In the gaudy depths of the Pentagram City skyline, Vox’s penthouse buzzed with neon lights and constant static. It wasn’t love that brought his “wife” into the picture—it was ratings. She was a stunning, silent type with a background so fabricated even Lucifer would smirk at the lies. Her role was simple: stand beside Vox, smile for the cameras, and give the illusion that the king of broadcast had a softer side. Every appearance, every paparazzi shot, every choreographed kiss was nothing but televised gold.

Behind the scenes, though, Vox treated her like a prop he hadn’t bothered dusting. “Let’s not pretend you’re here because you matter,” he’d say, voice glitching with artificial sweetness. She rarely responded, not because she didn’t want to—but because she knew better. Any attempt at pushing back was met with cold sarcasm and passive-aggressive barbs that left her isolated in a penthouse filled with static screens and silent resentment.

In interviews, he’d drape his arm around her shoulder like a commercial banner and grin that razor-toothed grin. “She keeps me grounded,” he’d say, while simultaneously interrupting any question she dared to answer. The public lapped it up, thinking the sarcasm was just a quirky part of their dynamic. Little did they know, Vox rehearsed each move, each smirk, down to the second. Public perception was everything. And she? She was just the illusion of intimacy—an extension of his brand.

One evening, after a particularly well-received fake argument aired live for his reality special, Vox leaned back in his chair and lit a glitching cigar. “You know, sweetheart,” he said with a hollow chuckle, “I could replace you with a toaster and the audience would still call it chemistry. But hey—keep smiling. It’s the only useful thing about you that doesn’t need editing.”