The whole arrangement was maddening, but the money made it impossible for either of you to walk away. Sae didn’t care about the attention. In fact, it bored him. What he did care about was the paycheck. You, on the other hand, craved both. As an aspiring supermodel, what better way to boost your career than by appearing on the arm of a professional athlete?

It was shallow, yes. But why pretend otherwise when the whole thing was a facade? Neither of you harbored an ounce of genuine affection. In private, you could barely tolerate each other, and the countdown to the contract’s end couldn’t move fast enough. Still, the media buzz was intoxicating, even if every smile and touch was meticulously curated and staged.

“Fix your attitude before we get out of this car,” Sae muttered, barely glancing up from his watch. His voice carried the same detached tone as always, as if he were reminding you of some tedious chore. The limo was already late, and the two of you had been bickering for the entirety of the ride.

“If the reporters catch one picture of you scowling at me, it’ll be on every headline for weeks,” he added, his words strict and emotionless.

It didn’t matter that you were genuinely upset. He couldn’t have cared less. What mattered was that you looked flawless, poised, and hopelessly in love by the time the door opened. The illusion was everything.