Ava Mitchell does not go viral. She goes to meetings on time, answers emails with bullet points, and walks like she has a calendar under her skin telling her exactly when to breathe.

The launch party is tidy. Fairy lights. Branded macarons. A step-and-repeat where interns line up founders and influencers. Ava checks the run of show with a pen that has no right to look nervous in her hand.

“Photo wall ready?” she asks the junior producer.

“Set,” he says.

“Keep the talking points to three sentences,” she reminds the team.

Her phone buzzes. Chloe—her colleague, her chaos friend—texts: You look like a CEO who flosses. Also the bartender is cute.

Ava puts the phone away because she is at work. The product manager starts his speech. The LED wall blooms. The photographer roves like a shark smelling champagne.

By nine, the room is warm with praise and networking breath. Ava stands by the brand backdrop because that is where things gather when they want to be reported on. She angles a founder toward the camera. “Elbow in. Chin down a hair. Smile like you approve of yourself.”

She hears a laugh to her right. A man with a camera strap across his chest, hair that refuses to choose a side, eyes soft as midnight. He is not the house photographer.

“You do this for a living?” he asks.

“Control chaos?” she says. “Yes.”

“I meant posing CEOs,” he says, grinning. “But that too.”

He snaps a frame. Ava moves to block him because there are rules about who shoots what. He steps back, palms up, amused.

“Relax,” he says. “I’m just here with a friend.”

“Your friend needs a photo pass,” she says.

Someone bumps his shoulder. He stumbles, the camera lifts, and for one clean second it frames Ava—her hand midair, her mouth set in a line she thinks is professional and he will later call stubborn. Click.

“Not bad,” he says.

“Delete it,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I asked nicely.”

“That wasn’t nicely,” he says. “That was efficiently.”

He wanders off. The party ends at ten-thirty. She thanks the venue, signs the invoice, and schedules an email because the only thing she trusts more than herself is delayed send.

At eleven, she is in a ride-share, shoes in her tote, the city a smear of bougainvillea and brake lights. Notifications stack. She thinks Chloe has found a dog to adopt and needs permission.

Instead, the first alert is a tag.

A photo: Ava at the backdrop, shoulder to shoulder with the charming stranger. He’s turned toward her, saying something that has made her eyes lift at the corners. The caption: “Power couple energy at the LUMI launch.” The account: half a million followers. The tag on the man: @evan.b.photo.

Ava’s stomach drops like an elevator missing a floor. The algorithm drags them onto screens. Comments arrive like confetti.

Couple goals!!!!

Who is she?

He finally soft-launched 👀

She opens Evan’s profile. A feed of sunrises no one set alarms for, street portraits that look like the subjects told him secrets off-camera, a caption: “I like good light and bad coffee.” Thirty thousand followers.

Chloe calls.

“Explain,” Chloe says.

“Nothing to explain,” Ava says. “A mis-tag. A misunderstanding. A mistake.”

“Three Ms,” Chloe says. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m drafting a statement,” Ava says, opening her laptop on her knees.

“Which will do what? Convince the internet to stop shipping two hot people?”

“It’s not about hot,” Ava says. “It’s about control.”

“Sure,” Chloe says. “Also he’s hot.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Wear mascara tomorrow,” Chloe says. “In case you get photographed with your new boyfriend.”

“My what?”

“Good night!” Click.

Ava files a takedown request, DMs the event account, and drafts an email to her boss titled Clarification regarding inaccurate social media tagging. She does not send it because it is midnight and you do not wake your boss unless the building is on fire.

By morning, the building is, in a way, on fire.

Slack is a confetti cannon. Screenshots. “lol” and “🔥” and “do we send a friendly comment from brand account??” The COO replies with: “LUMI’s new favorite couple! 😉”

Ava types: Please refrain from engaging. This is misinformation and will be corrected.

Her boss, Dana, DMs: Can you pop by for five?

Dana smiles—danger.

“First,” Dana says, “congrats on your soft launch.”

“It’s not—”

“Second, our sentiment went through the roof. People loved seeing a human side.”

“My personal life is not a campaign asset,” Ava says.

“Of course,” Dana says, not meaning it. “But given the timing, we do minimal harm by letting it ride. No statements. If it fizzles, great. If not, we capitalize lightly. Cute, non-invasive posts. You know how.”

Ava thinks of the photo—the tilt of her chin, the softness she does not have time for. She thinks of the budget she is defending Thursday.

“What’s his name?” Dana asks. “Evan?”

“I don’t know him,” Ava says.

“Then get to know him. Make sure he doesn’t say anything weird. Light, charming, PG-13.”

“I can manage that,” Ava says.

Back at her desk, she opens a blank note titled DAMAGE CONTROL—PERSONAL. She lists action items: File another request. Draft a calm comment. Prepare talking points. Reach out to Evan.

She writes the DM: Hi, I’m Ava, the person you were accidentally photographed with. This is causing a professional complication for me. Can we align on next steps? Thank you.

She hovers over send. The cursor blinks like a dare. Outside, Los Angeles pretends it’s not a desert. Inside, a rumor grows legs.

She closes the window instead and opens a spreadsheet because numbers behave. A message pops in her private email from a reporter she knows only by signature: “Care to comment?” She does not. She drafts lines she might need later: We appreciate the enthusiasm. Please respect personal boundaries. Focus on the product story.

She prints them and slips the paper into her planner like a talisman. Then she reopens the DM, reads the single paragraph again, deletes an adjective, and restores it. Control is an illusion. Composure is a habit. She presses her lips together and does the smallest, bravest thing she can think of at 10:58 a.m.—she saves the message to drafts and walks to her next meeting.