The photo from the gala had exploded online.

Ava’s phone buzzed without mercy, every notification slicing through her sanity.  

Her inbox overflowed with heart emojis, congratulations, and one particularly haunting message from her boss: *“Looking forward to seeing your next joint campaign 😉.”*

She wanted to crawl under her desk and never resurface.  

“Please tell me this isn’t happening,” she muttered to herself.

Chloe’s voice burst through the speaker. “Oh, it’s happening. You and your fake boyfriend are trending worldwide. Do you realize how photogenic you two are? It’s disgusting.”  

“Chloe.”  

“What?”  

“Stop talking.”  

“Can’t. I’m too entertained.”  

“I swear, if you—”  

“Relax. I already printed the article for my scrapbook.”  

“Scrapbook?”  

“Of your downfall. Duh.”  

“Goodbye, Chloe.”  

“Love you too, trending girl.”

Ava hung up and dropped her phone on the desk. Her reflection glared back from the dark screen, expression tight, jaw clenched.

This was supposed to be a harmless PR strategy. Controlled. Predictable. Like every other part of her life.

Except Evan Brooks had the chaotic energy of a summer storm, and somehow, the storm had gone viral.

She exhaled slowly.  

Damage control. That’s what she did best.

By noon, the elevator chimed and he appeared—camera bag slung across his chest, hair slightly messy like he’d just walked out of a sunbeam.

“Hey, superstar.”  

“Don’t call me that.”  

“Can’t help it. You’re famous now.”  

“Thanks to you,” she said, crossing her arms.  

He grinned. “You’re welcome?”  

She glared. “That wasn’t a compliment.”  

“Still taking it as one.”

He held up two coffee cups. “Peace offering.”  

“I don’t make peace with the enemy.”  

“It’s caramel oat milk. Your favorite.”  

She hesitated. “You stalked my coffee order?”  

He shrugged. “You talk a lot when you’re stressed.”  

“I talk because you don’t shut up long enough to listen.”  

He laughed, low and warm. “There she is—the woman behind the hashtags.”

She snatched the cup and turned away before he could see her smirk.

The day dragged into a blur of meetings and messages. Every time she glanced at her phone, another notification popped up: a gossip headline, a reaction video, a meme comparing their smiles.

When she left the office, the air outside was heavy with the smell of late-summer heat. A car horn blared somewhere down the street.

Evan leaned against his motorcycle, waiting like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

“You’re late,” he said.  

“I didn’t ask you to wait.”  

“I wasn’t sure if I should text you ‘Hey, partner’ or ‘Hey, liability.’”  

“Try ‘Goodbye.’”  

“Harsh.”

He handed her a helmet.  

“I’m not getting on that.”  

“It’s faster than therapy.”  

“I don’t need therapy.”  

He smirked. “You’re arguing with a man in sunglasses in a parking lot. You need therapy.”  

“Evan—”  

“Come on, Ava. We have to talk about the photos before your PR team burns my camera.”

She sighed, snatched the helmet, and climbed on behind him.

The ride was loud, the wind stealing every excuse she had left.  

When they stopped by the pier, her hair was a mess, her heart beating faster than it should have.

He sat on the railing, watching the sunset. “So. Damage control?”  

“Yes,” she said, standing stiff beside him. “We need to issue a statement.”  

“About what? That we’re not actually dating?”  

“Yes.”  

He tilted his head. “You sure that’s what people want to hear?”  

“I don’t care what people want.”  

“Pretty sure you do. It’s kind of your thing.”  

She shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”  

“Watching you pretend you don’t care? Absolutely.”  

“You’re impossible.”  

“Admit it, though. We look good together.”  

She crossed her arms. “You’re infuriating.”  

“And yet, you keep calling.”

The silence between them thickened, filled only by the sound of waves hitting the pier.

He glanced at her. “What’s rule number one again?”  

Her pulse skipped. “No feelings.”  

He smiled, almost too gently. “Right. Just checking.”

She looked away, her reflection trembling in the water.  

Something in her chest shifted, too quiet to name.

The next morning, her name and his were still everywhere.  

Her company’s official account reposted one of their photos with a heart emoji.  

Chloe texted: *You’re not coming back from this alive.*

At lunch, her boss approached.  

“Ava, that photo—fantastic exposure. The board’s thrilled.”  

“It was an accident.”  

“Then have more accidents. Our brand engagement is up thirty percent.”  

Ava forced a smile. “Happy to help.”  

She wasn’t.

By evening, she ended up at Evan’s studio, standing among hanging prints and the smell of coffee and film chemicals.  

He was editing photos on his laptop, sleeves rolled up, humming off-key.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up.  

“You didn’t even know I was coming.”  

“Didn’t have to. You always show up when you’re about to lecture me.”  

“I’m not here to lecture you.”  

“Lies. I can hear the PowerPoint slides in your voice.”

She exhaled. “You need to stop feeding this story.”  

He turned his chair toward her. “Feeding it? You think I’m the one keeping it alive?”  

“You posted another picture.”  

“It was for my portfolio.”  

“It was you holding my hand.”  

He smiled. “Great lighting.”  

“Evan.”  

“Okay, fine. Maybe I like the chaos a little.”

She rubbed her temples. “You can’t just—”  

“What?”  

“Make me look like I—like we—”  

He stood, closing the distance. “Like you what, Ava?”

Her breath caught.  

“This isn’t real,” she said, quieter.  

“Doesn’t feel fake,” he murmured.  

“Don’t,” she warned.  

“Boundary test,” he said softly. “Just seeing where the line is.”

For one heartbeat too long, she didn’t step back.  

Then she did.

That night, Ava lay in bed staring at the ceiling, phone glowing on her nightstand.  

A new message from Evan blinked.

*Rule number one is looking shaky.*  

She typed back, *Go to sleep.*  

He replied, *Can’t. My fake girlfriend might text back.*

She turned off her phone.  

She didn’t sleep either.