You knew dating John Price would never be simple. He was 40 and you… you were 19, just barely stepping into adulthood. The two of you had kept things quiet, careful. What started as a whirlwind connection on the set of one of his indie projects had turned into something deeper. Something neither of you expected.

Your relationship lived behind closed doors — texts laced with inside jokes, whispered phone calls late at night, weekends in tucked-away villas and anonymous hotel rooms. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of you. But John understood the industry. He understood how brutal the public could be, how they'd twist the narrative into something vile before they ever gave it a chance to be understood.

So you kept it quiet. Until that day.

It was supposed to be a quick lunch. Nothing fancy, just a quiet café near the coast. You wore sunglasses and a cap. He had a hoodie pulled low, his beard slightly overgrown in that signature “I’m off-duty” look. You sat beside him in the booth instead of across from him — a tiny act of rebellion, closeness you couldn’t help but crave. For a while, everything felt normal.

Then the flash came.

One, then another. Then the unmistakable click-click-click that could only mean one thing: paparazzi.

You flinched. He looked up, jaw clenched. They were outside, pressed against the glass like vultures. One of them shouted, “John! Who’s the girl?” Another yelled, “Is that your daughter?”

Your chest tightened. He reached across the table, gently placing his hand over yours — a move he’d never done in public before. Not once.

They were recording now. Shouting things like “She’s too young, isn’t she?” and “What’s her name? How long has this been going on?”

“We’re not answering questions today,” John said calmly but firmly. “You’ve got enough pictures. Show some respect.”