Chapter 8 - Chapter Eight

*Trigger warnings* violence, swearing, implied physical assault.

I don't know which is worse: the fact that I'm being forced to participate in this ridiculous charade, or the fact that I now have to spend my entire afternoon picking out a dress to make this disaster look believable.

And of course, because my dad enjoys my suffering, he sent me with Aunt Nayley.

She's already pulling me through the entrance of some high-end boutique, her grip firm, like she knows I'll run if she lets go.

"I can walk, you know," I grumble.

"Yes, but I'm faster," she says, entirely unbothered.

The store is one of those places where the air smells expensive, and the sales associates look at you like they're determining whether you deserve to be here. Aunt Nayley, however, couldn't care less.

"Oh, this is exciting," she says, already flipping through a rack of dresses. "A proper Christmas gala, a big romantic announcement-it's like a movie!"

I stare at her. "It's nothing like a movie."

She waves a hand. "Fine, fine. It's more like a strategically planned PR stunt to salvage your father's company's reputation. Happy?"

"Not even remotely."

She sighs. "You're so dramatic."

I gape at her. "Me? Me? I'm dramatic? The person being forced into a fake relationship for the sake of corporate damage control? That's dramatic?"

She hums thoughtfully. "Okay, yeah, fair."

I groan, running a hand down my face. "I hate this."

"I know, sweetheart," she says, patting my cheek. "But if we're going to suffer, we might as well look amazing while doing it."

She shoves a handful of dresses at me, and before I can protest, she's guiding me toward the dressing rooms.

I sigh, dragging my feet. "I swear, I don't even care what I wear. It's not like I'm actually trying to impress Miras."

Aunt Nayley stops, turning to give me a look. "Oh, honey," she says, her voice way too amused. "This isn't about impressing him."

I frown. "Then what-"

"You're making a statement, Cherish." She gestures broadly. "The media is going to be obsessed with this reveal. You want to walk into that party looking so undeniably stunning that nobody questions a thing."

I groan. "I hate that you're right."

She grins. "That's why I'm here."

I roll my eyes but take the dresses from her and step into the dressing room.

As I try on the first one-an obnoxiously glamorous deep red gown-I hear Aunt Nayley settle onto the couch just outside.

"So," she says casually, "how are things really going with Miras?"

I snort. "Terribly, as expected."

"Ah. Love that for you."

I roll my eyes. "It's not love, it's suffering."

She hums. "That's what most relationships feel like, honestly."

I poke my head out from behind the curtain. "You do remember this isn't real, right?"

She smirks. "Doesn't mean you two don't act real."

I groan. "You and literally everyone else are going to make this so much worse."

She shrugs. "If I have to suffer through watching this ridiculous stunt, I'm at least going to have fun with it."

I sigh, stepping out fully. "Okay. How bad is it?"

She leans back, assessing the dress. "Honestly? You look like you walked off a movie set. It's dramatic. Sultry. Red is the color of scandal, after all."

I stand in front of the mirror, tugging at the fabric of the emerald-green dress Aunt Nayley insisted I try on. It's a little too clingy, a little too soft, a little too Miras is going to make fun of me for wearing this.

"You look breathtaking," Aunt Nayley announces from her seat outside the dressing room. "Absolutely divine. Miras will die."

"That's not exactly the goal here," I mutter, still twisting to get a better look at myself.

She hums, unconvinced. "Could have fooled me."

I shoot her a look through the mirror, but my focus isn't on the dress anymore. Not really.

Now's my chance. If there's one thing about Aunt Nayley, it's that she loves to talk-especially when there's drama involved. And there's plenty of drama right now.

"So," I say, keeping my tone casual. "How's Miras planning to tell Nakita about... this?" I gesture vaguely at my reflection, at the absurdity of the entire situation.

Aunt Nayley leans back, stretching her arms along the couch. "Oh, that," she says, like I just asked her about the weather. "Yeah, I think he's still trying to figure out how to break it to her without getting murdered."

I arch an eyebrow. "That's... reassuring."

"Oh, don't worry," she waves a hand, completely unbothered. "He's definitely getting murdered. The question is just how soon."

I let out a sharp laugh. "I mean, Nakita already hates me. This is just going to make it so much worse."

"Yep," Aunt Nayley agrees cheerfully. "But, to be fair, Miras was always going to end up in this mess the moment he started dating her."

I blink. "You don't like Nakita?"

She scoffs. "Oh, please. I tolerate Nakita, but do you think anyone in the family actually likes her?"

That... surprises me. I knew Nakita wasn't winning any popularity contests in my social circle, but the way she acts, you'd think she owned Miras's family.

Aunt Nayley crosses her legs, watching me carefully now. "You know, you're taking this awfully well."

I exhale, turning back to the mirror, watching how the light catches on the silky green fabric. "It's not like I have a choice."

