Fake It Till We Make It, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Noor Sasha
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Illustration: @cozka_art
Contents
Playlist
Content Warnings
Dedication
1. Cheese Cappelletti
2. Troublemaker
3. Sky
4. F.C.K.
5. Mustafa's Calling!
6. Jia's BBQ House
7. Tae-hyung and Hye-jin
8. Sun Tower Hotel
9. Nyx
10. Abe's Deal
11. A Sexy Viking
12. Mannequin
13. Potato, Potahto
14. Rodney The Rooster
15. Principal Frederick
16. Family Trauma
17. The Origins of Arain
18. Mr. Chewy
19. Cookie
20. Grocery Shopping
21. Thank You, Chef
22. What Do You Love About Alyn?
23. Phoenix
24. Our First Date
25. The Show
26. Nyla Ghilzai
27. People Pleaser
28. Rhode Island
29. Independence Day
30. A Garden For Her
31. Caffè di Matilda
32. Pride and Prejudice
33. Caramel
34. Happy Birthday
35. Flirt With Yourself
36. Ketchup Packet
37. Talk
38. Nylana and Shahzad
39. See You In A Minute
40. EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Content Warnings
Dear reader,
Fake It Till We Make It contains mentions of eating disorders (binge-eating), body dysmorphia, mentions of severe harmful diets, slut-shaming, fat-shaming & body shaming, disordered food & weight thoughts discussed, mention of emesis, parental abuse & neglect, mild sexual scenes (closed-door), and anxiety & panic attacks. The portrayal of the main character's struggles with BED is drawn from my encounters with the disorder. It is essential to recognize that individuals cope with eating disorders in diverse ways, and the narrative may resonate differently for each reader. Please take caution if you find such content triggering, and prioritize your well-being while engaging with this material.
Reader discretion is advised.
To me.
You're almost there.
1
Cheese Cappelletti
Nyla
“Your fiancé left you at the altar almost a year ago, Nyla. This is getting out of hand. I expect you to return to New York as soon as you get my voicemail, no questions asked. I’ll set you up with the agency’s trainer—”
“Nope.”
Ending Baba’s voicemail, I pull myself out of the tub and strip out of my tracksuit, flicking on the bathroom light. The full-length mirror shows me my reflection: a protruding gut that could pass for a four-month pregnancy, thighs, and arms that have bulked up and jiggle a bit as I do a little jig, and my breasts have grown from C-cups to 38-DD. Even my baby fat has magically cursed my face again. I mean, shit. How is the latter even possible?
I want to skin myself. Yeah, that’s exactly how I’m feeling. Maybe a Great White Shark or a malnourished jungle cat would be interested in me.
“‘I expect you to return to New York, Nyla. I’ll set you up with the agency’s trainer, Nyla.’ Meh, meh, meh,” I mock Baba’s hundredth voicemail and pull back on my clothes.
Dragging my feet inside my bedroom, I drop face-first onto the mattress.
If I had only prioritized myself for once, I wouldn’t have ended up face-deep in a pig’s breakfast. Eight months of self-isolation, and I still can’t muster up the guts to get back on track.
Not that I was exuberantly in love with the Glenn Jackson. Maybe a teeny-tiny crush? Yeah. Very tiny.
My ex-fiancé is a groundbreaking Hollywood director who got his glamourous breakthrough from his godfather, James Cameron. He chose to cut the cost of hiring a male lead, co-starring with me in his debut directorial The Wilted, a movie about a deranged couple living in a trailer wagon, bartering Kafkaesque psychedelics that allow them to travel through the quantum realm. A publicity stunt was needed if we wanted to make box-office sales.
Modeling was a stepping stone into acting, anyway.
Alas, our agencies managed to pull the wool over the public’s eyes, going as far as tying the knot. Glenn would flaunt me like a shiny ring on his finger and smoothly transition me into the current trending genre in Hollywood: A24-esque movies. Plus, the only man Baba would ever want me to be seen with is an A-lister, so naturally, it was a golden feather in his cap.
However, my expertise lay—laid—on a narrow, polished catwalk. Amy Adams can’t close a Prada show, and I certainly can’t act as Giselle from Enchanted. We’re better off conforming ourselves to our respective roles. Unless your agencies want you to branch into national politics or feed people without homes. Ah, don’t forget the twenty cameras documenting every bite and swallow to prove you’re one with the common people.
I’d be damned to the depths of hell if I was forced to return.
Half an hour in, and my Uber Eats order is finally here.
They usually get it to me faster, but hey, I’m not gonna gripe when I’ve got a container of cheese cappelletti ready to be devoured.
I wrap myself in my robe and shield my eyes with my sunglasses.
Peeking at my doorbell cam, I spot my Uber Driver waiting on the porch, his beat-up leather belt in full view. Jesus Christ, he’s a skyscraper.
I tap the button, and with a high-pitched voice and a killer French accent I’ve honed with my accent coach, Clara, I chirp, “Drop it at the door, s’il vous plaît et merci!”
