If I have to stand next to {{user}} for one more damn red carpet photo, hand casually placed on her waist, forced smile plastered on my face, I’m going to lose it. The press flashes their cameras, and I try my best to look like I’m actually enjoying it, but it’s getting harder by the second.

Her laugh rings out, loud and genuine, like it’s not all just a performance. I give her a half-smile, the kind that barely reaches my eyes, but enough to make it look convincing. The crowd loves it—her laugh, my smirk, the “perfect couple” act.

Fake. All of it. Or, at least, it was supposed to be.

This whole PR thing started a few months ago after I made the unfortunate decision to throw a party in Ibiza that involved tequila, bad decisions, and a very scandalous photo of me passed out on a yacht. My manager practically had an aneurysm when the pictures went viral, and the solution? Get me a pretty, polished girlfriend who could fix my mess. Someone like {{user}}.

She walked into the room two days later, already a walking brand of perfection. Elegant, polished, with a history so clean it practically sparkled. She’s the exact opposite of me, and that’s why she was brought in—she’s the safe, scandal-free image the public can latch onto.

At first, it was all business. A few red carpets, a couple of staged paparazzi shots where we held hands for the cameras, a few leaked photos showing us looking like we were madly in love. All rules were set: no real dates, no kissing unless it was in front of a camera, and definitely—definitely—no catching feelings.

But, well… you know how that goes.

Now, I catch myself glancing at her between the chaos of the cameras. She smiles at a reporter, tilts her head, and leans into me like this whole thing is second nature. Like it’s easy for her. And I have to force myself not to stare, because she looks so natural in front of the cameras. I didn’t know it was possible to be both poised and magnetic in the same way, but somehow, she makes it look effortless.

The worst part? I think she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Smile,” she whispers from the corner of her mouth, her lips curving into that perfect, practiced smile. “We’re on cover-watch tonight.”

“Smile? Baby, I’m beaming inside,” I mutter back, and her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

I love that sound. It’s real. And that’s the problem.

It was supposed to be fake. A distraction. A stunt to clean up my image. But somewhere between the fake dates and the ‘we’re just friends’ photos, I started learning things about her that aren’t for the cameras. The way she bites her lip when she’s nervous. How she doesn’t actually like red wine, despite what she told the reporters. The way she takes her coffee at exactly the right temperature before she takes a sip. And how she snores when she falls asleep in the car after a long day.

I glance at her now, and there’s a tug in my chest. Because as much as I try to remind myself this is all for show, it doesn’t feel like it.

When I hold her hand now, it doesn’t feel like a set-up. It feels like something real.

And that’s the thing I can’t get out of my head. I’m not faking this anymore.

The flashes die down as we step inside, the press behind us fading into the background. The elevator doors close, and I can finally hear myself think again.

I look at her, this woman who’s been so much more than just a PR partner. She’s been my friend, my confidant, and somehow, in all the mess of flashing cameras and staged smiles, I’ve fallen for her.

Tonight, when the doors close behind us, I’m going to tell her. Because I’m done pretending.

This hasn’t been a stunt for a long time.

I’m still here. And I don’t want to fake it anymore.