"No, but you do have an opinion."

I hesitate, fingers curling slightly in the material of the dress. "It just... sucks, I guess."

Aunt Nayley doesn't push, which is rare for her. Instead, she tilts her head. "You ever wonder why Miras is with Nakita?"

That throws me off. "What?"

She shrugs. "I mean, don't get me wrong, she's gorgeous. But you and I both know that girl's got the personality of a wet napkin soaked in gasoline. So why's he still with her?"

I frown. "I don't know. Maybe he just... doesn't care?"

Aunt Nayley laughs. "Oh, honey, Miras cares about everything. He just pretends he doesn't."

I don't have an answer to that.

"So," she continues, "if he does care, and he knows Nakita is a nightmare, why is he still with her?"

I swallow. "Maybe he doesn't think he deserves better."

Aunt Nayley's smirk fades slightly, and there's something knowing in her gaze. "Yeah," she says softly. "Maybe."

The room feels too quiet now. Too exposed.

I shake my head, forcing the conversation back on track. "So, what? Is Miras just going to tell Nakita straight up that this fake relationship thing is happening?"

Aunt Nayley snorts. "That would be the smart thing to do."

I groan. "Which means he isn't doing that."

"Bingo."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "So what's his brilliant plan?"

She grins. "Avoid Nakita for as long as possible and hope for the best."

I stare at her.

Then, very calmly, I turn and walk straight back into the dressing room.

"Where are you going?" she calls.

"To change," I say flatly. "Because I have just realized that no dress on this planet is going to make up for the disaster that's about to happen."

*****

I change back into my regular clothes, yanking off the dress with a little too much force. Miras avoiding Nakita is like putting a bandage on a bullet wound. It won't stop the inevitable explosion-it'll just make it worse when it finally happens.

Aunt Nayley is still grinning when I step out of the dressing room. She hands my dress to the store clerk along with my dad's credit card, ignoring my look of betrayal. "We'll take this one."

I open my mouth to argue but stop myself. It's not like I care what I wear to this disaster of a party.

"Should I text Miras and tell him his plan is stupid or should I let him figure it out the hard way?" I ask.

Aunt Nayley hums, tapping her chin. "Let's see. If we tell him now, he might rethink his approach. But if we wait, we get the entertainment of watching him flail like a fish out of water when Nakita inevitably hunts him down."

I sigh. "You're choosing chaos."

"I'm choosing fun."

I don't argue because, honestly, she has a point.

As soon as we step outside, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and groan. Speak of the devil.

Miras: Where are you?

Miras: I need backup.

Miras: Cherish, answer your phone.

Miras: This is a life-or-death situation.

I sigh dramatically, holding my phone up for Aunt Nayley to see. "Told you."

She just cackles. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

I roll my eyes and finally answer the call. "Miras, what did you do?"

"I exist," he deadpans. "And Nakita is not happy about it."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What. Happened."

A beat of silence. Then, "Okay, technically, I haven't told her yet."

I nearly drop my phone. "Are you kidding me?"

"I tried! But then she started talking about how she wants to book a weekend trip for us over winter break, and how exactly was I supposed to say, 'Hey, by the way, I have to fake date Cherish for the media because her dad is forcing us to'?"

I groan. "Miras-"

"And then, somehow, she saw the stupid news headlines about me being your security detail and maybe dating you, and now she's convinced I'm cheating on her. And by convinced, I mean she's screaming so loud the janitor looked concerned."

I blink. "Wait. She already saw the headlines?"

"Oh yeah. And she's livid."

From the background noise, I hear something slam-probably a locker. Then, faintly, I hear Nakita's voice shrieking something about "lying" and "humiliation."

"Yeah," I mutter. "She sounds real chill."

"This is not the time for sarcasm, Cherish."

"Then you definitely called the wrong person."

"Can you just-just come here?" He sounds desperate. "I need an out."

Aunt Nayley arches a brow at me, clearly enjoying this entire situation.

I sigh. "I hate you."

"Great, fantastic, come save me."

****

I find Miras cornered near the lockers, with Nakita standing in front of him, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

"Oh, good," she sneers when she spots me. "Here comes the other woman."

Miras mutters, "Kill me."

I force on my most unbothered expression. "Relax, Nakita. No one's stealing your boyfriend."

She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "That's funny, considering the entire internet thinks otherwise."

I glance at Miras. "You really botched this, huh?"

He groans. "Can you not?"

I turn back to Nakita, arms crossed. "Look, Miras is an idiot, but he's not cheating on you. This whole thing is my dad's idea, and I got roped into it as much as he did."

"Oh, please." She rolls her eyes. "Even if this whole 'fake relationship' thing is real-which, by the way, sounds like the dumbest excuse I've ever heard-you expect me to just accept it? You expect me to be okay with my boyfriend spending an entire Christmas party parading around with you?"

