faces Louis had been scrolling past all evening.
He wouldn’t be awful to fake romance with, Louis thought, a small smile tugging at his lips. At least Harry looked like someone who’d have a sense of humor about the whole thing. And the cat? That was just a bonus.
Louis swiped down to the section of Harry’s profile where the app showcased answers to personality questions. It was a mixed bag—some profiles Louis had seen were full of generic fluff, like “I love long walks on the beach,” while others tried way too hard to be edgy. But Harry? Harry struck the perfect balance of wit and self-awareness, and Louis couldn’t help but be intrigued.
What’s your ideal partner?
Someone willing to help me out. Someone who doesn’t think being an alpha is a personality trait. Bonus points if they know how to laugh at themselves.
Louis let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, Harry. Touché.”
What’s your biggest pet peeve?
People who say, ‘I’m just being honest’ as an excuse to be rude. People who don’t like cats.
He scrolled back to the photo of Harry holding books, his curls slightly messy and his expression unreadable, and thought, You’d probably hate my dad, then.
What’s your favorite way to spend a day off?
Ignoring all my responsibilities, binge-watching terrible TV, and hanging out with my cat, Margot. She’s the only one allowed to judge me.
Louis chuckled, imagining Harry sprawled out on a couch, a smug-looking cat perched on the armrest. He liked that Harry didn’t bother pretending to be one of those hyper-productive types.
Feeling more hopeful than he had all night, Louis swiped right for the first time.
The app thought for a moment before displaying: Keep swiping!”
Louis sighed, locking his phone and tossing it onto the table. Of course, it wasn’t that easy.
Still, as he stood and stretched, his thoughts kept circling back to Harry—the sharp lines of his bio, the disheveled curls, the smug cat. He wasn’t holding his breath for a match, but for the first time since he’d downloaded the app, Louis felt like this whole ridiculous plan might not be entirely hopeless.
If nothing else, it was nice to know there were still people out there who didn’t take themselves too seriously. People like Harry.