He locks his sharp eyes with the camera.
I stagger on my heels and accidentally hit the shoe closet behind me.
Oh my god.
“I know you’re watching me, Troublemaker.”
Oh. My. God.
My knees weaken from the reminder of that nickname. The reminders of one night that was so good I couldn’t sleep with any other man for a whole year. The bane of all my depraved fantasies, the leading actor in my wildest dreams, the douchebag who left me high and dry in a hotel room the very next day—he’s here.
Shahzad Arain is at my doorstep.
How did he find me?
Did Azeer tell him?
Did Alina tell him?
No, she wouldn’t dare. She was sworn to secrecy.
And there’s no way he used his extreme body-guarding skills to track me. Just a week after our one-night stand, he resigned and hid somewhere in the hinterlands of America.
But now he’s here.
On the other side of the door.
With my cheese cappelletti and his signature frustrated expression.
No way am I allowing him to see me like this. The Nyla he remembers strutted down runways in flashy clothes, not lounging around in tracksuits. That Nyla had sleek, brown, Garnier-advertisement locks. Not this riotous mane dyed the color of the pink bubblegum that I chew every night, hoping it’ll sculpt back my jaw.
He remembers worshiping a body that inspired women to sign up for annual gym memberships. A body that was admired universally, on billboards, jumbotrons, and in magazines. If there’s one thing, just one thing I really liked about myself, it was my physique. But at the same time, it’s the one thing I despised because it wasn’t truly mine.
“Nyla,” Shahzad’s deep, raspy voice snaps me out of my pity party. “You know I’m not one to sugarcoat my words or beat around the bush, so I’ll come clean about why I’m here. Press the button to talk to me.”
I tap the silver button with my trembling index finger and lick my parched lips. “It’s . . . nice to see you, Shahzad.”
He nods. “It’s nice to hear you’re alive, Nyla.”
I smile a little. “Barely.”
He lowers his eyes to the floor. “How long do you plan on living here?”
“Until I die,” I joke but fail to entertain him.
He shoots me a quick glance with those obsidian eyes, then looks away over his shoulder. I can’t see what’s back there, thanks to his big Captain America build. He’s always taken space in my vision, both in a literal and metaphorical sense. “I’ve got a bit of a tricky situation.”
“Oh, no. Do you need money?”
“What—?”
“Because if you do, I’ll tell you now, my father and I had a joint account, which I have no control over, by the way, and Alina’s been transferring me funds for food—”
“Nyla, I don’t need money,” he grits out, planting his palms on both sides of the ring camera. “How could you even come to such a conclusion?”
I let out a breath. “If Baba has sent you to drag me out of hiding, then know that your attempts are futile. I’m not going back to him or Hollywood.”
He’s staring at me, penetrating my thoughts
And I need a For Dummies textbook on “How Not To Lose Your Brain Cells When The Man You’ve Been Dumbly, Desperately, Despairingly Crushing On Confesses That He Needs You.”
“Well, I need you to live with me for a couple of months,” he clarifies, but I’m still not breathing in the least. “My best friend Mustafa’s little sister, Maira, is about to start her internship at some fancy marketing firm. I just picked her up from the airport. She’s in the car right now as we speak.”
My first thought is: Is she pretty?
But instead, I remain silent.
“Mustafa and I practically grew up together. He was worried about sending her from Toronto to New York to live by herself, but I offered temporary rooming. She’s like my little sister, too. Like Dua and Zineerah. You remember my sisters, right?”
“I do. How are they?”
“They’re great. Yeah, no, they’re doing pretty great. For the most part.” He gives a little nod. “Maira’s like them. She’s a good kid. Intelligent and hardworking. But the only issue is Mustafa refused to let her live on her own or with roommates. He doesn’t easily trust people. Not with Maira. He wouldn’t ever trust her with anyone except for me.” He licks his lips. “And that’s because he thinks I live with my girlfriend.”
My heart dips to my stomach. “I’m your girlfriend?”
“Technically, no, you’re not,” he murmurs, getting nearer to the camera. “I just need you to act like one and live with me until the end of July. The two siblings will sort out a separate apartment and trustworthy roommates for her afterward.”
It’s currently the first week of May, which means I’ll have to spend the entirety of this month, June and July, in close proximity, sharing meals at the same dining table, drinking from the same cups, and utilizing the same shower with Shahzad Arain.
Suddenly, I’m shuddering from the mixture of excitement and trepidation.
“Do you have a middle name, by the way?” he questions.
“I— Yeah, I do. It’s Inayat. Why?”
“For the sake of our façade, your name is Alyn Inayat.”
Alyn? My name . . . reversed?
“Wait, hold on. Can we please just boomerang back to what you said? You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”
“You’re an actress. I’m sure you’ll have no issue—”
“Shahzad, I haven’t been in the public’s eyes for eight freakin’ months. How did Mustafa possibly believe you? How did Maira believe you?”
