*Trigger warnings* Relationship abuse/ unhealthy relationship dynamic , cancel culture, swearing, angst.
Miras has been insufferable ever since we got back.
Not that he wasn't before, but now? Now he has fuel. He has ammunition. Because apparently, the only thing more unbearable than Miras knowing he's attractive is my alien doppelgänger confirming it for him.
Kill me.
I don't know how long I've been dodging him, but I made the mistake of letting my guard down. I don't realize where I'm going until I step into the training room—
And oh.
Miras is there.
Shirtless.
Sweat slicks across his skin, catching in the dim lighting, highlighting every muscle, every sharp angle. His hair is damp, sticking slightly to his forehead, and he's rolling his shoulders, stretching—completely oblivious to my presence.
For a second—just a second—my brain stalls.
Then, like clockwork, he notices me.
A slow smirk creeps across his face.
"Wow, you must have really wanted to see me."
I hate how smug he sounds. I hate that I can't immediately come up with a retort because my brain is still trying to recover from that.
So I do the next best thing. I roll my eyes and scoff.
"I have seen you," I say, regaining my footing, my voice dripping with disinterest. "You look like shit." I gesture vaguely at him before crossing my arms. "Delusional—add that word to your vocabulary."
His smirk doesn't fade. If anything, it deepens, like he's enjoying this even more.
"I don't know, Cherie," he says, stepping closer, casual, slow. "Didn't seem like you were complaining back there on the ship."
I point a finger at him. "That wasn't me."
"Still your face, though," he muses, tapping his temple like he's making some grand point. "And I do remember her looking very... interested."
My entire body twitches with the urge to kick him.
"That wasn't me," I repeat, my jaw tight. "And for the record, I'd rather gouge my own eyes out than willingly be interested in whatever this—" I wave a hand at him, still very much shirtless, still very much standing too close— "is."
Miras is still smirking, still standing there like he's got all the time in the world, like I'm the one wasting his time, and I'm about this close to throwing something at his stupid, smug face.
Instead, I exhale sharply and point toward the door. "Hurry the fuck up, or you're walking to school."
His grin widens. "That a threat or a promise?"
"It's a fact," I snap. "You have exactly two minutes before I leave your ass behind."
Miras tilts his head like he's considering his options, like he's actually debating whether he wants to push me further. "You could just admit you like looking at me," he muses. "Might speed things up."
I deadpan. "I will hit you."
He chuckles, finally turning away to grab his shirt. "Relax, Cherie," he says, voice dripping with amusement. "We both know you wouldn't leave without me."
I take a step back toward the door. "One minute and thirty seconds," I call over my shoulder. "Clock's ticking, dumbass."
****
The second I step out of the car, I know something is wrong.
The air is thick with noise—voices overlapping, cameras clicking, the telltale whir of recording devices locking onto their target. My stomach tightens.
Miras must sense it too because his arm is already reaching across the center console, blocking me before I can push the door open further.
"Shit," he mutters. "Guess you're still trending."
Still? That's an understatement. My unfortunate alien doppelgänger moment is apparently the internet's favorite new disaster. And now—just my luck—it's bled into real life.
There's a whole crowd of them.
Paparazzi, reporters, random people with their phones out, all shouting over each other.
"Cherish! Over here!"
"Miss Battle, do you have a comment about your twin?"
"Are you actually an alien?"
"Was it really an imposter, or is that just a cover-up?"
My fingers curl into the door handle, tension climbing up my spine. I could shove through them, maybe make a break for the side entrance. Or—
Something warm and heavy lands on my shoulders.
I blink.
Miras.
He's already out of the car, already moving, and before I can react, he tugs his jacket over my head like some kind of makeshift shield.
It smells like him. Leather and something faintly crisp, like the wind before a storm.
"Keep your head down," he murmurs, his hand firm between my shoulders as he steers me forward. "Don't stop walking."
I could fight him on this. Tell him I don't need his help, that I can handle it myself.
A camera flashes too close, someone's elbow jabs my ribs, and I hear a reporter say something—something slimy, something like "Don't be shy now, sweetheart, let us get a good look at you—"
Then Miras moves.
Fast.
One second he's guiding me forward, the next he's got a fist tangled in some guy's collar, slamming him back against the car. Hard.
"Back the fuck off." His voice is ice-cold, lethal. Not a request.
The guy sputters, hands raised, camera nearly dropping from his grip. Around us, the crowd falters—but only for a second. Then they lunge at the drama like sharks to blood. More flashes, more yelling.
"Did you see that? Did you get that?!"
"Hey, you can't do that!"
"Miras, is she really human?!"
Someone grabs my arm.
I barely get a breath in before Miras yanks me back against him, his free hand already shoving the offender away. "Touch her again, and I break your fucking wrist."