I sigh. "Honestly? No. But I don't care enough to lie to you about it."

She glares at me. Then at Miras. "And you just went along with this?"

He rubs his temples. "You think I want to do this?"

"You didn't tell me!"

"I was going to-"

"When? After the party?"

I sigh, already tired of this. "Look, we're all miserable here, okay? If it makes you feel better, I hate this more than you do."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better."

I shrug. "Take it up with my dad."

Nakita glares at Miras for a long moment before shaking her head in pure disbelief. "I cannot believe you." She turns on her heel and storms off.

Miras groans and lets his head thunk against the lockers. "That went horribly."

I pat his shoulder. "That's what you get for waiting too long."

He glares at me. "Remind me never to call you for help again."

I smirk. "No promises."

By the time we get back to my house, I'm already exhausted. The last thing I want to do is sit through a strategy meeting about how to fake a relationship with Miras for the entire world to see.

But, apparently, this is my life now.

Aunt Nayley looks entirely too excited as she makes herself comfortable in my dad's office, sitting across from me and Miras like she's about to conduct an intervention. Miras, of course, is slouched in his chair, looking about as interested in this as he would be in a math test.

I cross my arms. "Do we really have to do this?"

Aunt Nayley grins. "Oh, absolutely."

Miras sighs dramatically. "We could just wing it."

I whip my head toward him. "Oh, sure. Let's wing it in front of every major media outlet at my father's Christmas gala. That won't end horribly at all."

He smirks. "Glad you agree."

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "We need a plan."

Aunt Nayley claps her hands together. "See? Cherish gets it."

Miras rolls his eyes. "Fine. What do we have to 'plan,' exactly? Just throw on a dress, hold my hand a couple times, and let the world lose its mind. Easy."

Aunt Nayley gasps in mock horror. "Oh, sweetheart, you really don't understand anything about PR, do you?"

Miras frowns. "I understand bullshit, and this is a lot of it."

Aunt Nayley ignores him and pulls out her phone. "First thing's first: chemistry."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

She grins. "If you two are going to sell this, you need believability. The way you talk to each other, the way you look at each other-"

"Oh, we're so doomed," I mutter.

Aunt Nayley waves a hand. "It just means you need a backstory. Something cute. Something that will make people swoon instead of questioning everything."

Miras hums. "We could say we fell in love over a game of blackjack."

I scowl. "What? No."

Aunt Nayley tilts her head. "Actually, that would be interesting-"

"No." I glare at Miras. "Try again."

Miras sighs. "Okay, fine. Maybe it was love at first sight."

I snort. "Oh yeah, because nothing screams romance like me wanting to stab you the first time we met."

He grins. "Exactly. It's a passionate story."

Aunt Nayley hums thoughtfully. "Enemies-to-lovers is a fan favorite..."

I groan. "You're both insane."

Dad is sitting behind his desk, flipping through a file-because of course he has a file for this. He adjusts his glasses, looking between me and Miras with his usual unreadable expression. "So. Have you two figured out how to make this believable?"

Miras leans back in his chair, looking way too relaxed for someone who almost got murdered by his actual girlfriend a few hours ago. "Oh yeah. We're going with the 'friends who recently fell in love' angle. Real soft, real romantic." He smirks. "Very believable."

I resist the urge to kick him under the table.

Dad nods. "Good. And your chemistry?"

I blink. "Excuse me?"

Aunt Nayley sighs dramatically. "That's what I said! If they don't look in love, no one's going to believe it."

Dad steeples his fingers. "She's right. If this doesn't sell, it'll backfire. People will start speculating, and I will not have a PR disaster on my hands."

I gawk at him. "A PR disaster? That's your concern? Not the fact that you're asking your daughter to fake-date an actual menace?"

Miras places a hand over his heart, mock-offended. "Ouch, sweetheart."

Dad ignores me. "We'll need to establish a public timeline. How long have you two officially been together?"

I blink. "What?"

Aunt Nayley grins. "Oh, good question."

Miras hums, tapping his fingers against the desk. "Let's see... the media's already been speculating for weeks, so we should probably say we started dating a little before that. Keep it vague, but solid enough that no one questions it."

Dad nods. "Three months."

I choke. "Three months! Miras barley started working here three months ago!"

Miras shrugs. "Honestly? That's generous. We could say six. Your dad hired me because he thought I was such an awesome boyfriend."

I glare at him. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

His smirk deepens. "Immensely."

Dad flips a page in his file. "You'll need to be seen together more often-preferably in casual settings before the gala. The more natural the relationship looks, the less anyone will question it."

Aunt Nayley lights up. "Oh, they should go on a date."

I stare at her in horror. "Absolutely not."

Dad nods. "She's right."

I turn to him, even more horrified. "You're agreeing with her?!"

"It would help solidify the narrative."

