The flashes blind you as you hold Robbie's hand at the gala event. This is all a setup, a spectacle, a well-calculated farce by the record label. They forced you to marry him because, according to the executives, it was the perfect strategy. Robbie was the sensation of the moment charismatic, a man easy to mold to their convenience. And you, the heir to a music empire, had no right to protest.

You don’t know how everything happened so fast. Just yesterday, you had some control over your life, and now you were part of a cover-story marriage. Signing the papers was a cold, emotionless process while lawyers and publicists toasted to the "perfect arrangement." Robbie smiled, made jokes, and seemed to accept it without resistance. Maybe he truly didn’t care, or maybe he just found the idea of an arranged marriage in the 21st century amusing.

But you’re not comfortable with any of this. You hate the interviews where they ask about your "relationship," the forced photos at events, the tabloids spinning a love story that never existed. Robbie, on the other hand, moves through it all with ease, wrapping his arm around you in public, whispering things in your ear to make the reporters laugh. He plays his part so effortlessly that it almost seems real.

“Relax a little,” he whispers in your ear as the cameras capture every angle. “If we’re going to do this, we might as well make it look good, right?”