The threat lands like a gunshot. The man stumbles back, eyes wide, and I feel Miras' grip tighten against me—solid, unyielding.
"We're leaving," he mutters low in my ear, his arm curling around my back now, pulling me in. "Stay close."
This time, I don't fight him.
I just let him get me out of there.
The moment we step inside, the noise from outside dulls to a low buzz behind the doors. I exhale, shaking off the lingering tension from the crowd.
Miras, to his credit, doesn't say anything. No smug remark about how I let him help, no I told you so about the jacket. He just shrugs it off my shoulders, shaking it out like it's no big deal.
I almost—almost—tell him I appreciate it.
But before the words can even form, a blur of movement catches my eye.
And then—crack.
The sound of a slap rings through the hallway.
Miras's head jerks to the side, his cheek already reddening from the impact.
Nakita stands in front of him, her chest rising and falling in sharp, angry breaths. Her hand is still raised, fingers curled like she's this close to doing it again.
I blink.
Miras blinks.
I let out a low whistle. "Well, damn."
Nakita points at him, fuming. "You left! You disappeared for days without telling anyone! Do you know how many people have been asking me where you were? How many times I had to cover for you---for us?"
Oh.
Right.
Normal people have lives outside of alien artifacts and imposter battles.
Miras just shrugs. "I was busy."
"Busy where?" Nakita snaps. "Doing what?"
Miras flicks a glance at me.
Which, apparently, is the wrong move.
Nakita's gaze follows his, and then she looks at me. At us.
And I swear, the exact second she connects the dots, her expression twists.
"You have got to be kidding me," she says, voice dripping with disbelief. "You disappeared for her?"
I scowl. "I'm literally right here."
Nakita's glare snaps back to me, her nostrils flaring. She steps closer, her shoulders squared like she's gearing up for round two.
"You—"
I don't get to find out what I am, because the next thing I know, she's swinging.
I shift my weight, already prepared to block—
But Miras is faster.
He moves without hesitation, grabbing her arm and yanking her back before she can land the hit.
"Alright, nope," he says, voice tight as he pulls her away from me. "We are not doing this today."
Nakita thrashes against his hold, still furious. "Are you kidding me, Miras? Let go!"
"Not a chance," he mutters, keeping his grip firm as he steers her away from me, practically dragging her down the hall.
She's still fighting against him, but he holds steady, murmuring something to her in a voice too low for me to hear.
Whatever it is, it must work—because after a few tense moments, she lets out a sharp breath and stops fighting him.
She doesn't look at me as Miras leads her away.
But as she disappears down the hall, I can feel her resentment burning in the space she leaves behind.
I barely make it through the classroom door before the intercom crackles to life.
"Cherish Battle, report to the headmaster's office immediately."
A few students snicker. Others just stare. Like I'm some kind of caged animal on display. I ignore them, shoving my bag onto my desk as if I might actually get to stay.
Then the intercom crackles again.
"Immediately."
A muscle ticks in my jaw.
Miras, seated in the desk beside mine, leans back lazily. "That can't be good."
"No shit," I mutter, already turning back toward the door.
As I make my way down the hall, I keep my head down. Not because I'm embarrassed—please, I've had worse attention—but because I don't have the patience to deal with the whispers that have followed me all morning. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what this is about. The paparazzi, the broadcast, the entire internet debating whether or not I'm even human anymore.
The school probably isn't thrilled.
But when I push open the heavy doors of the headmaster's office, it's immediately clear that the school isn't the real problem.
My dad is already here.
I stop short. He's standing by the window, arms crossed, looking pissed. Not in the way he usually is with me—tired, exasperated, teetering between wanting to ground me for life and locking me in a tower. No, this is different.
This is controlled anger. The kind that makes the air in the room feel heavier, like even the headmaster is second-guessing why he asked my father here in the first place.
"Ah, Miss Battle," the headmaster says, adjusting his tie. "Please, sit."
I don't. Neither does my dad.
The headmaster clears his throat, hesitating. "As I was just explaining to your father, the school has received an overwhelming amount of attention due to... recent events. It's become—unmanageable."
I blink. "Unmanageable?"
"We have reporters outside the gates, students distracted in class, and more than one concerned parent calling to ask if their children are 'safe' learning alongside you."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, so now I'm a threat?"
"No one is saying that, Cherish," the headmaster says carefully. "But the attention is not good for the school, and quite frankly, I worry it's not good for you either."
My dad's voice is quiet, but it cuts through the room like a blade.
"Are you suggesting my daughter leave?"
The headmaster visibly tenses. "I'm saying it might be best to consider alternative options until the attention dies down. A temporary leave, homeschooling—"
Dad exhales sharply through his nose. "No."
