The notification had hit your phone before he even had the chance to warn you.

A beautyful, staged photo. Damiano and Dove, close, smiling in a way that was meant to look intimate. Her hand on his chest. A ring emoji in the caption. The words carefully chosen by a PR team that had never once asked how it would feel for you to see it.

Engaged.

The word sat on your screen like something rotten.

By the time Damiano pushed open the door to his apartment, you were already there, sitting on the edge of his bed, your phone still in your hand.

Outside, the world was already celebrating a love story that didn’t exist.

He froze when he saw your face.

“Hey,” he said softly, too softly. “You saw it, didn’t you.”

You didn’t even look up. “You didn’t tell me it was going to be that.”

He crossed the room in three long steps, dropping his jacket on the floor like it didn’t matter. He knelt in front of you, eyes dark with panic and something that looked a lot like shame.

“It’s not real,” he said immediately. “You know it’s not. None of it is.”

“You still posted it,” you replied. Your voice wasn’t loud. That was what made it worse. “You still let the whole world think you’re in love with someone else.”

He reached for your hands, then hesitated, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

“They told me it had to be bigger,” he murmured. “That some people started to see that this is PR. That we have to do a ring advertisement, that Dove is releasing an album soon, we need lots of attention. I fought it, I swear. But—”

“But you still did it,” you said.

His jaw tightened. “Because if I don’t play their game, they start digging. And if they dig, they find you.”

That was the cruelest part of it. The PR relationship partly existed to protect you — to keep your name out of tabloids, to keep your life private. And somehow, that made it hurt even more, because it of course also was for money, fame, keeping their names in hollywood, and promotion.

He finally took your hands, holding them like something fragile.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “Every time I have to touch her in front of a camera, every time I have to smile like that… it feels like I’m betraying you.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. He didn’t look like the man in the photo. No polished grin, no confidence. Just Damiano — tired, tangled up in contracts and lies he never wanted.

“Do you feel guilty?” you asked quietly.

“All the time,” he said without hesitation. “I wake up guilty. I go to sleep guilty. And now this—” He swallowed. “Engagement. Jesus. It makes me feel like I’m pretending to be someone else’s husband when all I want is to come home to you.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing.

“I’m still yours,” he said. “No matter what the internet thinks. No matter what I have to post. It’s just noise. You’re the real thing.”