I drop my head into my hands. "I am living in a nightmare."

Miras grins. "Oh, come on, sweetheart. It won't be that bad."

I lift my head just enough to glare at him. "If I have to publicly pretend to like you, I am making your life miserable."

He winks. "Looking forward to it."

Dad sighs. "If you two are done, I'd like to move on."

I groan, slumping back in my chair. "God, please do."

Dad turns another page. "We'll need coordinated social media presence."

I stiffen. "Oh, no."

Miras perks up. "Wait. Does this mean we're doing couple photos?"

Dad nods. "A few, strategically placed."

Miras looks way too pleased. "Oh, this is getting better and better."

I groan, dropping my head onto the desk. "I hate all of you."

Dad closes the file, looking satisfied. "Then I'd say this meeting is over."

Aunt Nayley grins. "This is going to be amazing."

Miras stretches, looking relaxed as ever. "I can't wait."

I lift my head, exhaustion sinking in. "I can."

I don't know what's worse-the fact that this date is planned like a government operation, or the fact that I have to spend an entire evening pretending I enjoy Miras' company in a public setting.

Probably both.

Miras and I are sitting at a small, overly fancy café in the city, a spot my father's PR team carefully selected to make us look like the perfect young couple. It's casual enough to seem natural but upscale enough to be photo-worthy. In other words, an absolute nightmare.

I glare at him over my menu. "If you smirk at me one more time, I'm flipping this table."

Miras, of course, smirks. "Careful, sweetheart. That wouldn't look very romantic."

I hate him.

He's leaning back in his chair like he owns the place, wearing a leather jacket that probably costs more than this entire resturant. His hair is perfectly tousled-on purpose-and I know he's only sitting this close to me because it'll look good for the cameras.

Because, of course, there are cameras.

Not official ones, but the kind that matter more.

A few tables away, a girl subtly lifts her phone, pretending to scroll while snapping a photo of us. Someone else whispers behind their menu.

They're watching.

And we have to sell it.

Miras leans forward, propping his chin on his hand. "So. What's our tragic backstory, sweetheart?"

I scowl. "We don't have one."

He gasps, dramatically offended. "No forbidden love? No star-crossed romance? Wow. I thought you'd at least put in some effort."

I stab my fork into my salad. "We met through mutual suffering and got stuck in a PR nightmare together. The end."

Miras snickers. "Mm, I like that. Very realistic."

I exhale sharply, resisting the urge to stab him instead. "Are you actually taking this seriously?"

Miras tilts his head, watching me in that way that makes me deeply uncomfortable. "What, you think I should be whispering sweet nothings across the table?" He leans in, dropping his voice to a teasing murmur. "You look so beautiful in the glow of unwanted media attention, darling."

I shove a bread roll at his face. "Eat that and shut up."

He bites into it, smirking. "Adorable."

God, I hate him.

But then-

His smirk fades just slightly, his eyes flicking to something behind me.

I tense. "What?"

"Pap." His voice drops lower, more serious. "Two o'clock."

I don't turn, but I can feel it now-the subtle shift in the air, the intentional energy of someone trying to capture a moment.

I hate that I know what to do.

Taking a steady breath, I school my expression into something softer. I glance up at Miras through my lashes, reaching across the table like I actually want to touch him.

He catches on immediately, slipping his hand over mine.

It's warm. Solid.

We look like a couple.

I resist the urge to rip my hand away. Instead, I tilt my head, letting my lips curve into something that almost resembles a smile.

Miras, of course, flips the switch effortlessly. He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a lazy kiss to my knuckles, like this is just something he does all the time.

A flash goes off behind me.

I swallow my immediate urge to commit arson.

Instead, I smile a little wider, curling my fingers around his. Pretending.

And through gritted teeth, I say, "I hate you so much."

Miras grins against my knuckles.

I will not sit here, in this painfully romantic café, while Miras flirts with me for the cameras and acts like we're starring in some kind of Hallmark Christmas special.

My father's PR team might have set this up to make us look madly in love, but I refuse to let this turn into an actual date.

So, I do the only thing that makes sense.

I steal Miras' phone.

He barely notices at first-he's too busy pretending to be charming, leaning on the table like he actually enjoys my company. But when I slip the phone from his jacket pocket, his eyes narrow slightly.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice low.

I ignore him, unlocking his phone like the professional menace that I am. (Yes, I know his passcode. Yes, he knows I know his passcode. No, he doesn't like it.)

Miras leans in a little more, watching as I type. "Cherish."

I don't look up. "Shh. I'm fixing this."

Miras' smirk returns, slow and lazy. "Oh? And what exactly needs fixing?"

I don't answer. Instead, I hit send.

Dewey, get your ass to La Belle Café right now. Emergency.

Dewey: What kind of emergency?

I type back: The worst kind. A romantic one.

