Ava wakes to a headline that should not exist.

"THE INTERNET'S NEW FAVORITE FAKE LOVE STORY," a blog crows above the photo of her mid-smile beside Evan. The caption: "Marketing executive and mystery photographer spark rumors at LUMI launch."

She closes the tab. Opens it again. Denial needs proof.

Her inbox is a field after fireworks. "Press inquiry." "Interview request." "Brand collaboration?" Dana's name glows like a warning flare.

Subject: URGENT—Reputation Management.

Ava carries coffee she will not drink into Dana's office.

"You saw?" Dana smiles too wide. "We're trending."

"We're trending because of a false narrative."

"False or just early?" Dana clicks her pen. "Either way, we don't swat butterflies with hammers. No hard denial. We nudge."

"This isn't a campaign."

"Everything's a campaign," Dana says. "Especially accidents."

"What do you want from me?"

"Light coordination. If someone asks, lean warm. If it dies, we let it. If it grows, we aren't caught flat-footed."

"I barely know him."

"Then know him enough not to be surprised."

Back at her desk, Chloe pops up like a notification with legs. "Morning, tabloid princess."

"Do not," Ava says.

"Too late. Did you DM him?"

"It's drafted."

"Send it before it drafts you."

Ava breathes, opens the app, and hits send.

Hi, I'm Ava—the person you were accidentally photographed with. This is creating professional complications for me. Can we align on next steps?

Seen.

No reply.

She opens a doc: DAMAGE CONTROL—PERSONAL. Bullets march in order. Request takedowns. Draft a neutral comment. Prep answers: We appreciate the enthusiasm. Please respect personal boundaries. Focus on the product story.

Her phone vibrates. Unknown number. Voicemail. A reporter. Another email pings. Another tag. Someone has clipped her laugh over an audio that turns strangers into ships.

She walks the floor to prove gravity still works. People grin. Wave. Wink.

"Congrats," an engineer says.

"On what?"

"On being interesting."

"We ship software, not rumors," she says.

By ten, PR has a tracker. By ten-thirty, the tracker has tabs. By eleven, Dana wants "a gentle post." Ava types and deletes twelve versions of a sentence that says nothing kindly.

Chloe rests her chin on the divider. "What if you post your shoes and a coffee and write 'monday' in lowercase?"

"I refuse to be lowercase."

"Uppercase then. Just be human."

The phone lights.

@evan.b.photo: Sorry for the lag. On a shoot. Can talk in fifteen?

Call works, she types.

Fifteen stretches like sugar pulled thin.

He rings.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

"So we’re famous."

"We’re misidentified."

"Sure. But famous misidentified."

"I need to protect my job. Our COO replied with a wink emoji."

"That sounds violent."

"It was."

"What do you want to do?"

"Minimal. Neutral. Correct without gasoline."

"I can post a story. 'Met a very competent stranger. Internet got excited. Everyone breathe.'"

"Competent?"

"Highest praise in my house."

"No hearts. No winks. No inside jokes."

"Harsh. Okay. Straight lines only."

"I’ll ask the event account to adjust the caption."

"Cool. Permission to not delete the candid of you domesticating chaos?"

"Denied."

"Figured. I’ll keep it in my head then."

"Keep it nowhere."

"Copy."

They hang up with a plan no one will love and everyone can live with. He will post a brief clarifier. She will comment once from her personal account to let the air out without popping the balloon.

At noon, Evan’s story goes up over a video of a sidewalk. Text: "Fun night, good light, calm down internet. Not a soft launch, just a soft laugh."

Ava exhales. Not perfect, not gasoline.

She drafts her comment and shows Chloe.

"'Appreciate the enthusiasm—please keep the focus on the product'?"

"It’s me," Ava says. "It’s also salad."

"Dress it with humor. Pepper."

"And flossing," Ava adds, and posts before she can overthink.

Comments pivot. Some boo. Some coo. Some insist they can see chemistry through pixels and denial.

Dana appears in her doorway. "Nice touch. Human. Harmless."

"Boundaried," Ava says.

"Sure. We'll keep monitoring."

A calendar alert barks. Budget review in nine. Ava straightens mockups that do not need straightening and tells her pulse to wear business casual.

Halfway to the conference room, the phone buzzes.

"For what it’s worth," Evan texts, "I liked your line about control last night."

"What line?"

"'It’s about control.' I get that."

"What do you control? You chase light."

"Same thing. Light and stories. Pick an angle. Say no when you need to."

She pockets the phone, the message landing like a steady palm between her shoulders—support, not steer.

The review goes better than her stomach predicted. Numbers behave. The room nods. Someone compliments the sentiment spike from the 'organic moment.' She says "we're not leveraging it" three times and only means it twice.

When she exits, Dana waits with a grin that means complication. "Podcast invite," she says. "Big audience. They want 'the couple from the launch' for a light segment about internet narratives."

"We are not—"

"Exactly. You say you’re not, they joke, you plug the product. Harmless."

"Decline."

"Sleep on it."

"I’m awake now. Decline."

Back at her desk, a new headline ignores her refusal: "Soft Launch Denied? We Investigate." The slideshow is them-adjacent: two other people and an unrelated dog.

She rubs her temples. She texts: Thanks for posting. It helped.

A photo arrives: a coffee cup lit like a relic. Caption: "Control."

She should not smile. She does.

At four, the event account edits "power couple energy" out of the caption. They add: "Great turnout." The photo remains. So do the comments.

At six, she collects her bag and pretends the day is a closed file. On the sidewalk, late sun lays gold across the street like apology tape. A rideshare noses to the curb. She reaches for the handle and hears a shutter.

Evan stands ten feet away, camera at his chest, not raised, hands empty like a magician showing he has no trick yet.

"Relax," he says. "Not photographing. Just walking to the train."

"We’re not coordinating a sighting."

"I don’t do sightings. I do accidents."

"Please stop saying accidents. I run a launch calendar."

"Schedules then," he says, easy.

"What are you doing here?"

"Shot nearby. Thought you might want a truce coffee."

"No."

"Copy."

He steps back. The moment should fade. Instead, she hears herself add, "I have ten minutes."

He blinks like she read him a poem.

At the corner, a small café smells like cinnamon and resignation. They order. They stand because sitting would make it a statement.

"I’ll keep my distance online," he says. "You can lead."

"It isn't about leading. It’s about not letting a rumor eat my job."

"I get it. We keep it boring."

"Boring is safe."

"Sometimes boring hides interesting."

"Please stop trying to be quotable."

"No promises."

They drink coffee that is both too hot and exactly right. When they are done, he nods at the door.

"I’ll go first," he says. "So we don’t look staged."

"Right."

He leaves. She waits. She counts to sixty because she has always trusted numbers. Outside, the light has moved. The rumor has not.

On the way home, she writes herself a sticky note: Boundaries are verbs. She tucks it into her planner.

That night, she files the last takedown request, closes the last angry tab, and flips her phone face down. It buzzes once. She ignores it so hard the room feels proud of her.

The buzz stops.

A minute later, it starts again.

She flips the phone.

Dana: Morning sync. Opportunity brewing.

Ava stares at the screen and knows the word for the thing coming.

Not accident.

Escalation.