Ava woke to the sound of her phone vibrating against the nightstand again.
For one glorious second, she thought it might be an alarm or a delivery notification. Then she saw the screen—and the dozens of messages lighting it up like fireworks.
Her face.
His face.
The balcony photo.
She froze. The image was everywhere—blogs, entertainment pages, fan edits with music she didn’t even like. Someone had slowed the video down, added a soft filter, and titled it *“When fake love becomes real.”*
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered.
By the time she reached the office, the damage had already spread. Her team looked up as she walked in, eyes wide, whispers quick.
“Morning, Ava,” one said carefully, like approaching a wild animal.
“Don’t.”
“Coffee?”
“Double. And maybe a time machine.”
Chloe popped out from behind a cubicle, phone in hand. “You’re not going to like this, but you’re officially the internet’s emotional support couple.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“They’re calling you two ‘proof that chemistry exists.’”
Ava groaned. “Fantastic. I’m a science experiment.”
“Correction: a trending one.”
Her boss appeared in the doorway like a storm cloud in heels. “Ava, in my office. Now.”
Inside, the blinds were half-closed, sunlight slicing the desk into sharp stripes.
“I saw the pictures,” her boss began.
“So did the rest of the planet.”
“This might actually help us. We can spin it into a human-interest story—authenticity, vulnerability, connection—”
“Please stop before you use the word synergy.”
Her boss sighed. “Just cooperate. The board’s already planning to release a joint campaign featuring you and Mr. Brooks. You’re an asset, Ava. Don’t waste it.”
She left the office before she said something career-ending.
At lunch, Chloe joined her in the break room, two sandwiches in hand.
“You need to eat.”
“I need a new identity.”
“Noted. But start with turkey.”
Ava slumped into the chair. “How do people survive this kind of attention?”
“They don’t. They monetize it.”
“Not helpful.”
“Fine. Then hide. But at least tell him first.”
“Tell who?”
“Your partner in crime. He’s part of this circus too.”
Ava stared at her phone. The last text from Evan was twelve hours ago: *Hope you’re sleeping better than I am.*
She hadn’t replied.
By the afternoon, the first official fan account appeared: *@AvaAndEvanForever.* Within hours, it had ten thousand followers. Someone posted a thread analyzing every interaction between them, timestamped and annotated. There were charts. Charts.
She scrolled until she saw the balcony photo again—his hand on her back, her head slightly tilted toward him. The caption read, *“That’s not PR. That’s poetry.”*
Her chest tightened. She shut the laptop and pressed her palms to her eyes.
Evan called that evening.
“You alive?”
“Define alive.”
“Still answering your phone. That counts.”
She sighed. “You’ve seen the photos.”
“I’ve seen the memes too. My favorite is the one where we’re compared to Romeo and Juliet, but with better lighting.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Evan.”
“Okay, okay. What’s the plan?”
“There is no plan. My boss wants to use this for a campaign.”
“Shocking.”
“She thinks we should embrace it. Play along.”
He paused. “And what do *you* think?”
“I think I’m going to lose my job or my sanity. Possibly both.”
He chuckled softly. “Good news—I don’t have a job to lose.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Didn’t mean it to be. Where are you?”
“In my car. Parked outside my building. Trying to decide if I should move to Canada.”
“Too cold. Come over instead.”
“Evan—”
“Boundary test, round two.”
She hung up before she said yes.
That night, her phone buzzed again. A new headline flashed across the screen: *“The Couple That Fooled Everyone (Including Themselves).”*
She threw the phone onto the couch. Then picked it up again. Then threw it harder.
The next morning, she arrived at work early—too early. But peace didn’t last long. The PR department had scheduled a “casual photo session” to “reaffirm public goodwill.” Translation: another fake date.
Evan showed up late again, of course, carrying two coffees and a grin that said he’d slept perfectly fine.
“Morning, partner.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Too late. It’s our brand now.”
“Our what?”
He pointed to a poster mock-up on the wall—her face and his, side by side, smiling like they had nothing to hide.
“They made this overnight?” she asked.
“Efficiency. You should be proud.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“Smile for the camera, then puke later.”
They sat for the shoot, side by side on a couch that looked too romantic for comfort. The photographer chirped happily, “Perfect! Evan, look at Ava. Ava, laugh naturally.”
“I don’t laugh on command,” Ava muttered.
Evan leaned closer. “Sure you do. You just need the right stimulus.”
“Don’t even—”
“Knock, knock.”
“Seriously?”
“Who’s there?”
“Evan.”
She glared. “That doesn’t even—”
He whispered, “The guy who’s about to make you smile.”
Damn him. She did.
The shutter clicked.
When the shoot ended, she escaped to the hallway, pressing her back against the wall. Evan followed, less composed but entirely too pleased with himself.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“For what? Emotional manipulation?”
“For saving the campaign. You laughed. They’ll eat that up.”
She stared at him. “You really don’t care what people think, do you?”
“Not about people. About you? Maybe.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late again.”
She pushed past him, heartbeat too loud to ignore.
That evening, Chloe called.
“You know the internet is writing fanfiction about you two now?”
Ava nearly dropped her fork. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t worry, it’s PG-13. Mostly.”
“Oh my god.”
“You’re basically a rom-com trope come to life. Proud?”
“Mortified.”
“Well, at least you’re interesting. Some of us are just single.”
“Chloe!”
“What? I’m living vicariously.”
Ava groaned and hung up, but she couldn’t stop laughing.
Around midnight, her phone buzzed again. Evan.
*Can’t sleep. Noise in my head.*
*Earplugs exist.* she typed back.
*Not that kind of noise.*
*Try meditation.*
*Tried you.*
She didn’t reply. He didn’t send another message. But she couldn’t fall asleep either.
The next day, the company released their official campaign teaser: a 20-second video montage of her and Evan’s “journey,” cut from candid moments that weren’t supposed to exist. The footage from the gala, the coffee shop, the elevator. Even the laugh from yesterday.
The tagline read: *“Sometimes, the best stories aren’t scripted.”*
Her stomach dropped.
He called before she could even react.
“Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s… good editing.”
“They had no right to use that.”
“Technically, you signed the contract.”
“I didn’t sign my life away.”
“You kind of did.”
“Evan.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She sat down, feeling the weight of the world pressing against her ribs.
“This is getting out of control,” she whispered.
He said quietly, “Then maybe we stop pretending it’s control.”
That night, Ava stood in front of her mirror, makeup half-removed, hair falling loose. The city hummed outside her window, neon and noise.
She picked up her phone, typed *Rule number two*, then deleted it.
She didn’t need to write it down to know—whatever it was, they’d already crossed it.
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