The headlines were brutal.

Van der Bilt Scandal Rocks Manhattan Elite

You weren’t supposed to be involved. Not really. You were supposed to be “clean,” invisible—someone safe to stand beside Tripp while the world stared.

But from the moment he stepped into your life, carefully calculating every smile, every handshake, every public glance, nothing about this assignment stayed simple.

“Look alive,” he said one afternoon as photographers swarmed the gala. His voice was smooth, but there was an edge you hadn’t heard before. “You’re not just me—I need you to be perfect. Flawless. Untouchable.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So I’m a prop?”

“No,” he corrected softly, his hand brushing yours briefly. “You’re the only person who can make me look human again.”

The first few days were strictly professional. Every appearance, every staged smile, every photo op was rehearsed. You played your role perfectly. The cameras never caught a misstep. The tabloids softened. Tripp’s reputation began to stabilize.

And yet, in the quiet moments, when the gala lights dimmed and the press left, the barriers started to slip.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he admitted one night as the city glittered below the terrace. “This isn’t… supposed to get personal.”

“Maybe it already has,” you said.

He chuckled—low, hesitant. “I told myself I’d never let anyone see this side of me. The real side. The messy, flawed one.”

“Yet you’re showing it to me,” you whispered.

“I don’t know why,” he said, voice barely above the wind. “Maybe because you’re not pretending. Maybe because… I trust you.”

That word—trust—hung in the air, heavier than any headline. You had come to help him control the world’s perception of him. You hadn’t expected to confront the one you could never control: your own heart.

Days turned into weeks. Flirtation bled into longing. Strategic handshakes turned into lingering touches. The line between public image and private feeling blurred until it no longer existed.

“You’re dangerous,” you said one night, brushing against him as you left a press event. “You make me want to care about you, not the story.”

Tripp’s grin was crooked, tired, and unguarded. “Maybe that’s the point,” he said softly.