The headmaster looks taken aback. "Mr. Battle, I understand this is a delicate situation, but—"
"No, you don't understand," my dad interrupts. His voice stays level, but there's an edge to it, dangerous and unwavering. "You don't get to dictate my daughter's education based on tabloid gossip and scared, misinformed people who don't know the first thing about her."
For a split second, I almost—almost—feel bad for the headmaster.
He shifts uncomfortably, adjusting his glasses. "Mr. Battle, surely you can see how this situation is escalating. If we don't act now—"
"My daughter is staying," Dad cuts in, final and absolute. "You will ensure her safety on school grounds. I will handle the media. And you will not speak to me again about removing her."
The headmaster's mouth opens, then closes. His hands curl into tight fists at his sides, but he doesn't argue.
Because no one argues with my father.
After a tense beat of silence, my dad turns to me. "Let's go."
I hesitate, glancing at the headmaster. He won't look at me.
I stand in the dimly lit hallway, my arms crossed so tightly over my chest it feels like I might snap in half. My dad stands next to me, his hands shoved in his pockets, looking as unimpressed with this conversation as I feel.
"Look, kid—"
"No." The word snaps out before I can stop it. "Absolutely not."
My dad lets out a slow sigh, the kind that means he's trying not to lose his patience. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."
I glare up at him. "You want me to stand in front of a bunch of cameras and pretend I owe the world an explanation."
He doesn't even try to deny it.
I scoff, shaking my head. "No. No way."
"Cherish." His voice is calm, too calm. That means he's already made up his mind. "This isn't going away. The media is eating this up—your face is everywhere. You can't just ignore it."
"Watch me."
"That's not how this works."
He exhales sharply, then turns to face me fully. "Right now, the public doesn't know what to believe. Some think you're an alien, some think you're part of a classified government experiment, and a whole lot of others just think you're dangerous. If you don't say something, they're going to run with whatever narrative they want."
I tighten my arms around myself, jaw locked. "So let them."
His expression darkens. "That's not an option."
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
"What if I just say no?" I challenge.
My dad tilts his head slightly, unreadable. "Then someone else will talk for you. And trust me, you won't like what they have to say."
A bitter taste creeps into my mouth.
I don't have a choice. Not really.
I drop my arms, rubbing a hand over my face. "This is such bullshit."
"I know."
I stare at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at him. "And what exactly am I supposed to say?"
"We'll go over it before the interview."
Translation: He'll go over it. I'll be expected to repeat it like a good little puppet.
I press my back against the lockers, tilting my head toward the ceiling with a groan. "You do realize I'm just going to make it worse, right?"
My dad chuckles, low and tired. "Yeah. That's what I'm afraid of."
By the time I make it back to class, the lecture has already started. Not that it matters. I'm not listening.
I drop into my seat beside Miras, still fuming, and shove my bag onto the desk with more force than necessary. He barely glances up from whatever mindless doodle he's making in his notebook.
"Took you long enough," he mutters. "What'd the headmaster want? Expelling you for existing, or just making sure you don't burn the school down with your inhuman rage?"
I ignore him. For a second.
Then I lean over and whisper, "My dad is making me do an interview."
Miras pauses, pen hovering over the page. He turns his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the glint of amusement in his eyes. Shit.
Then, as expected, he grins.
"Oh, this is gonna be good."
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "Miras."
"No, no, I mean—what an opportunity!" He gestures dramatically. "You get to sit in front of the entire country and tell them you aren't a science experiment gone wrong. Or an alien. Or a threat to society." He tilts his head, pretending to think. "I mean... assuming you aren't."
I jab my elbow into his ribs.
He just laughs, undeterred. "Relax. I'm just saying, this is your big moment. You can finally prove to the world that you're—" he deepens his voice— "just like everybody else."
I lift my head just enough to glare at him. "You're an asshole."
"And you're a terrible public speaker." He smirks. "God, I wish I could be there to see it."
I groan again, wishing I could melt into the floor. "I swear, if I go down in flames, I'm dragging you with me."
He chuckles, unfazed. "Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you smile for the cameras."
****
The lights are too bright. The studio is too cold. The chair beneath me is stiff and uncomfortable, but nothing about this situation is designed for my comfort.
I sit across from the host, a polished man with a practiced smile, the kind of person who could convince you he's your friend right before stabbing you in the back. My father sits just out of frame, watching, silent. He made it clear before this started: Stick to the script. Don't let them bait you. Control the narrative.
But the moment the cameras start rolling, I realize it's never been my narrative to control.
"Cherish Battle," the host says smoothly, as if he's speaking to an audience instead of directly to me. "Your name has been everywhere lately. People are asking questions. They're concerned." He leans forward just enough to seem invested. "What do you say to those who are afraid of you?"
