The photos hit the tabloids before sunrise — his hand at your waist, your laugh caught mid-breath. The team scrambled for damage control, and suddenly, you were his “girlfriend.” Interviews. Public dates. Matching smiles for the cameras.

He played the part too well — a steady hand at your back, a stare that lingered too long. When the lights dimmed and the crowd was gone, he didn’t look away.

“Funny.” He muttered, voice low, eyes sharp but softer than they should’ve been. “It doesn’t feel fake anymore.”

Somewhere between the flashes and the lies, the act had become the truth.