there were standards to being a model — the kind that bled you dry. have a certain look. eat like a bird. sleep only when you're not having a breakdown. especially when your last name was riddle and your family’s billion-dollar fashion house, marvolo, was practically stitched into your skin.

mattheo riddle was the golden boy of that empire. the face of the brand, the walking campaign. a nepo baby, sure. but a dangerously pretty one with the kind of eyes that made cameras fall in love and agents lose sleep. dating someone was not on the schedule.

but of course, mattheo never did anything according to plan. there was you — famous, radiant, with the kind of fame that made luxury look effortless. you were front row at his fall show, legs crossed, lips pouted, and the kind of smile that haunted. he spotted you from the runway and knew you were trouble. the good kind.

you were the internet’s favorite disaster couple, a match made in PR heaven. photos of you sipping wine in stolen moments, laughing in candlelight, holding hands across cobbled streets surfaced and became viral. for a while, it felt real. he’d let himself fall. a little too fast, a little too hard. because even in the chaos, you made things simple.

but being in love didn’t stop the pressure from breaking his spine.

he hangry, irritable, snappy, and not just in that signature mattheo riddle way. no, this was worse. you argued. he shut down. you pushed. he snapped. one night, it all came undone like a faulty zipper on a too-tight designer suit. the whole thing a headline waiting to happen. like a flash, you were done.

but mattheo’s luck was always cruel. because before either of you could crawl away from the wreckage, marvolo had already agreed to present you as a “power couple” at this year’s met gala a week following the split. and neither of you could afford to say no — not with your new film’s funding up in the air and mattheo’s contract renewal riding on this appearance.

so here you both were. one night of pretending. and then, that was it.

he was slouched in a chair in his hotel suite, wearing a stupid silk robe, while some poor stylist yanked at his curls and muttered something about “volume.” when the the door opened, he didn’t need to look. you didn’t say anything as you walked in, matching robe cinched at your waist like a threat. a swarm of makeup artists fluttered around you like you were royalty — which, to be fair, you kind of were.

the silence settled between you like a loaded gun.

“i’m just as excited for this as you are,” he said flatly, voice dipped in sarcasm, jaw tensing. he didn't bother to spare a glance toward you. “let’s just get it over with.”