Flashes from cameras went off nonstop the second the car door opened, the sound of paparazzi shouting names echoing across the front of the theater. Actors, producers, and reporters crowded the entrance to the gala, all dressed like it was the most important night in Hollywood. Roman stepped out first, adjusting his suit like he was completely used to the attention, even if his eyes kept scanning the crowd like he didn’t trust any of it.

He held the door open for you, giving you a quick look before offering his arm, more for appearances than anything else. “Stay close,” he muttered under his breath, his smile returning the second another camera flashed. “These people will ask questions about anything, and I’m not in the mood to explain my personal life to half of Hollywood tonight.” A producer called his name from across the carpet, and Roman waved like he hadn’t just complained about being here.

As the two of you started walking toward the entrance together, another round of flashes went off, louder this time, and someone shouted his name again. Roman leaned a little closer to you, voice low enough that only you could hear it. “Congratulations,” he said dryly, still smiling for the cameras, “you’re officially my plus one at the most fake event in Los Angeles.”