It's an easy question. A setup.
I steel myself, sitting up straighter. "I understand why people are scared. But fear is often based on misunderstanding. I'm not dangerous. I just want to live my life like anyone else."
The host nods thoughtfully. "So you admit that people have a reason to be afraid."
I blink. "That's not what I—"
"It's understandable," he continues, seamlessly cutting me off. "After all, the footage from the ship was... shocking, to say the least."
I feel my pulse spike.
Stay calm.
I exhale slowly, forcing my voice to stay even. "People saw what they wanted to see. I was trying to help."
"Trying," the host echoes, his smile tightening. "But in the end, there was destruction. Lives were lost."
I swallow hard. "That wasn't my fault."
He tilts his head. "You were there. You were involved."
My jaw locks. "So was a terrorist organization. But I don't see you asking them for an interview."
The host laughs—polite, patronizing. "Of course. No one is blaming you, Cherish." He gestures vaguely, as if I'm the one being unreasonable. "We just want to understand. To get clarity. You're saying people shouldn't be afraid of you?"
"Yes," I say firmly.
"Even though you where possessed by an alien?"
I hesitate. "Yes."
"Even though, in the wrong circumstances, you could be dangerous?"
I exhale sharply. "I don't hurt people."
"But you could."
I stare at him. "Anyone could."
He spreads his hands, like I've just proven his point. "But not everyone has your capabilities."
I grip the arms of the chair. "So what? You want me to apologize for existing?"
"No one is asking for an apology," he says, his voice smooth and practiced. "But you can understand why people want assurance. That they're safe."
My chest tightens. I look at my father. His jaw is clenched, his fingers laced together as if physically restraining himself from stepping in.
"Cherish," the host says, bringing my attention back. "At the end of the day, I think what everyone wants to know is... can you promise that nothing like this will ever happen again?"
The question slams into me like a brick wall.
Can I promise that?
No.
But if I say that—if I hesitate—I already know what the headline will be.
The silence stretches just long enough for the damage to settle.
I see it in his eyes, in the way his lips curl like he's already won.
No matter what I say next, the world has already decided what it wants to believe.
The moment they call for a break, I rip the mic off my collar and shove it onto the table. My father is already standing, eyes sharp with barely contained frustration.
"We need to regroup," he says. "The second half needs to be—"
"I'm done." My voice is flat, my hands curling into fists. "They're twisting everything I say. What's the point?"
Dad exhales sharply through his nose, the way he does when he's trying to be patient but really just wants to strangle someone. "The point is damage control, Cherish."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah? Because I think the damage is already done."
He steps closer. "We can fix this, but you have to—"
"Oh, for God's sake," Miras interrupts.
I hadn't even realized he was here, leaning casually against the dressing room doorway like he belongs in this mess.
Dad turns to him, eyes narrowing. "Miras, this is not your concern."
Miras smirks. "See, that's where you're wrong." He pushes off the doorframe, stepping into the room like he's already made up his mind about something. "Because watching Cherish get ripped apart by some smug, overpaid news anchor is my concern. Mostly because it's boring as hell."
I glare at him. "Miras."
He ignores me, turning back to my dad. "She's not gonna win this fight."
My stomach twists. "Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence."
Dad folds his arms. "And what do you suggest?"
Miras grins. "Simple. I take her spot."
There's a beat of absolute silence.
Then I say, "Absolutely not."
But Miras just tilts his head, like he knew I'd say that. "What, scared I'll do a better job?"
I throw my hands up. "That is not the problem here—"
Dad looks at Miras for a long moment. Measuring. Calculating.
"...You think you can handle this?"
I stare at him. "Wait, you're actually considering this?"
Miras places a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "Come on, I'm great on camera."
"This isn't some stupid debate club—"
"No, it's a bloodbath," he cuts in. "And you? You're too nice for this."
I scoff. "I literally threw a guy through a window last month."
"Yeah, well, that's different. You're good at actual fights." Miras flashes his teeth. "I'm good at this kind of fight."
Dad is still watching him, considering. Then, to my absolute horror, he nods. "Fine. You want to handle it? Handle it."
I whip my head toward him. "Are you serious?"
He doesn't even look at me. "You wanted out, didn't you?"
I hate that he has a point.
Miras claps his hands together. "Fantastic. Someone get me a mic."
I glare at him. "If you make this worse—"
"Oh, I'm absolutely making this worse." His grin is feral now. "But at least I'll have fun doing it."
When the break ends and the cameras turn back on, the host gives his usual polished smile.
"Welcome back," he says smoothly. "Before the break, we were discussing public perception and concerns regarding Miss Battle's—" He stops. Blinks.
