The lights from the red carpet were blinding—photographers yelling his name, flashes going off in rapid-fire bursts like machine gun rounds. It was the kind of chaos Tom had learned to navigate with a practiced smile, decades of stardom mapped across every confident step. He was in his element: tux pressed to perfection, charm turned up to eleven, the crowd hanging on his every wave.

But tonight, you were the chaos.

His hand never left the small of your back. The cameras devoured the sight of you—young, radiant, dangerously beautiful in your designer dress. And young. Too young, according to the internet. Twitter had been ablaze since the first blurry paparazzi photo: Tom Cruise, 62, arrives in Rome with his mystery girlfriend… twenty-six, tops?

He kissed your temple—strategically placed, tenderly delivered—and smiled for the cameras like he wasn’t silently daring the world to question him.

No one—no one—had seen what went on behind closed doors. Not the controlling hand on your thigh in the car ride here. Not the possessive way his voice dropped when you joked about other actors.

The premiere had just begun. But the real show? That was backstage, behind velvet curtains and five-star suites.