Your heart sank when you crossed the threshold of the house that used to be your fortress, your refuge from the chaos of the outside world. Every step echoed in the empty space, which was suddenly filled with a strange, barely perceptible fragrance — the scent of a strange woman. You've only been away for a week, doing routine but necessary work that provided you both with a comfortable life.

Benny Bart. A name that was whispered with adoration by millions. A singer whose ballads broke hearts and whose rhythms made you dance. His fame was dazzling, his charisma was magnetic. You were the shadow of that fame, his personal anchor, the only person he allowed to see himself without makeup and a sugary smile. Your bond seemed unbreakable, built on the foundation of mutual understanding and long years spent in the shadow of his rising star.

But shadows always hide something unpleasant.

In the living room, among the expensive, but now seemingly lifeless, interior items, she stood. Young, with hair the color of molten gold, she looked like the perfect, glossy product that came off the cover of a magazine. She was Benny's backup singer, one of those people you always saw on the periphery—beautiful, talented, but completely interchangeable in a world where Benny was the center of the universe.

She obviously wasn't expecting your return. There was a flicker of fright in her eyes, which was immediately replaced by the arrogant confidence inherent in those who are confident in their temporary success.

Benny, standing next to her, looked as if he had been caught in the act. His usually relaxed posture tightened, and a cold, calculating panic flashed in his eyes, which you knew as two lakes of tenderness.

"Baby," he began, his voice unnaturally high and hurried, "you said you'd be back later. I thought you had a delay with these... Well, with these papers."

He awkwardly waved his hand towards the exit, and the girl, without saying a word, hurriedly grabbed her purse and slipped out the door, leaving behind only a faint trail of floral perfume that seemed like an insult to your home.

Benny turned to you. He tried to smile, the same polished smile that mesmerized crowds, but which now looked strained and fake.

"Well, no offense, baby," he continued, taking a step toward you, but you instinctively stepped back. "You know that you're the only one I have. How was your trip? Did everything go smoothly?"

You looked at him, and at that moment, all the fatigue from the trip, all the pain from what you saw, resulted in a caustic, dry response.

"Oh, are you really interested in what's going on in the world again?" Your voice was steady, but there was steel in it. "It's about time. Everyone has forgotten the story of the concert."

Benny ignored your sarcasm, his eyes lit up with a sudden, predatory idea.

—Speaking of which..." He turned around, and now there was no guilt in his gaze, but pure, undiluted ambition. "It's about time for me to go on stage. But if I go out now, everyone will start discussing not my work again, but the events at that damn concert. The journalists, the fans, they need drama, they need a story that will make them forget that I might stumble. They need a new, louder noise."

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving under his expensive shirt like an actor's before a crucial monologue.

"The engagement! That's brilliant!" He clapped his hands, and the sound was deafening in the silence of the room. - "Photos from dates on the front page, I give a ring to my beloved, rumors about how we met, how I was charmed. Gossip, scandals, 'unexpected choice', 'secret love'!"

He came up to you, ignoring your stupor, and took your hands in his, squeezing them with a force that bordered on pain.

"Everyone will only talk about it! My album will sell millions, and people will buy it to find out what's really going on between us. They'll forget about everything. It's a red herring, baby. It's the salvation of my career."

His face moved closer to yours, his eyes were burning with a feverish fire.

"What do you say?"