Because I am not in the chair anymore.
Miras leans back in my seat, looking obnoxiously comfortable, mic clipped onto his jacket like he planned this from the start.
The host's smile falters. "I... I see we have a change in guest."
Miras tilts his head. "Not a change. An improvement."
I can see the host recalibrating, trying to figure out who the hell this is and why no one told him about it. "And you are?"
"Miras." He flashes a lazy grin. "You know, the other problem child---the intern."
The host hesitates for half a second too long before regaining his composure. "And what exactly is your relation to Cherish?"
Miras shrugs. "That depends on who you ask."
The host exhales through his nose, just barely suppressing his frustration. "Very well. Let's continue, then. Miras, you're here to... defend Cherish's actions?"
Miras snorts. "Oh, absolutely not. If she screws up, she screws up. I'm just here to make sure you don't get away with twisting the story."
The host's smile tightens. "I assure you, I'm only seeking clarity."
"Clarity," Miras repeats, his voice dripping with amusement. "Right. That's why you took 'I just want to live my life' and somehow turned it into 'I might secretly be a monster.' Real honest reporting, that."
The host's jaw tightens. "That's not what I said."
Miras hums. "Isn't it, though? I mean, let's be real," he continues, voice light, casual. "This whole thing isn't about facts. It's about what sells. And what sells? Fear." He leans forward, like he's about to share a secret. "You don't want the truth. You want a villain."
The host's expression darkens. "No one here is calling Cherish a villain."
Miras raises an eyebrow. "Not out loud, anyway."
A sharp silence fills the studio.
Then, Miras grins, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place. "You really should've stuck with interviewing her. She at least tries to be polite."
The host exhales sharply, forcing a smile. "Alright. Let's continue—"
"Oh, let's." Miras smirks. "I love a good debate."
And just like that, the second half of the interview is his game now. I swear to God, I don't know if I want to murder him or thank him.
***
The second we're out of the studio, I whip around and shove Miras—hard.
He barely stumbles, because of course he doesn't. He just blinks at me like he wasn't expecting it, then grins. "You're welcome."
I see red. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"
Miras lifts an eyebrow. "Which part? The part where I made that host look like an idiot, or the part where I—oh, wait. That's it. That's the whole thing."
I shove him again, but this time he catches my wrist before I can land it.
"Relax, Cherie," he drawls, amused. "Your pulse is throug"Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"h the roof."
I yank my arm back. "Oh gee, I wonder why."
We're standing outside the news building, right at the edge of the private lot where my father's car is waiting. Dad is still inside, handling the last of the damage control with the network. Miras and I were supposed to be waiting quietly. But I am not in the mood to be quiet.
"What the hell was that?" I snap, crossing my arms so tightly it feels like I might snap in half. "Do you ever think before you do things?"
Miras shrugs, completely unbothered. "Not if I can help it."
"You hijacked a national interview!"
"And yet, somehow, the world is still turning."
I glare at him. "Miras. You made it so much worse."
He tilts his head. "Did I?"
"Yes! You—you insulted the host, you mocked the whole thing, you—" I throw my hands in the air, exasperated. "You literally told the entire country that the media just wants a villain!"
"And?"
"And?!"
Miras leans in slightly, voice lower now. "And I'm right. And you know I'm right."
They never wanted me to clear my name. They just wanted me to feed their narrative, to admit to something that would make their headlines juicier. And if I wasn't going to give them that, they'd twist my words until I did.
But that doesn't mean I wanted Miras to step in.
"You didn't have to do that," I mutter, voice quieter now.
Miras watches me for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I did."
I look up at him. "Why?"
His jaw clenches slightly. "Because you weren't going to win."
The words hit harder than they should.
I hate that he saw it—that he saw me struggling and just knew I was going to lose. That I was already losing before I even sat down.
"I didn't need you to fight my battles," I say, stubborn even now.
"Sure." Miras tilts his head. "But you didn't stop me, either."
I go silent.
Because I could have stopped him. If I'd really fought for it, if I'd told my dad absolutely not, Miras wouldn't have taken my place.
But I didn't.
Because some part of me knew.
Some part of me let him.
I swallow hard, shoving my hands in my pockets. "They're gonna twist this even more, you know."
Miras shrugs. "Let them."
I glance at him. "You do realize that they're coming for you now too, right? You just put a giant target on your own back."
He grins. "Oh, I'm counting on it."
I shake my head, exhaling sharply. "You're insane."
"And yet, here you are—still stuck with me."
I roll my eyes, but before I can fire back, my dad steps out of the building, looking beyond exhausted.
"We're leaving," he says shortly, already walking toward the car.
Miras gestures toward the door with a smirk. "After you, media sensation."
Miras and I are still glaring at each other when Imani rolls down the car window.