Dewey: ...Oh GOD.

Dewey: You're on the fake date, aren't you?

I glance up at Miras, who is watching me with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

I type: Yes. Save me.

Dewey: OMW.

I exhale, dropping Miras' phone back onto the table.

He tilts his head. "Do I even want to know?"

I pick up my fork, stabbing a piece of lettuce. "I invited Dewey."

Miras blinks. "You what?"

"You heard me." I shove the lettuce into my mouth, smug. "Now this 'date' is less datey."

Miras just stares at me. "You're unbelievable."

"Thank you."

"You think this is going to help?"

I shrug. "No, but it'll make me feel better."

He runs a hand down his face, muttering something in another language. Probably a very creative insult.

And then-

The doors to the café swing open.

Dewey bursts in, scanning the restaurant like he's about to break up a heist. His eyes land on us, and he marches over way too fast.

Miras exhales sharply. "Oh, for God's sake."

Dewey reaches our table and slams his hands down, loud enough to make people look. "Okay. I'm here. What's the crisis?"

I smile, triumphant. "Hi, Dewey."

Miras groans. "This is not how this was supposed to go."

Dewey slides into the seat next to me, shoving a menu in Miras' direction. "So what are we ordering? I'm starving."

I grin.

Miras glares at me.

Dewey is not subtle.

I knew this when I invited him, and yet, somehow, I still wasn't prepared for just how much worse he could make this entire situation.

He's sitting across from Miras and me, shoving bread into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in weeks, completely oblivious to the uncomfortable stares we're getting from the surrounding tables.

Miras, looking deeply unimpressed, leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "You realize this was supposed to be a date, right?"

Dewey stops mid-chew. "Oh, was it?" he says, voice muffled through the bread. "My bad. I thought it was just a corporate disaster."

Miras glares. "That's what I said."

I smirk, spearing a piece of salad with my fork. "Dewey's just here to supervise."

Dewey swallows and grins. "Yep. Making sure you two really sell the relationship."

Miras sighs, rubbing his temples. "This is so much worse than just suffering through the date."

Dewey beams at him. "You're welcome."

A waitress swings by, giving Dewey a long look before glancing between me and Miras. I can see the recognition in her eyes-the flicker of realization that she's seen us before, probably in one of the millions of online rumors circulating about our fake romance.

Her smile is polite but hesitant as she pulls out her notepad. "Would you three like to order now?"

Before Miras or I can respond, Dewey leans forward, setting his elbows on the table like he's about to conduct an intervention.

"Oh, I'm not with them," he says easily, gesturing between us. "They're actually on a romantic date right now. It's a very serious relationship."

I kick him under the table.

Dewey flinches but keeps smiling. "Ow. Rude."

Miras sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ignore him."

The waitress definitely doesn't know what to do with this. "Um... so just the two of you, then?"

Miras nods, but Dewey cuts in immediately. "Oh, no, I'm definitely eating."

Miras exhales deeply, like he's regretting all of his life choices. "Fantastic."

The waitress takes our orders, still looking extremely confused, then hurries off.

I turn to Dewey, glaring. "Could you at least pretend not to be third-wheeling?"

He grins. "Oh, I could. But I won't."

Miras leans toward me, voice dry. "This was your idea."

"I regret it."

Dewey sits back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "So. What do fake couples talk about during fake dates?"

Miras smirks. "Usually? Their deep, undying love."

I groan. "I hate you."

Dewey nods thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. So romantic."

The table falls into silence, the three of us just staring at each other.

And that's when I realize the worst part of all of this.

Miras and I still have to sell this.

The restaurant is watching. The paparazzi are watching.

So I do something that makes me physically ill.

I turn to Miras, give him my best fake-smitten look, and say in the sweetest voice I can muster, "Miras, darling, can you pass the salt?"

Miras' smirk deepens immediately. He leans in slightly, eyes flickering with way too much enjoyment. "Of course, sweetheart."

He hands me the salt shaker, brushing his fingers against mine on purpose.

I barely resist the urge to throw it at his face.

Dewey, watching all of this, looks physically pained. "Oh my God, I'm gonna be sick."

Miras smirks at him. "Then maybe you shouldn't have come."

Dewey groans, covering his face with his hands. "This is worse than I thought."

A group of girls a few tables away start whispering excitedly, clutching their phones like they've just discovered the scoop of the century. One of them gets up, and before I can even process what's happening, she's standing beside our table, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

"Oh my God, I knew it was you!" She presses a hand to her chest like she might faint. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but we're all huge fans of your story-"

What story?

"-and I was just wondering if we could maybe get a quick picture?"

Dewey, who had been dramatically slumped over the table in secondhand embarrassment just seconds ago, suddenly lights up at the mention of a photo.

"Oh, you want a picture?" He straightens immediately, beaming like he's the one being asked for a photoshoot. "Yeah, of course! I can take it, or-actually, wait, do you want me in it?"

