Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 121: Rescue Mission: Closet Edition

ISABELLA’S POV

The sound of our front door unlocking at exactly 9:04 a.m. could only mean one thing: chaos was here.

Sure enough, Aria breezed in a second later like she owned the place, arms full of iced coffee and judgment.

I was curled up on the couch in an old T-shirt and sweatpants that had officially graduated from ’lounge’ to ’pajama’ status, a blanket draped over me like armor against the outside world. Laptop open but I was mostly scrolling through my phone with the enthusiasm of a cat sunbathing—utterly content and completely useless.

The house was quiet—Dad had left early for the clinic, and Leo was off somewhere, probably buried in lectures—or skipping them entirely. Either way, he wasn’t here to witness the chaos that just walked in.

"You look comfortable," Aria said flatly, setting one of the coffees on the table in front of me like a bribe.

"I am," I replied, feeling like a professional couch potato pretending to be a remote-working guru. "Tried to tell myself I was working." I gestured vaguely at the laptop.

Aria snorted—a sound loaded with disbelief. Aria dumped her large, overflowing tote bag onto the armchair opposite me.

"Well, congratulations on failing spectacularly," she said, already digging through her bag without even sitting down. "Good thing you have a friend who arrived precisely at the moment you needed saving from yourself."

"Saving or kidnapping?" I mumbled into my tea cup, taking a blessed sip. The sharp, bitter taste cut through the morning haze like a lifeline.

She ignored the question, which was typical. "Okay, brace yourself. Disaster has struck."

My eyes narrowed over the rim of the cup. This was it. The official start of Chaos Hour. "What kind of disaster?"

Aria grinned wickedly, sliding an iced coffee toward me like it was a peace offering. "My mum’s decided tonight’s the night for another blind date. Apparently, he’s gorgeous, single, and extremely eligible, which we both know means he probably owns five properties and no personality.

I blinked. "Again?"

"Again," she said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "And you’re coming with me."

"What do you mean?"

"We’re going shopping."

"We?"

"Yes. We. You and me. I need you for fashion backup, emotional support, and brutal honesty."

"You already have all of those in one mirror," I muttered, taking a sip.

She gave me a look. "Isabella. This is serious. I cannot risk showing up looking like I’ve lost the will to live. My mother will never let me hear the end of it."

I raised an eyebrow. "You’ve survived four of these setups already."

"Five," she corrected. "If we count the one where the guy brought his mother and asked if I’d be okay raising six kids on a farm."

I snorted into my coffee. "I blocked that one from memory."

"Lucky you. I had to block his number and his mother’s."

I set the cup down. "So let me get this straight—you have no idea who the guy is, but we’re dropping everything to go dress shopping for a mystery date that may or may not involve livestock."

Aria grinned. "Exactly."

"And I’m going because...?"

"Because you love me," she said sweetly. "Because I need to look like the heartbreak of his life. And because we both know you need to be pulled out of this tragic cave of solitude you call a weekend."

I snorted into my cup. "Right. That’s your plan? To look so good he falls madly in love and then you vanish?"

"Exactly," She smiles cheerfully. "Avenge me with beauty. Now get up."

"You know you just want someone to hold your bags."

"And take photos," she added that last part with an extra-sweet smile.

I squinted suspiciously. "Therefore, you are asking me to skip a quiet, peaceful Saturday morning so I can watch you try on twelve designer dresses and reject them all anyway?"

"Twenty," she corrected. "And you’ll tell me I look hot in every single one. It’s called friendship.

"And emotional manipulation."

"Semantics."

I knew arguing was pointless. Aria had a way of steamrolling over objections with a potent combination of guilt, flattery, and sheer, unadulterated willpower. Besides, a tiny, traitorous part of me was actually looking forward to it.

"Fine. Fine! You win. But if this guy brings up hydroponics or his stamp collection, I’m leaving you there."

Aria shrugged, already halfway to the kitchen. "Excellent! Now, get dressed. Preferably in something other than... that." She gestured dismissively at my outfit.

"Hey! These are comfortable!" I protested weakly, pulling the blanket tighter around me like a shield.

"Comfortable is the enemy of progress," Aria declared, opening the fridge. "Unless you’re planning on seducing this poor eligible bachelor by explaining the optimal thread count of your sweatpants."

I rolled my eyes. "I’m not going on the date, you are. And I was hoping to continue my weekend of optimal comfort."

"And I was hoping my mother would find a hobby that doesn’t involve arranging my love life like a high-stakes chess game, but here we are," she said, rummaging through the fridge. "Orange juice? Or are we sticking to the liquid ambition?"

"Cranberry’s fine," I mumbled, taking another sip of the coffee she’d placed on the table.

Aria reappeared, leaning against the kitchen doorframe with the carton of juice in hand. "Look, Bella. It’s not just about the date. It’s about... tradition. It’s about the sacred ritual of me needing an outfit for a potentially disastrous social engagement, and you being the only person I trust to tell me if I look like a disco ball or a potato sack."

"My brutal honesty is a gift," I reminded her.

"Exactly. A gift I desperately need right now. Plus," she added, her tone softening slightly, "it’ll be fun. We’ll bitch about the guy later, buy some completely unnecessary things for ourselves, and maybe even grab lunch somewhere that doesn’t involve takeout boxes."

That last part almost swayed me. My couch-bound weekend had involved entirely too much Seamless.

"Fine," I said, pushing off the couch with a groan that felt far too loud in the quiet house. Aria’s face lit up like I’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket.

"Deal! Get ready. And please, for the love of all that is fashionable, put on something that suggests you’ve seen daylight in the past forty-eight hours."

I shuffled towards my bedroom, muttering, "You’re the worst."

"I know!" she called back brightly. "That’s why you love me!"

I ignored her and closed the door behind me. "I’ll be ready in twenty."

"Fifteen," she said. "We’re hitting at least four stores. Maybe five."

"So this is how I die."

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