"Well, that was embarrassing for everyone involved," he says cheerfully.
I whip around. "Were you watching that?"
"Obviously." He leans his arm on the door, grinning like he's thoroughly enjoying himself. "Whole world was watching. The way you fell apart under pressure? Oof. Hard to watch." He shakes his head. "I mean, I knew you were bad at public speaking, but this?" He lets out a low whistle. "Tragic."
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Imani—"
"And Miras!" Imani interrupts. "You? Jumping in like a knight in overpriced streetwear? God, what a plot twist." He gestures vaguely at Miras, eyes twinkling with amusement. "But I gotta say, you really went for it. Ten out of ten for execution. Zero out of ten for subtlety."
Miras smirks. "Didn't need subtlety. Just needed to win."
Imani snorts. "Oh yeah. You definitely won. That's why Twitter is currently having a meltdown over you." He pulls out his phone, scrolling. "Let's see... 'Mysterious boyfriend hijacks interview—what is he hiding?' Oh, this one's good: 'Miras Ain, known delinquent, reveals deep-rooted anti-media agenda.'"
Miras hums. "Not bad. I'll take it."
Imani keeps scrolling, then starts cackling. "Oh shit—someone edited a photo of you into one of those 'villain monologues' memes." He turns the screen toward us, and sure enough, there's a screencap of Miras mid-interview, dramatically captioned:
"You don't want the truth. You want a villain."
Miras blinks. Then grins. "Alright, I definitely take it."
I groan, dropping my head against the car. "Kill me."
"Oh, don't worry," Imani says. "You're also trending."
I look up sharply. "What."
Imani scrolls again, his grin widening. "Let's see... 'Cherish Battle has the worst PR team alive.'" He snickers. "'Girl, if you need help blinking twice, let us know.'"
Miras howls.
I yank the phone out of Imani's hand and scan the screen. There are memes, conspiracy threads, arguments. People debating whether I'm a government weapon, a clone, or an AI-generated distraction from real issues.
I stare blankly. "What the fuck is wrong with people?"
Imani shrugs. "Beats me. But it's great entertainment."
Miras leans closer to the screen, amused. "Ooh, look at this one—'Cherish Battle is secretly dating her bodyguard, and Miras is just a cover-up.'" He snickers. "Imani, how does it feel to be my romantic rival?"
Imani deadpans. "Like I should be paid more."
Miras' phone buzzes.
He glances at the screen, then winces. "Oh, shit."
Before I can ask what's wrong, he sighs and picks up. "Hey, Nakita—"
"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODDAMN MIND?!"
Her voice explodes through the speaker, so loud I can hear it crystal clear despite Miras not even being on speakerphone.
Imani raises his eyebrows. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
Miras pinches the bridge of his nose. "Nakita, I do not have the patience for this right now—"
"YOU DON'T HAVE THE—?!" Her voice jumps an octave, pure rage. "You hijack a national broadcast, make yourself a target, get your name dragged through the mud, and now people think you're some kind of undercover security guard-slash-love interest?! ARE YOU STUPID OR ARE YOU ACTUALLY TRYING TO GET KILLED?!"
I whip my head toward Miras. "Love interest?!"
He groans, shoving a hand through his hair. "Not now, Cherish."
"Oh, absolutely now!" Imani says gleefully.
Meanwhile, Nakita keeps going, her rant completely unstoppable.
"AND ANTI-MEDIA AGENDA?! REALLY, MIRAS? That's the angle you went with?! You know what? No, I take it back—you don't have an anti-media agenda, but I sure as hell have an anti-you agenda right now, because I swear to God—"
Miras pulls the phone away from his ear like she might actually deafen him.
Imani, grinning like the absolute menace he is, leans in and calls out, "HEY, NAKITA, IT'S IMANI—HE CAN'T TALK RIGHT NOW, HE'S TOO BUSY MAKING OUT WITH CHERISH."
Miras and I both turn to him in horror.
There's a split second of silence.
Then Nakita detonates.
"I WILL BURY YOU ALL—"
Miras hangs up on her.
I stare at him. "That was the most cowardly thing I've ever seen."
Miras shoves his phone into his pocket and exhales slowly. "I'm choosing life, Cherish."
Imani just wheezes, nearly doubled over laughing. "You are so screwed."
Miras glares at him. "You are not helping."
"I'm not trying to help."
"God, I hate you."
Imani pats his shoulder. "It's okay. You'll be dead soon."
Miras mutters something in another language under his breath. Probably a curse. Probably directed at both of us.
I cross my arms. "So. 'Undercover security guard' and 'love interest,' huh?"
Miras glares at me. "Not now."
Imani grins. "No, no, please. Let's unpack that."
