"Giovanni Rivers," I repeat, because my brain has stopped working.

D.R. *Giovanni Rivers.*

My mystery client-the man whose grief I've painted, whose hope I've captured in fractured light, whose messages I read like poetry-is Giovanni Rivers. Grammy-winning musician. Three-time platinum artist. The man whose face is on every magazine cover, whose voice makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine.

The man whose album covers I've been creating for three years without knowing it was him.

"Miss Jiao? Are you still there?"

I find my voice. Barely. "What does Giovanni Rivers want with me?"

"He'd like to discuss a unique opportunity. A business arrangement that could be mutually beneficial." Marcus's voice is smooth, professional. Like he's done this a thousand times. "I can't discuss details over the phone, but I can tell you it involves substantial compensation. Six figures."

Six figures. The medical bills flash through my mind. The foreclosure notice. My father's face when I tell him we're losing the store.

"What kind of arrangement?" My voice sounds foreign. Desperate.

"I'd prefer to discuss that in person. Would you be Haeilable for a meeting tomorrow? Say, two PM at Maestro's in Beverly Hills?"

Beverly Hills. Public. People everywhere. Cameras. Eyes. The thought makes my lungs constrict.

"I don't do public meetings."

"Miss Jiao, I understand you value your privacy. Giovanni respects that. But this opportunity-" He pauses. "How much do you need to save your father's store?"

Ice floods my veins. "How do you know about that?"

"Your father's store is where Giovanni bought his first vinyl. Back when he was nobody, just a kid with big dreams. He remembers. He'd like to help. But he needs something from you in return."

My hand tightens on the phone. "What does he need?"

"You. For six months. Tomorrow at two. I'll send a car."

The line goes dead.

I sit frozen, phone pressed to my ear, listening to silence. *You. For six months.* What does that even mean?

I should call back. Demand answers. Tell him I'm not interested in mysterious propositions from strangers, no matter how famous.

Instead, I open my laptop and type 'Giovanni Rivers' into the search bar.

Images flood the screen. Him on stage, guitar slung low, eyes closed in that way musicians do when they're lost in the music. Him at award shows in a perfectly tailored suit, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Him leaving restaurants with various women-models, actresses, fellow musicians-none lasting more than a few months.

Recent headlines: 'Giovanni Rivers and Sienna Blake Split: She Claims Abuse.' 'Is Giovanni Rivers Hollywood's Newest Villain?' 'Sources Say Rivers' Label Ready to Drop Him.'

I click on an interview from two months ago. The interviewer asks about his album art. About Veil.

"She's incredible," Giovanni says, and something in his voice makes my skin prickle. "Her art speaks to something broken in me. Like she sees the fractures and makes them beautiful. I don't know who she is, but I feel like she knows me better than anyone."

I replay it. Three times. Five. His voice is deeper than I imagined, rougher. There's pain in it. Recognition. Like we're both hiding from the same thing.

My phone buzzes. Text from unknown number: *Confirm for tomorrow? - Marcus Gray*

I should say no. Should delete the message and pretend this night never happened. Should find another way to save the store that doesn't involve mysterious six-month arrangements with damaged musicians who think they know me through my art.

My fingers type before my brain catches up: *How much?*

Response comes immediately: *$150,000*

Exactly what I need. To the dollar. How does he know?

I type: *For what?*

Marcus: *Come to the meeting. Find out. Car will be there at 1:30. Don't be late.*

I stare at my phone until the screen goes dark. Until I'm looking at my reflection again. That ghost girl with hollow eyes and unwashed hair and a life so small it fits inside four walls.

One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

My father's store.

My mother's memory.

Six months of my life.

I pick up my phone and type: *I'll be there.*

Send it before I can change my mind.

The confirmation comes back immediately: *Smart choice. Wear something nice. See you tomorrow.*

Something nice. I look down at my hoodie. Haven't worn something nice in seven years. Haven't had a reason to.

I walk to my closet and pull open the door. In the back, behind the hoodies and sweatpants, there's a black dress. The one I bought for my college graduation. The one I never got to wear because the viral incident happened two weeks before the ceremony.

