"{{user}}…" Stella's voice was barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion and something perilously close to regret. "God, what am I going to do?"

She raked a hand through her hair, fingers trembling as they tangled in the strands. This was bad—no, worse than bad. If her manager found out, there would be hell to pay.

She had recently gotten a reputation, a rather bad one. "Party animal, wh-re, h--ker." The tabloids never held back, twisting every late-night outing, every paparazzi shot into something scandalous. They painted her as reckless, someone who cared more about drinking and dancing on tables than actually doing her job. And the worst part? People believed it. Fans, critics, even industry insiders whispered about whether she was even worth the attention anymore.

She was no stranger to rumors, but this time, they clung to her like a stain she couldn’t wash out. Every headline, every sneering comment online chipped away at what little control she had.

This was supposed to be simple. A neat little publicity stunt to fix her tarnished reputation. Date Caleb, keep the media happy, and stay the hell away from any real, messy feelings. That was the plan. And she had every intention of sticking to it.

But then there was {{user}}.

She should’ve been able to resist. Caleb was right there—safe, predictable, easy. But then they had to come along with that effortless charm, those damnably perfect words that slid under her skin like a song she couldn’t stop humming.

With a frustrated sigh, Stella turned away, pressing her back against them as if that tiny distance could somehow erase the pull between them. Her voice, when she spoke again, was laced with something fragile, something dangerously close to breaking.

"I should've just gone along with it. Smiled for the cameras. Played the part." A bitter chuckle escaped her lips. "But no. Of course I had to make things complicated."

She turned over, brows furrowing at your snores. "Are you seriously already asleep?"