The girl blinks, caught off guard. "Oh! Uh-"

Dewey doesn't wait for an answer. He's already scooting in, throwing an arm over the back of my chair like he belongs here.

Miras stares at him, incredulous. "Are you serious?"

Dewey ignores him entirely, grinning at the girl's phone camera like he was born for the spotlight. "Say 'PR disaster' on three!"

I don't say anything.

Miras doesn't say anything.

Dewey? He counts anyway.

"One, two-three!"

The girl snaps the picture, absolutely delighted, while Miras stares at Dewey like he's considering committing an actual felony.

Dewey leans back, nodding approvingly at the phone screen. "Ooooh, that's a good one. You should tag me. Here, my handle is-"

Miras grabs him by the back of the jacket and physically shoves him away from the girl's phone. "Dewey."

Dewey shrugs him off, undeterred. "What? Just because you're stuck in this PR nightmare doesn't mean I can't enjoy it."

Miras pinches the bridge of his nose. "You weren't even supposed to be here."

Dewey grins. "And yet, here I am."

The girl, still giggling, thanks us and scurries back to her table, where her friends are already whispering and typing furiously on their phones. No doubt the photo will be online within the next five minutes.

I, meanwhile, am contemplating self-exile.

Miras exhales sharply, clearly about to lose the last thread of his patience. "You're an actual menace."

Dewey winks. "You love me."

"I don't."

"Cherish does." Dewey nudges me with his elbow. "Right, bestie?"

I deadpan. "I'm putting laxatives in your next meal."

Dewey gasps, hand over his heart. "Betrayal! In this economy?"

Miras looks directly at me. "This is your fault."

"You smirked at me this morning," I say, stabbing my salad again. "This is what you get."

Miras groans and buries his face in his hands.

Dewey, still having the time of his life, picks up a bread roll and takes a smug bite. "Man, I love being famous."

*****

By the time Miras and I step back into the tower, I already know I'm in trouble.

The air is too still.

Too quiet.

Like a storm is about to break.

Miras, of course, has noticed, too. He doesn't say anything, but the way he exhales sharply and drags a hand through his hair tells me everything I need to know.

We don't even make it down the hall before Imani's voice cuts through the silence.

"Cherish."

I close my eyes briefly, bracing myself, before turning to see him standing at the entrance to the lounge, arms crossed.

Aunt Nayley is next to him, also staring at me.

And next to her-

Oh.

Oh, no.

Dewey is already here.

Sitting comfortably in one of the armchairs. Eating grapes.

Like he wasn't supposed to vanish after the stunt he pulled.

Like he hadn't just single-handedly turned a PR nightmare into a public circus.

Miras groans under his breath. "Of course he is."

Imani's gaze flicks between me and Miras before settling on me again. "You want to explain what the hell that was?"

I feign innocence. "What was what?"

"Cherish."

Dewey, still very much enjoying himself, waves a grape in the air. "He means the whole 'inviting your best friend on your fake PR date' thing. Which, by the way, you're welcome. That was peak entertainment."

Imani pinches the bridge of his nose. "You hijacked the entire purpose of the meeting."

I cross my arms. "Yeah, well, the purpose of the meeting was stupid."

Imani looks like he's considering pacing. "Cherish-"

I hold up a hand. "No. You try sitting across from Miras for an hour while he pretends to be Prince Charming in front of strangers. It's-" I break off, shaking my head. "It's awful."

Miras raises an eyebrow. "You wound me."

I ignore him. "I don't do fake."

Imani lets out a slow breath, reining in his frustration. "I understand that this isn't ideal for you, but this isn't just about what you want. Your father was trying to protect you-"

I scoff. "Protect me? By throwing me to the media like a chew toy?"

Imani is not amused. "And you thought inviting Dewey was the best way to handle that?"

Dewey leans back in the chair, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. "Okay, to be fair, I was an excellent addition."

Miras mutters something in another language. Probably not complimentary.

Imani eyes Dewey's feet on the table but wisely chooses to ignore it. Instead, he turns back to me. "Cherish, whether you like it or not, your face is everywhere right now. The last thing we need is for the media to start twisting your little stunt into something else."

I snort. "What, like some 'tragic love triangle'?"

Imani gives me a very flat look.

My smirk fades.

Oh.

Oh, no.

"They already think that, don't they?" I say, horrified.

Dewey grins. "Oh, yeah. It's trending."

Miras groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Unbelievable."

I whip back toward Imani. "Okay, but that's not my fault. I invited Dewey, I didn't-"

"-Think about how that would look?" Imani finishes, voice tight.

I open my mouth. Close it again.

Because, okay. Maybe I should've thought about that. Maybe I should've realized that the internet would run with this and make it so much worse.

But in my defense, I had been a little distracted by Miras being insufferable.

