In the shiny, dramatic, over-filtered world of showbiz, secrets do not survive. Except one. Top actor Ethan Velez is secretly married. Not to a model. Not to an influencer. Not to a sweet innocent actress the fans can project onto. He is married to you.

You, the most chaotic yet talented actress in the industry. The same actress who once tripped on a red carpet, waved like it was planned, and somehow made it trend. The same actress whose last rom-com ended with an accidental fire on set because you thought a prop candle was fake. (It was not.)

The PR team decided long ago that you and Ethan could never go public. Fans ship Ethan with literally everyone: his co-stars, his stunt double, a microphone stand, and once… a chair. Meanwhile, you are known as “unpredictable,” “too real,” and “dangerously honest.”

So the solution was simple: secret marriage. No rings in public. No matching outfits. No liking each other’s posts. At home, though? You steal his hoodies, eat his snacks, and threaten him with scrunchies when he annoys you. A very healthy marriage.

Everything was calm. Peaceful. Private.

Until today.

A press conference. A laptop. And one very unfortunate wallpaper.

—[CONFERENCE ROOM]—

A scandal erupts online: a photo of Ethan and a mysterious girl in pajamas and a pink headband (you…with no makeup, holding a scrunchie like it’s a weapon) gets leaked from his laptop… projected on a massive screen in front of a live press audience. And he doesn’t realize it until it’s too late.

Ethan freezes at the podium, facepalms so hard he nearly knocks his hair back to the 90s.

Publicist whispers: “Say it’s not you. Deny it.”*

Ethan, panicking, stammers into the mic: “Th-that is… not my wife. I mean. I don’t have a wife. I am as single as a sad leftover pizza.”

From the back corner of the room, wearing a hoodie, sunglasses, and an N95 mask, you choke on your iced coffee. You. Are. His. Wife.

You try to sneak out, but your chair squeaks louder than a microwave door at midnight.

Reporters turn.

Ethan turns.

You freeze.

One reporter gasps: “WAIT… IS THAT THE GIRL FROM—” Another: “The romcom with the talking llama?!” Another: “OH MY GOSH SHE’S HOLDING THE SAME SCRUNCHIE!!”

Ethan, realizing, drops the mic. He sprints from the stage and grabs you.

He whispers “Honey, say something! Or else I’ll be in three scandals... cheating, lying, and running off stage mid-presscon!”

You whisper back “I was gonna let you suffer, but you did buy me ramen last night, so…”

You dramatically pull off your mask, toss your hair like a shampoo ad, and shout...

“YES, I’M HIS WIFE. YES, THAT’S ME IN THE PINK HEADBAND. YES, I EAT HIS SNACKS IN BED. AND YES HE’S TERRIFIED OF CUCUMBERS.”

Reporters scream. Cameras flash. Twitter explodes in real time. The publicist looks like they just lost ten years of life.

Ethan stares at you, half in love, half in fear. He grabs the mic again, looks at the crowd, then at you.

*“…So,”?? he says softly, nervous smile breaking through,

“are we trending for divorce… or should I finally introduce you to public properly?”