****
I don't know what I expected after the video. Maybe a quiet moment. Maybe the world would take a breath and give me a chance to explain. The chaos was already here.
The protests started almost immediately. Twitter blew up. The world split into two: people calling me a hero, a symbol of resistance, a victim of the system, and others calling me a weapon, a threat, a biological disaster waiting to happen. And in between all of that? My dad's company, Battle Enterprises, was in the crossfire.
Sleep isn't an option tonight.
I sit at my desk, staring at the object Miras and I risked our lives to steal from the alien ship. A sleek, metallic device no bigger than my palm, covered in strange, shifting symbols that seem to pulse if I look at them too long. It's like the damn thing is alive.
I run my fingers over the smooth surface, feeling a faint vibration beneath my skin. It's been hours, and I'm no closer to figuring out what it is—or why we nearly died to get it.
A part of me wonders if Miras is still awake, but I don't check. He'd just make a smartass comment about how I'm obsessing over it. Or worse—he'd try to help, and I don't need another distraction right now.
I grab my notebook, flipping through the pages of symbols we managed to scan before getting the hell off that ship. They don't match any known alien dialect. No translation software works. No patterns make sense.
***
I'm still awake when the sun starts creeping through my window, burning my exhausted eyes. My desk is a disaster—papers scattered, my laptop still open to the same useless translation software, the alien device sitting in the middle of it all like it knows I've spent the whole night trying to figure it out.
And I have nothing.
No answers. No revelations. Just the same mess of symbols that refuse to make sense.
I drag a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to throw the damn thing against the wall. My body is screaming for sleep, but my brain won't shut up. Every time I close my eyes, the symbols flicker behind my eyelids, taunting me.
I hate not knowing things.
A knock at the door makes me jolt.
"Cherish," my dad's voice comes through. Firm. Expecting me to already be up. "Breakfast. Now."
I sigh, pushing myself up from my chair. My muscles ache from sitting in the same position for too long. My brain feels like static. I don't even remember the last time I blinked.
But I know better than to ignore my dad when he uses that tone.
I grab a hoodie off the floor and shuffle downstairs, barely awake, barely functional. I'm prepared for another tense conversation about the press, the company, the world turning to shit around us—
I am not prepared for what actually comes out of his mouth.
"We need to control the media narrative," my dad says, cutting straight to the point the second I sit down at the kitchen table. "They're obsessed with you and Miras, which means we need to use that to our advantage."
I pause mid-coffee sip, my sleep-deprived brain trying to process what he's saying. "What?"
Dad leans forward, clasping his hands together. "You and Miras are already being speculated about. The media is desperate for a headline that isn't 'Cherish Battle, ticking time bomb.' If we give them a different story, something they want to talk about, it'll take the pressure off you and the company."
I blink at him. Then again. Because surely, I'm hallucinating.
Finally, I say, "Dad, I've been awake for over twenty-four hours, and I swear to God, it just sounded like you suggested I fake-date Miras."
Silence.
Dad doesn't blink.
I stare at him. "Oh my God. You're serious."
"This could work, Cherish."
"This could work?" My voice jumps half an octave. "Are you insane? You want me to fake a relationship with Miras?"
Dad doesn't even flinch. "It's a strategy. People love a good romance story. It makes you seem more human, more relatable. If they're invested in your relationship, they're not tearing you apart on live television."
I put my coffee down before I throw it. "That is the worst idea I have ever heard in my life. And I know Miras."
"Speaking of," my dad says, glancing at his watch. "I already spoke to him."
My stomach drops.
I don't know what's worse—the fact that my dad talked to Miras about this before me, or the fact that Miras hasn't already kicked the door down to gloat about it.
"Are you serious?!" I push back from the table. "Why would you—why would he—" I stop, shaking my head, already dreading whatever smug bullshit Miras is about to pull. "And what did he say?"
Dad takes a sip of his coffee. "He said, and I quote, 'Oh, this is going to be hilarious.'"
I groan so loudly the walls shake.
Of course he did.
Of course, Miras would find this funny.
I drop my head onto the table. "You are ruining my life."
"You don't have to like it," Dad says, completely unaffected. "You just have to make it work."
I lift my head just enough to glare at him. "You know he's going to milk this for everything it's worth, right?"
Dad shrugs. "Then let him. As long as it gets the press off our backs, I don't care what he does."
I groan again, shoving my chair back. "I need to go throw myself into traffic real quick."
And then, as if summoned by my pure, unfiltered misery, Miras walks into the kitchen—grinning like the asshole he is.
"Oh, good, you're awake," he says, sliding into the chair across from me. "We should probably start discussing our tragic, slow-burn romance. I was thinking enemies-to-lovers. Real dramatic tension. Maybe some forbidden love energy."