I sigh, rubbing my temples. "Fine. I get it. Lesson learned."

Imani nods sharply. "Good. Because this just made things ten times harder for your father's PR team."

I groan. "Oh, I'm so sorry for the people who decided that lying to the public was the best way to handle this. What a tragedy."

Aunt Nayley's lips twitch slightly, like she wants to be amused but is very much not allowing it.

I point at Dewey. "He literally sat at our table and ate free breadsticks. Who in their right mind would believe that I'm secretly in love with both of them?"

Dewey grins. "I mean, I am pretty irresistible."

Miras shoots him a withering glare. "You're not helping."

Dewey tosses a grape in the air, catches it in his mouth, and grins. "So. When's the wedding?"

*******

The ballroom is suffocating. Glittering chandeliers, velvet drapes, and too many people in clothes that cost more than clothes ever should. The PR team has made sure the lighting is perfect, the cameras are positioned at all the right angles, and the music is set at just the right volume to allow whispered gossip to travel.

I hate everything about this.

But none of it is as bad as him.

Miras.

Because the second I step into the ballroom, I know something has shifted.

I see it in his eyes.

And I don't know if it's an act.

Miras is standing at the base of the staircase when I enter, already the center of attention in his black suit. His tie is loose-carefully careless-his sleeves pushed up just slightly, like he didn't have to try to look like this.

I hate that it works.

The moment his gaze finds me, something in his expression flickers.

It's not his usual smirk. Not the infuriating, teasing look he wears when he's trying to get under my skin. This is different. It's slow. Intentional.

Like he's really seeing me.

And I have no idea if he's acting.

I tighten my fingers around the skirt of my dress, ignoring the way my pulse stutters. I know what I look like. The PR team made sure of that. The deep red dress hugs my frame perfectly, the fabric smooth and flowing as I move, my hair pinned in a way that makes me look like someone else. Someone elegant. Someone who belongs here.

Someone who isn't me.

I force my spine to stay straight, my lips tilting into the perfect, camera-ready smile. I can do this. I have to do this.

Miras takes a step forward. And another.

And suddenly, he's right in front of me.

I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze. "You're staring."

Miras' lips curve, slow and deliberate. "Am I?"

I exhale sharply. "Yes."

His head tilts slightly, eyes flicking over my dress. His voice drops just low enough for only me to hear. "Can you blame me?"

Something in my stomach twists.

I don't know if he's acting.

Before I can respond, he lifts his hand, fingers brushing against mine. He knows we're being watched. He knows how this looks.

So when he offers his arm, I have no choice but to take it.

The cameras are already flashing.

We step into the ballroom together, and it feels like the entire world is watching.

Miras, of course, looks entirely at ease. He guides me through the crowd like he was born for this, his grip on my waist just firm enough to look protective, but not feel real.

I keep my smile in place, pretending like my heart isn't trying to claw its way out of my ribs.

This is fine. I can handle this.

And then-

Miras reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, velvet box.

Oh no.

I blink at him, my perfect PR smile faltering slightly. "What are you doing?"

Miras' smirk is back, but there's something else beneath it. Something I can't place.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

And then-before I can react-he's flipping open the box.

Inside is a bracelet.

Silver, delicate, lined with small, brilliant diamonds. But not just any diamonds. I recognize them.

Because I remember the mission. I remember the object we stole from that alien ship. How, once it was cracked open, the diamonds inside had been unlike anything found on Earth.

Miras had kept them.

And now-

He's giving them to me.

For a split second, I forget how to breathe.

I forget about the cameras. The audience. The act.

Because this doesn't feel like part of the script.

I stare at him, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my dress. "You-" My voice catches. "Why?"

Miras lifts the bracelet from the box, carefully taking my wrist.

His fingers are warm against my skin.

His voice is softer than before. "Because they belonged to you."

I don't know what to say.

I don't know if he's acting.

But the cameras are watching, so I force a small smile, my throat tight as he fastens the bracelet around my wrist.

The room erupts into applause.

Miras presses a soft kiss to the back of my hand, and my heart stops.

For the cameras.

For the act.

Right?

I swallow hard, gripping his hand a little too tightly as he straightens, still looking at me like that.

Like he means it.

Like he's not pretending.

I am going to kill Miras.

Not right now, because we're standing on an elevated stage in front of a crowd of the wealthiest, most powerful people in the country. Not right now, because the cameras are rolling, and our images are being broadcast across every major news network.

Not right now, because I am still trying to process what just happened.

The bracelet is still on my wrist. The weight of it feels heavier than it should. Every time I move my arm, I feel the cold metal shift against my skin.

I shouldn't feel like this.

Because I know it was for the cameras.

Right?

Miras stands beside me, looking completely at ease, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other resting lightly on the small of my back. A casual touch. The kind that says, Look at us. Look how natural this is.

