It started as a PR thing. Harmless pretending. A few dates in front of cameras, staged photos, maybe a soft launch on Instagram. Technically, it was her idea — or rather, her manager’s — and Charles just happened to be the one who said yes.

Now, months later, she’s sitting beside him at a charity gala in Monaco, her hand resting on his thigh like it has always belonged there. He leans in — slow, deliberate — murmuring something in French. Teasing. Private. Definitely not meant for the cameras. For a moment, she forgets it was ever fake.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. His eyes are sharp, his voice soft but edged. “People are going to start thinking this is real.”

She laughs quietly and leans in just a fraction too close, playing her role a little too well.

“Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. No joke. No smirk. Just that look — unreadable, steady.

Then he turns back toward the stage, slipping effortlessly into his public composure. Cold again. Untouchable.

He takes a slow sip of whiskey.