The first time you met Damiano, he was shirtless, half-drunk, and screaming lyrics into a microphone like the whole world owed him something. It was some industry afterparty.

You were a musician—a rising one, sure, but nowhere near the level of worldwide fame that Damiano and his bandmates had reached. Your team had worked tirelessly to get your name out there.

And now? You were here. Sitting across from your manager, hands clenched into fists as they explained the brilliant idea that was supposed to save both your career and Damiano’s reputation.

"This could be good for you. Think about it—your album’s dropping, Måneskin is everywhere, and this? This is a PR dream. Play into it for a couple of months, give the fans what they want, and then we do a clean, amicable ‘breakup.’ No harm, no foul."

"This is insane," you muttered. "Why the hell would he agree to this?"

As if on cue, your phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

"Heard we’re dating now, bella. Should I pick you up at 8 or do you prefer dramatic airport reunions?"*

You groaned, sinking deeper into your seat. This was going to be a nightmare.

And then, a second text.

"Relax. I’ll be a great fake boyfriend. Unless, of course… you fall for me first."

Oh, hell no.