By morning, “opportunity” has a calendar invite.

Dana forwards it at 7:43 a.m.: “LUMI PR Alignment – 9:30 – Café Vero.”

Underneath: “Evan Brooks confirmed.”

Ava reads it three times, the way one checks an invoice for typos.  

So this is the opportunity—containment with caffeine.

She arrives at the café early, because early means control.

Café Vero smells like ambition disguised as roasted beans. Every table hums with laptops and soft panic. She picks the corner seat with the least glare and the best Wi-Fi, orders a black coffee she won’t finish, and opens her laptop to look busy. If this meeting goes as she predicts, she’ll need armor made of spreadsheets.

At 9:27, the bell chimes.

Evan walks in wearing a denim jacket and the kind of ease that cannot be faked. The barista greets him by name. Of course.

He spots her immediately, that familiar grin landing like punctuation.  

“So the internet’s favorite couple finally meets in person,” he says.

“This is not a date,” Ava replies.

“Good,” he says, sliding into the chair opposite hers. “I didn’t bring flowers.”

He orders a cappuccino—no sugar—and folds his hands on the table, perfectly unbothered. The table between them feels like a demilitarized zone.

“I assume you’ve seen the coverage,” she begins, professional crispness slicing the air.

“Hard to miss,” he says. “My sister sent it to our mom.”

“She did what?”

“She thought it was hilarious.”

Ava presses her fingers to her temple. “This isn’t funny. My boss thinks I’m in a relationship that’s improving our brand sentiment.”

“And that’s bad because…?”

“Because it’s chaos,” she snaps. “We have investors. Clients. I can’t be a meme.”

He leans back, eyes studying her like exposure settings. “You want it fixed.”

“Corrected.”

“Right. Corrected.”

He stirs his cappuccino even though it doesn’t need stirring. “Thing about the internet—you fight it, it sticks harder.”

“That’s defeatist.”

“That’s physics,” he says, smiling.

Ava exhales, controlled frustration slipping through her composure. “Then what do you suggest, Mr. Physics?”

“Play along. Quietly. Temporarily.”

She blinks. “You’re suggesting we fake-date?”

“I’m suggesting we manage expectations. Three months, until it cools off. You get your professionalism back. I stop waking up tagged in fan edits. Everybody wins.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Absolutely,” he says. “But absurd works.”

She narrows her eyes. “Three months. Professional boundaries. No real dates.”

“No feelings,” he grins.

“That goes without saying.”

He extends his hand. “Deal?”

Her hesitation lasts exactly two heartbeats. Then she shakes. His palm is warm and annoyingly steady. “Deal,” she says.

“Rule one,” he says. “No feelings.”

“Rule two,” she counters. “No public affection unless absolutely necessary.”

“Rule three,” he adds. “We coordinate before any post or event.”

“Rule four,” she says. “No surprises.”

“Rule five,” he finishes. “We try to look like we like each other.”

“That one’s going to be difficult.”

He shrugs. “I photograph sincerity for a living. I can fake it.”

The barista drops off his drink, winks. “You two are cute.”

Ava forces a polite corporate smile. “We’re a case study.”

Evan raises his cup. “To public relations.”

Ava taps hers against it. “To damage control.”

They drink. He studies her over the rim of his cup. “You really came with an agenda, didn’t you?”

“It’s how adults survive chaos.”

“Or how they avoid fun.”

“You think this is fun?”

“Not yet,” he says. “But I’m open to plot twists.”

She glares. He laughs. The sound disarms her for a fraction of a second longer than it should.

Her phone vibrates—Chloe: *Tell me you’re not actually meeting him alone.* Ava locks the screen without replying.

Evan checks his phone too. “Dana emailed me last night. Subject line: ‘Be charming, but don’t overthink.’ So I didn’t.”

“She’s not your boss.”

“She sounded like one.”

Ava groans. “Perfect. Corporate matchmaking.”

He grins. “At least they have taste.”

The conversation turns practical. They draft a minimal “plan”: two public appearances, one casual photo, three months of silence after that. No flirting. No scandals. Controlled illusion.

She takes notes like this is a client project. He watches, amused.  

“You really making meeting minutes?”  

“Yes.”  

“Romance looks good in bullet points.”

She shoots him a look sharp enough to slice Wi-Fi. “You don’t take this seriously.”  

“I take everything seriously, except what I can’t control.”  

“That must be a short list.”  

“Shorter than yours.”

The coffee cools. The air warms.

He leans forward. “You know, you could have just ignored me online.”  

“I did. For six hours.”  

“Impressive restraint.”  

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Ava closes her laptop, exhale tight. “We’ll do this for three months. Professional. Polite. Predictable.”

“Predictable,” he repeats. “You might be allergic to spontaneity.”

“Spontaneity causes lawsuits.”

“Good thing I’m uninsured.”

She almost smiles—and that’s when she knows this is going to be a problem.

Evan stands, adjusting his camera strap. “I’ll text when we need to look convincingly domestic.”  

“Do not text after midnight,” she says.  

“Rule six: No midnight texts,” he says. “Got it.”

He leaves, the bell over the door ringing like punctuation. Ava stays seated, staring at the untouched coffee.

Her phone buzzes again.  

Evan: *Just confirming—this fake relationship has a Google Calendar, right?*  

Ava: *Of course. Shared folder coming soon.*  

Evan: *Nothing sexier than project management.*

Ava exhales through a laugh she doesn’t mean to have.

She opens her planner, writes in neat black ink: *Begin Operation Controlled Illusion.*

For the first time in forty-eight hours, she feels almost calm—  

until a new notification appears:  

**#AvaAndEvan trend ↑ 12%.**

Control, she thinks, is officially a myth.