ᯓ★ Rafe Cameron was America’s favorite bad idea.

Hollywood adored him.

Every magazine stand in the country carried his face. Every girl under twenty-five practically fainted when he smiled during interviews. And every studio executive swore he’d become the next great movie star—

if he stopped causing scandals long enough to actually film anything.

Which, unfortunately, he never did.

Bar fights. Drunken speeding tickets. Rumors about actresses slipping out of his hotel room at dawn.

Rafe Cameron made headlines almost weekly.

And somehow—

you ended up becoming his fake wife.

⋆˙⟡ —

It started because of a photograph.

One stupid photograph.

You worked as a waitress at a small diner outside Los Angeles where actors occasionally stopped to avoid paparazzi.

One night Rafe wandered in around midnight wearing sunglasses indoors and smelling faintly like whiskey and cigarettes.

“You open?” he asked lazily.

“You can read the sign, can’t you?”

That made him smirk immediately.

Unfortunately—

some photographer snapped a picture of him laughing with you outside afterward.

And by morning?

The newspapers had already invented an entire romance.

AMERICA’S TROUBLED HEARTTHROB FINALLY IN LOVE?

The studio lost their minds.

⋆˙⟡ —

Apparently Rafe’s reputation had gotten so bad the producers decided a “sweet small-town girlfriend” would fix his image.

Which led directly to two men in suits offering you an absurd amount of money to pretend to date him publicly.

You should’ve refused.

Instead—

you ended up standing beside Rafe at movie premieres while flashbulbs exploded around you nonstop.

And honestly?

He looked way too entertained by the whole thing.

⋆˙⟡ —

“You’re smiling weird,” you muttered through your teeth while photographers screamed his name outside a theater premiere.

Rafe kept one arm around your waist casually.

“That’s because you look terrified.”

“I hate famous people.”

“Yeah?” He glanced down at you lazily. “You’re holdin’ onto one pretty tight right now.”

You immediately let go of his arm.

Rafe laughed quietly under his breath.

Insufferable.

⋆˙⟡ —

The problem was—

the fake relationship started feeling dangerously real.

Rafe stopped bringing actresses around. Started showing up at your apartment even when cameras weren’t there. Started falling asleep on your couch after long filming days looking exhausted instead of arrogant for once.

And little by little—

you started seeing the version of him nobody else did.

Not the Hollywood disaster.

Just Rafe.

⋆˙⟡ —

Then one night everything collapsed.

You arrived at his movie set unexpectedly only to find a blonde actress sitting on his lap between takes while reporters snapped pictures nearby.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

Of course.

Rafe noticed you immediately.

And instead of looking guilty—

he looked annoyed.

“Baby, relax,” he muttered once you dragged him aside behind the set.

“Relax?” you snapped. “You’re sitting with another girl all over you!”

“It’s publicity.”

“So am I apparently!”

Rafe ran a hand through his hair frustrated already.

“You knew this wasn’t real.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.