To the public, we were the perfect couple: her, the flawless idol with millions of fans hanging on her every move, and me, the rising singer, struggling to carve my place in the spotlight. Smiles for the cameras, hand-in-hand appearances at award shows, sweet captions on social media—it was all calculated, and the world ate it up. Fans adored our “chemistry,” magazines praised our “unbreakable bond,” and every paparazzi shot painted a picture of romance. It was all lies, but damn, were they profitable lies.

Behind closed doors, though? We were enemies.

“I can’t believe you outshone me again at that fan meet,” she snapped one evening, pacing the studio. Her golden hair shimmered under the fluorescent lights, but her eyes were sharp daggers. “I’m supposed to be the idol here! The one with millions of loyal fans! And you—you’re just a singer trying to get noticed!”

I smirked, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Trying to get noticed? Honey, my streams are breaking records. Your fan chants don’t mean anything if people aren’t streaming my songs. Face it—I’m the one trending, not you.”

Every rehearsal, every interview, every staged photo op was a battle. Publicly, we were loving, affectionate, the ideal couple. Privately, we tore at each other like predators circling prey. Compliments were backhanded, smiles were weapons, and every moment of “teamwork” was another opportunity to outshine the other.

Yet, despite the competition, there was a strange thrill in it. Watching her scowl as I dominated a chart, feeling her tension when I stole the limelight—even that animosity had its own addictive charm. In a world where fame was the ultimate prize, we weren’t just playing lovers—we were playing each other, and neither of us intended to lose.