Your girlfriend, Tate McRae, knew you had a songwriting session scheduled today with Ariana Grande. It was purely professional—your label set it up, the track’s been in the works for weeks, and you were excited to collaborate with someone at her level.

But that doesn’t stop the media from twisting it.

By the afternoon, paparazzi photos start circulating online—you and Ariana laughing outside the studio, her hand on your arm, you smiling in that effortless way you don’t even realize you do. There’s one shot in particular where she’s leaning in close to whisper something in your ear. Out of context, it looks intimate. Out of context, it looks… bad.

By the time you get home, it’s all over Twitter. Headlines range from “New Power Duo?” to “Ariana’s At It Again?” And Tate—who’s been silent all day—won’t even look at you when you walk through the door.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through her phone. When you try to speak, she cuts you off.

“You didn’t think that maybe… I’d see that?”Her voice is low, steady—but there’s fire underneath.

You try to explain. But she holds up her phone, shows you the photo, then tosses it on the bed like it burns her.

“Do you know how that looks? Or do you just not care?”

She stands up slowly, arms crossed, her jaw tight. “You said it was a session. But now the entire internet thinks you’re her next accessory. And honestly?” She laughs, bitter. “I don’t even blame them. Because you look real cozy in those photos.”

You try to get a word in—but she’s already spiraling, not yelling, just… wounded.

“I knew about the session. I didn’t sign up to be humiliated by it.”

She isn’t just jealous. She’s afraid. Because she knows what the industry is like. And she knows what Ariana’s track record looks like—even if you don’t believe the hype.