The conference room at the Beverly Hills agency was all glass, gloss, and tension. {{user}} Swift, the 22-year-old chart-topping popstar with platinum records and a problematically nosy tabloid presence, sat with her arms folded, eyes hidden behind massive sunglasses. Across from her sat her manager, Cassandra, flanked by two reps from her label.

On the screen at the end of the table was a live feed from Monaco. Charles Leclerc, Formula One golden boy, looked equally uncomfortable, his team huddled around him like bodyguards. His Ferrari cap was tugged low, and he kept glancing off-camera like he wanted to be anywhere else.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Okay, here’s the pitch: {{user}} needs a distraction from the rumors after the Vegas meltdown, and Charles could use some image softening after the team orders controversy. A summer romance. Paparazzi, beach photos, a couple of red carpets. Nothing too serious.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “So we’re pretending to date for... optics?”

“Exactly,” said his PR lead. “It’ll be beneficial for both of you. You’ll attend Monaco Gala together next week, then {{user}} joins you at Silverstone. We’ll orchestrate a ‘caught’ kiss in the paddock.”