It started with a photograph.

One blurry, stolen shot—Nate Archibald’s hand resting on your waist, your faces too close under the golden glow of The Empire Hotel’s rooftop lights.

By morning, it was everywhere.

“Archibald’s New Mystery Flame?” “Sources say the pair met under… complicated circumstances.” “Who is Y/N, and why is she hiding?”

You wished the ground would swallow you whole. You weren’t supposed to be seen. Not with him, not like that. Especially when his family’s campaign—and your own career—depended on clean reputations and untouchable optics.

Nate showed up at your door before sunrise, baseball cap low, voice gentle but urgent. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think someone would—”

You shook your head. “It’s not your fault. It’s just… they’re going to twist it. They always do.”

He sighed, leaning against the wall. “Yeah, well, maybe this time we don’t let them.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe we stop hiding.”