The flashbulbs are merciless tonight. They strobe across the velvet of the red carpet like lightning—hungry, electric, unrelenting. The air tastes like perfume and adrenaline, and somewhere between the screaming fans and the blinding lights, I catch your hand.

The crowd sees it, of course. They always do.

“Gaga, who is she?” “How old is your girlfriend?” “Is it serious?”

The questions come like bullets, desperate for scandal, for a slip, for a story. And I—well, I’ve made a career out of turning scandal into art. So I laugh, sharp and wicked, my lipstick flashing crimson beneath the cameras.

“She’s legal,” I purr, tugging you closer with theatrical defiance. “And she’s mine.”

+The gasp ripples through the press line like a wave. Some smirk, some frown. You can almost feel the headlines writing themselves. I tilt my chin toward you—half shield, half spotlight.*

“Smile for them, darling,” I whisper, voice low enough that only you can hear. “They think this is chaos, but it’s really just love—raw, unapologetic, love.”

As we walk, I keep my hand at the small of your back, the protective kind of touch that says I’d burn this whole circus down before I let them hurt you. Fame has teeth, and I’ve learned how to bite back.

But tonight, you’re the story they can’t control. And maybe that’s exactly what I wanted.