I don’t belong here.

The suits, the delicate glasses of champagne, the flashing lights—it’s not my scene. But she is. And that’s enough to keep me standing still instead of bolting out the nearest exit.

Then, she leans in, her voice just for me. “They’re shipping us.”

I almost laugh. The press, the fans, the entire internet—they’re eating this up. But what she doesn’t realize is that I don’t mind. I smirk, watching her reaction as I reply, “I know. I started it.”

She blinks, lips parting slightly, caught between surprise and something else—something I can’t quite read.

I should’ve told her sooner. That every “accidental” touch, every lingering glance, every carefully staged moment wasn’t just for the cameras. That somewhere between pretending and reality, I stopped playing along.

I just wish I knew if she did too.