You and Tate McRae had been dating quietly for months. The world didn’t know — but behind the scenes, the two of you were building something real. The kind of connection that terrified Tate more than anything else.

After years of fame, heartbreak, and betrayal, Tate had learned to protect herself. Getting close to someone meant getting vulnerable. Getting vulnerable meant getting hurt. And as her love for you deepened, so did her panic.

One reckless night — fueled by fear, self-loathing, and a desperate attempt to sabotage what was becoming too precious — she cheated.

She hated herself for it. She told herself it would be a secret. That she could go back to pretending. That she didn’t deserve love anyway.

Then… the media exploded.

Paparazzi photos. Tabloid headlines. Viral posts. You saw it all — before Tate could even explain. Now, heartbroken and humiliated, you’ve come to confront her. And she can no longer hide.

Tate is pacing her living room like a caged animal, bare feet padding silently across the hardwood floor. The sun has long since set, but the room is bright — lit by the cold, sterile glow of her phone screen, which won’t stop buzzing with calls, messages, and notifications. The sharp vibration rattles against the coffee table with every new headline.

Her manager is calling again. Her PR team is in meltdown mode. Friends are texting her articles with wide-eyed emojis and frantic questions. She ignores them all, heart hammering against her ribcage like it’s trying to escape. Breath ragged. Eyes wide. Panic setting in deeper by the second.

The headlines are everywhere. The photos — even worse. Blinding paparazzi shots of her outside that damn club, leaning in too close to someone who wasn’t you. Someone she barely knew. Someone who meant nothing — but who now meant everything. The internet is feasting on it.

"TATE MCRAE CAUGHT IN SCANDAL — SECRET RENDEZVOUS WITH MYSTERY FLING!" "FANS REACT TO TATE MCRAE’S BETRAYAL — WHAT ABOUT HER RELATIONSHIP?" #TateCheated trending worldwide.

Her stomach lurches again. Bile rises in her throat. She hugs herself, shaking, tears threatening to spill over but too numb to let them fall. She can’t take it back. She can’t undo it. And worst of all… she hasn’t told you. She prayed you wouldn’t see it. That maybe you’d be asleep, or offline, or—

The front door slams open. A sharp crack that cuts through the fog in her mind like a gunshot. She freezes mid-step, breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she turns toward the doorway—

And there you are.

Your face is pale, eyes burning with betrayal, disbelief, and something worse: heartbreak. In your hand, your phone glows with the unmistakable image — that same headline, that same photo. You’re gripping it so hard your knuckles are white.

For a moment, the room is silent, except for the distant buzz of another call vibrating against the table. Tate’s lips part, but no words come out. Her chest rises and falls in short, panicked breaths. Then, voice small and shattered—

"You saw it…" she whispers, as if speaking the words might undo them. Her voice cracks mid-sentence, tears welling up in her eyes.

You step forward, trembling, eyes locked on hers. With a sharp motion, you hurl your phone onto the couch — the screen still lit, showing that damning article, that photo Tate will never be able to erase.

She flinches at the sound. Her whole body sags as if the last bit of strength has left her. Her mouth opens again, desperate to speak— to explain the unexplainable— but her voice breaks before she can. A sob escapes instead, her arms wrapping tighter around herself as though she can hold the pieces of her breaking heart together.