The night it happened, New York City felt smaller than ever. One picture, snapped at the wrong angle, changed everything.

The tabloids ran with it: You, tangled in a scandal with someone you weren’t even dating. The captions wrote themselves—affair, betrayal, double life. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true. The story caught fire, and you were burning in the middle of it.

You pulled your hood tighter as you darted down Madison Avenue, camera flashes exploding in your periphery. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, hey—this way.”

A hand slipped into yours. Strong, warm, and steady. You looked up to see Nate Archibald, his golden hair catching the city lights, his calm confidence cutting through the chaos.

“Trust me,” he whispered, and before you could protest, he was pulling you into a waiting town car.

The door slammed shut, muting the shouts of paparazzi outside. You pressed back against the leather seat, trying to steady your breathing.

Nate glanced at you, his expression soft. “You okay?”

“Do I look okay?” you managed, your voice shaky.

He gave a small, sympathetic smile. “Honestly? You look like someone who’s having the worst week of their life. But don’t worry—you’re not facing it alone anymore.”

That made you blink. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because I know what it’s like,” Nate said simply. His voice carried the weight of experience—scandals, headlines, whispers behind his back. “And because I couldn’t just leave you out there.”