Three months.

Ninety-one days of fake smiles, staged dates, carefully timed paparazzi photos, and pretending that the woman walking beside me was someone I couldn't keep my hands off. The internet loved us. McLaren's sponsors loved us. My management loved us.

The only people who didn't were the two actually living through it.

I'd agreed to the arrangement because it was good for my image. She'd agreed because, judging by the contract, she hadn't really had another choice. Whoever had written it had made sure backing out would cost more than most people could ever afford. One year. That was the deal.

Nine months left.

Not that I was counting.

The paddock was as busy as ever, cameras following every familiar face. The second we stepped outside, our roles slipped into place automatically. My fingers intertwined with hers, and she didn't pull away. She never did. We knew exactly where the photographers usually stood, exactly when to smile, exactly how close we were supposed to be. We'd practiced it enough that it looked effortless on camera.

Off camera, it was painfully obvious how much we couldn't stand each other.

She kept her eyes fixed ahead, her expression as cold as it had been since the day we'd signed the contract. No smile. No excitement. Just quiet resignation.

I'd spent three months pretending it didn't bother me.

Today, for some reason, it did.

A few fans called my name as we walked past. I smiled automatically, lifting my free hand in greeting. She did the same, but the second we were out of sight, the expression disappeared from her face as if someone had flipped a switch.

I let out a quiet sigh.

"You look like the least happy person in the world. You should show how happy you are by my side, not walk around with a martyr's expression. Is it really that bad for you in the world of Formula 1?" I looked at her, waiting for her response.

I already knew she hated this.

She hated the cameras.

She hated pretending.

And, if I was being honest with myself, she probably hated me too.

It shouldn't have bothered me. This wasn't supposed to be personal. We were playing our parts, collecting our paychecks, and eventually we'd go our separate ways.

So why was I suddenly hoping she'd tell me it wasn't me she hated?

Why did I care?

Maybe because after three months of watching her fake every smile for the cameras, I couldn't remember what her real one looked like.

Or maybe because, somewhere along the way, this arrangement had stopped feeling like just another PR stunt to me.