“Because he doesn’t indulge in social media, let alone gossip, and Maira would rather every celebrity and their private jets in this world disappeared to save carbon emission consumption or some shit like that—I don’t know. She’s a political, environmental junkie.” He half-rolls his coffee-brown eyes, and the butterflies in my stomach dust off their wings and take flight.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. “Uh, okay, just— Give me a minute.” Wait, you’re actually thinking about this? The voice in my head tries to reason with me. You’re not just doing this because you’re attracted to the man?
Absolutely not. No, that’s just—it’s laughable. Shahzad may be a towering six-foot-three sculpture, resembling Hercules with his beefy bicep and pronounced veins, not to mention his intentionally tousled Prince Caspian-esque hair, but that doesn’t mean my attraction toward him would extend to fake-dating the man.
Yeah, right.
I’ve read tons of Alina’s novels, and every fake-dating scenario ends with the couple dropping the fake.
Yet, you want this.
Except that’s impossible because I’m a burnt-out celebrity, and he’s my father’s ex-bodyguard. Plus, we hooked up once, and living in close proximity would be disastrous to my imbalanced hormones.
Oh, shut up, Nyla!
“Just till July,” Shahzad says. “That’s all I ask.”
“Why would you want me to act as your girlfriend?”
He tears his fingers through his hair. “Because I know you in more ways than one.”
I shove the memories of our hook-up into the recesses of my mind.
“Look, just put on your best act, and in return, I’ll make sure nobody aside from Maira and I know you’re in New York. You know I can keep you safe, right?”
Well, yeah. He was my father’s former bodyguard at First Class Faces before unexpectedly quitting the job. Even Baba couldn’t shed light on the reasons behind Shahzad’s sudden departure. After he abandoned me at said hotel, I didn’t bother going over it with a fine-tooth comb.
Oh my god.
How can I possibly forget him abandoning his duty of protecting me after a long night of breaking the goddamn hotel bed? And let me assure you, I am not exaggerating about the bed-breaking. The following morning with the housekeeping lady was nothing short of pure humiliation.
And now he’s expecting me to help him out?
“Go home, Shahzad,” I snip out. “And leave my cheese cappelletti at the door.”
“Nyla—”
“I don’t want to see you again. Is that clear?” But you do. No, I don’t. But you really do. “J-Just tell Maira we broke up or something. I’m sure she’ll keep it a secret from her brother.”
“Mustafa video calls her every night, Nyla,” he pushes out the words through his gleaming, pearly whites.
“That’s not my problem,” I fire back.
Shahzad coughs out a scoff, his hands dropping and disappearing into the pockets of his sleek leather jacket. Damn, he looks ultra fine in that black leather. “Okay,” he concedes, opening his eyes and staring directly into the camera with a grim gaze. “I’ll find someone else and give her your name. Like you said, Maira will keep it a secret, and Mustafa won’t know.”
Anger swells within me, driving me to swing the door wide open. I stride out, forcefully shoving against his chest. He stumbles down the porch steps. “Give her my name? My name? Do you know who you’re talking to, Shahzad Arain?”
“Yes, my girlfriend, Alyn.” His gaze spears into me, his eyes widened, while he shakes his head slowly. “Please.”
“My name is Nyla,” I hiss for his ears, my voice dropping to a clandestine whisper. Just. For. Him. “Do you know who you’re making demands from? I’ve had my whole— My whole life has been stripped from me. My dignity, pride, privacy— But my name is the only thing I still have power over— Y-You douche nugget!”
The second I choke up, the harsh reality of my mistake hits me like a ton of bricks.
I’m outside.
In front of Shahzad.
Here I stand in my pink tracksuit adorned with Kit-Kat stains and shorts that barely qualify as such. My hair, greasy and unkempt, hastily clinging to the side of my face. It feels like ages since I last bothered to shave, leaving my legs looking downright Amazonian. And my feet are bare, toenails unclipped, and unpedicured.
Shahzad only stares at my face.
Nowhere else.
Only. My. Face.
If he wasn’t distraught, he’d be drinking my body like he did before shit hit the fan. Even in the midst of our hook-up, he couldn’t control his compliments about my beauty. My sculpted, small breasts cupped in his palms like pomegranates. So gorgeous. My taught stomach carved with soft abs that he marveled at. So fucking sexy. Gracefully toned legs that he effortlessly positioned on his shoulders. So perfect.
The Nyla he was attracted to wasn’t . . . whatever I am now.
And Maira.
Maira, poor thing, leans out of the passenger seat window, her eyes blank yet filled with curiosity. She offers a static wave, and I find myself inexplicably craving for her approval.
I stagger back.
Step.
By.
Step.
I scramble to grab my bag of cheese cappelletti from my welcome mat, holding it close as I retreat back into my house and forcefully slam the door behind me.
Leaning against the frame, I catch my breath.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
I retrieve my umbrella hanging in my shoe closet. Without a second thought, I stab the pointy finial into the doorbell’s screen until Shahzad’s retreating figure disbands into a mosaic of smashed, vibrant pixels.
2