The kind that I shouldn't be noticing.

The event coordinator steps forward, smiling as she raises her microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, as you all know, tonight has been a celebration of unity, strength, and new beginnings." She turns toward us, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that makes my stomach churn. "And what better way to end this evening than with an announcement that I know many of us have been hoping for?"

The crowd murmurs, anticipation buzzing through the air.

I can feel the weight of every single eye in the room pressing down on me.

Miras squeezes my waist-a subtle, silent warning-and then steps forward, taking the microphone from her hands.

And smiles.

Not the sharp-edged smirk he uses when he's being difficult. Not the taunting grin he flashes when he knows he's getting under my skin.

No, this smile is something else entirely.

Charming. Effortless. The kind of smile that could convince the world of anything.

The kind of smile that makes my stomach drop.

"First of all," Miras begins, voice warm and smooth, "Cherish and I just want to thank everyone for being here tonight."

I do?

That's news to me.

He glances over at me, like he can hear my thoughts, before turning his attention back to the crowd. "As many of you know, things have been... eventful over the past year." A small chuckle ripples through the audience. "There's been a lot of speculation, a lot of questions, and we figured it was about time we gave you all some answers."

He shifts slightly, and suddenly-he's looking at me again.

And I know what's coming.

Miras lifts our joined hands slightly, making sure the cameras catch the gesture. "Cherish and I have been through a lot together," he continues, voice dropping just enough to sound intimate. "We've fought together, we've survived together, and through all of it..." He exhales, eyes locking onto mine.

"Through all of it," Miras repeats, his thumb brushing against the back of my hand, "there's been one thing that's never changed."

The silence in the room is thick. The anticipation tangible.

Miras takes a slow breath. And then-

He smiles.

And destroys me completely.

"I love her."

I feel the words hit me before I fully process them.

I knew this was coming. I knew the script, the plan, the way this was supposed to go.

And yet.

I still forget how to breathe.

Miras is still looking at me, like I'm the only person in the room. The only person in the world.

The crowd erupts.

Applause, cheers, flashing cameras. It's deafening. Overwhelming.

And I can't move.

Because Miras is still holding my hand.

Still watching me.

Still waiting.

I need to say it.

I have to say it.

It's part of the plan.

I take a shaky breath, lift my chin, and smile.

"I love you too."

The party rages on, louder and brighter than before. The entire world now believes that I'm deeply, madly, irrevocably in love with my secret bodyguard. My father is practically glowing, shaking hands, exchanging smiles, thrilled at how well this stunt has played out. Every time I glance in his direction, I see him laughing with someone new-one of the many influential people in attendance, the ones who have now been thoroughly convinced that I am not just surviving.

I am thriving.

Because I have Miras.

I take a sip of champagne, barely tasting it. I've spent the last hour being pulled from conversation to conversation, smiling, nodding, acting. The cameras haven't stopped flashing. Reporters are itching for a moment alone with me. My social feeds are probably on fire.

It should be exhausting. It is exhausting.

But that's not what's bothering me.

What's bothering me is that I haven't seen Miras in over an hour.

He excused himself earlier-something about stepping away for a moment, something about needing a break from the cameras. I didn't question it at first. Didn't even think twice. Because, honestly, who wouldn't want to escape this circus?

But now?

Now it's been too long.

I scan the room again, searching for any sign of him. Nothing. No dark, brooding figure lingering in the background. No sharp gaze following me from a distance. No Miras.

Something about it doesn't sit right.

I set my champagne flute down and slip away from the cluster of people surrounding me, moving toward the outskirts of the ballroom. It's easy enough-most people are too caught up in their own conversations to notice my departure. I weave through the crowd, ignoring the way the fabric of my dress clings to my skin, the weight of the bracelet still cool against my wrist.

I keep looking.

He's not by the bar.

Not by the balconies.

Not near the dance floor.

I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers against my temple. He's fine. He's probably fine.

Except Miras doesn't just disappear. Not like this. Not without making sure I'm covered.

I finally find myself alone, a few steps away from the ballroom. The music still hums faintly in the background, but the closer I get to the quiet corridors, the more I feel the heaviness in my chest. Something is off.

I pull out my phone, hoping to see some kind of update, anything that might calm the frantic pulse in my veins.

It buzzes in my hand, and I hesitate.

The name on the screen is Miras.

I open the message without thinking, but what I see makes my stomach lurch, my blood run cold.

It's a picture.

A blurry, dimly lit image of Miras-bloody, bruised, unconscious. His face is barely recognizable, skin slick with blood, a dark gash running down his forehead. His body is sprawled awkwardly on the ground, his clothes torn in places.

I feel like I've been kicked in the chest. My breath catches.

What the hell happened?

My phone pings again, and I stare at the message.

That's for stealing my boyfriend, bitch.