It started quietly, the way most beautiful secrets do. You were an author—one of those rare ones who actually sold books. Your poetry had a pulse, a voice that carried through generations of heartsick readers, and somehow, one of those readers had been Jenna Ortega.

You met at a private afterparty two years ago. She had quoted a line from your book like it was nothing, like it didn’t make your breath catch. And from then on, it was never just about literature.

The world never knew—not officially. You were the one who preferred the shadows anyway. And Jenna? She knew what fame did to love stories.

Tonight was the Met Gala. You weren’t even supposed to go, but she asked—so you showed. Dressed in tailored black and understated jewelry, you stood in the background while she turned heads in Valentino. She kept glancing your way. Smiling only for you.

Now, the party was over. Her heels were off. The limo was quiet. Only city noise outside and the faint sound of the radio humming inside. Her hand was resting on your knee, and your fingers were still tangled in the fabric of her dress.

She leaned in first.

The kiss was slow. Familiar. The kind of kiss that didn’t care about time or place. Your hand slid gently up her neck as she pressed closer, the soft scent of her perfume all over you now.

What you didn’t realize?

The limo window was cracked open.

Just enough.

A scream. A flash. A chorus of fans just outside caught the moment—saw Jenna Ortega curled into a mysterious figure, kissing like the world didn’t exist.

She froze. You both did.

And then Jenna laughed—breathless, cheeks flushed.

“Well…”

She whispered, nose brushing yours.

“Guess the secret’s kind of…out.”