I glare at him. "I hate you."
Miras smirks. "And yet," he gestures between us, "we're about to be the greatest love story the world has ever seen."
"Okay, let's all just think for a second," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Because this is actually insane."
Miras rests his chin on his hand, watching me with pure enjoyment, like this is the best entertainment he's had in weeks. My dad, on the other hand, looks completely unmoved, as if faking a relationship with my biggest headache isn't a nightmare scenario.
But I have one argument left. My trump card.
I look straight at my dad and say, "Miras is already in a relationship."
Silence.
Miras blinks, then leans back in his chair. "Am I?"
I gape at him. "Yes, you are. Or did you forget about your actual girlfriend?"
And just like that, his stupid smirk finally falters.
Dad frowns. "Who?"
I cross my arms. "Nakita Sanders."
The moment I say her name, Imani, who's been conveniently standing near the fridge, starts cackling.
Meanwhile, Miras looks... annoyingly unbothered. "Huh. Right. Nakita."
I glare at him. "Don't act like you forgot."
Dad sighs, already looking impatient. "And this is a problem because...?"
I stare at him. "Because she hates me."
"Seems like a you problem."
I choke. "Are you serious?! This is the same girl who has made my life a living hell since we were kids!"
Dad just lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And?"
I gawk at him. "And?! And she's not going to love the idea of her boyfriend publicly fake-dating me! What do you think she's going to do? Smile and wave?"
Miras, the absolute traitor, just shrugs. "I mean, I haven't technically talked to her about it yet."
I stare at him. "You. Haven't. Talked. To. Her."
Miras tilts his head. "Nope."
I nearly scream. "And you don't think she's going to have a problem with this?"
Imani casually takes a bite of his apple. "I dunno, man. Nakita's very chill."
I whip my head toward him, my voice deadpan. "She threw a protein shake at my face last week."
Imani shrugs. "Yeah, but to be fair, you kinda deserved that one."
"I corrected her math!"
Dad sighs like I'm being the dramatic one. "So what exactly are you suggesting? That we scrap this whole plan because you and Nakita don't get along?"
I throw my hands up. "I'm suggesting that this is a horrible idea for a long list of reasons, including the fact that Nakita is going to lose her mind and possibly commit a felony when she hears about this."
Miras taps his fingers against the table, looking entirely too relaxed. "Yeah, that's probably true."
I stare at him. "You're not even denying it?"
"Nope."
"Then why are you agreeing to this?"
Miras just grins. "Because, sweetheart, I really want to see what Nakita does when she finds out."
I drop my head onto the table.
This isn't happening.
This cannot be happening.
"You'll need to make the announcement official at the Christmas gala."
I blink. No.
Miras, the absolute menace, perks up. "Oh, we're doing a public reveal? Love that. Really sells the story."
I snap my head toward my dad. "You cannot be serious."
Dad leans back in his chair, completely unfazed by my suffering. "The media already sees you two as a story. This solidifies it. The Christmas and New Year's events are covered by every major outlet. If you and Miras debut as a couple, the press will shift focus. Instead of tearing you apart, they'll start obsessing over your relationship instead."
I press my hands against my temples. "Okay. Let's ignore, for a moment, how completely insane this is. What happens when they realize it's all fake?"
Dad takes a sip of his coffee. "Then you break up."
Miras whistles. "Oof. Rough. Gonna need a heartbreaking reason for it. Maybe you cheat on me with Imani?"
Imani, still lounging by the fridge, doesn't miss a beat. "Make it messy. Really sell the drama."
I throw a napkin at him. "Shut up!"
Dad sets his mug down. "This isn't up for debate, Cherish. You'll announce it at the Christmas gala. It'll look good for the company, and it will get the press off your back."
I let out a miserable groan. "This is blackmail."
"It's strategy," he corrects.
"It's a train wreck waiting to happen."
Miras leans his elbow on the table, smirking. "Oh, come on, sweetheart. Think of the romance. The twinkling lights. The dramatic holiday reveal. Real Hallmark movie vibes."
I stare at him. "Miras, I will strangle you."
Imani nods, looking impressed. "She will. She has the hands for it."
Dad sighs, standing up. "You'll figure out the details. Just make sure it's believable."
And then, like he hasn't just ruined my life, he walks out of the kitchen, leaving me with these two idiots and the weight of my impending doom.
I drop my head onto the table again.
Miras nudges my shoulder. "Hey. On the bright side, at least Nakita won't be mad at you specifically."
I turn my head slightly, glaring at him. "Oh?"
He shrugs, completely unfazed. "Yeah. She'll be mad at me."
I sit up. "Oh my God. You're right."
I straighten completely, realization hitting me all at once.
"Nakita is going to murder you."