I pull it out. Hold it up. The girl who bought this dress believed in herself. Believed the world would be kind.

That girl was an idiot.

But maybe-just maybe-she was also brave.

I hang the dress on the back of my door and crawl into bed. Set my alarm for tomorrow. Stare at the ceiling and try not to think about what I've just agreed to.

Try not to think about Giovanni Rivers.

Try not to think about the way his voice sounded when he said: *She knows me better than anyone.*

My phone buzzes one more time. I grab it, expecting another message from Marcus.

It's an email. From D.R.

Subject: P.S.

I click it with shaking hands.

*I met someone today. She reminds me of you-the way she sees the world, how she hides but creates beauty anyway. Strange coincidence. Or maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.

Tomorrow, I will find out what I really mean to him.*

I close the laptop and pull the covers over my head.

The car arrives at exactly 1:30.

I watch it from my bedroom window-sleek black SUV with tinted windows, driver in a suit waiting by the passenger door. My stomach clenches. This is real. This is actually happening.

The dress fits better than I remembered. Or maybe I'm smaller now. Seven years of barely leaving the house will do that. I've done my best with makeup-minimal, nothing that draws attention. Hair pulled back in a low bun. Simple black flats because I can't remember the last time I wore heels.

I look like someone pretending to be normal. Like a ghost trying to remember how to be human.

"Hae?" My father's voice from downstairs. "The car is here."

I told him I had a business meeting. An art commission. Not technically a lie. I just left out the part about Giovanni Rivers and six-month arrangements and one hundred and fifty thousand dollars that could save everything.

I grab my bag-laptop, tablet, portfolio. Armor. If this goes badly, I can hide behind my work.

The stairs feel endless. Each step down is a step toward something I can't take back. At the bottom, my father waits. He sees me and his face softens.

"You look beautiful, 宝贝." His voice cracks. "Just like your mother."

Tears burn my eyes. I blink them back. "It's just a meeting."

"A meeting where someone sends a car." He studies my face. Knows I'm hiding something. But he doesn't push. He never does. "Be careful, Hae."

"I will."

He kisses my forehead. I memorize the feeling. Just in case.

The driver opens the door as I approach. Doesn't speak. I slide into leather seats that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. The door closes with a soft thunk that sounds like a jail cell locking.

We pull away from the curb. I watch my father's store disappear in the side mirror. Jiao's Vinyl Paradise. Faded paint. Cracked windows. But still standing. Still his.

Still hers.

Traffic is light. We arrive at Maestro's in twenty minutes. My breathing gets shallower with each passing block. By the time we park, my palms are slick with sweat.

The driver opens my door. "Mr. Gray is waiting inside. Private room in the back."

Private room. Thank god. I can do private. It's the public part that destroys me.

I step out. The restaurant is exactly what I expected-expensive, exclusive, the kind of place where you need a reservation three months in advance. The hostess looks me up and down, assessing. Finding me wanting.

"I'm here to see Marcus Gray," I manage.

Her expression shifts. Professional warmth that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course. Right this way."

She leads me through the main dining room. My heart pounds with every step. People eating, talking, laughing. Normal people doing normal things. A few glance up as I pass. I keep my eyes down, counting floor tiles, breathing through my nose.

We reach the back. The hostess opens a door marked 'Private.'

Inside: a man in an expensive suit, mid-forties, styled hair, practiced smile. Marcus Gray. And beside him-

My breath stops.

Giovanni Rivers.

He's bigger than he looks on screen. Taller. More real. Black t-shirt, dark jeans, leather jacket draped over his chair. Tattoos covering both arms-intricate patterns I want to study, want to trace with my fingers, want to capture in charcoal.

But it's his eyes that destroy me. Dark, intense, looking at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Like I'm something that matters.

He stands. The movement is fluid, controlled. "Hae." My name in his voice is different than I imagined. Rougher. Gentler. "Thank you for coming."

I can't speak. Can't move. Can't do anything but stare at the man whose grief I've painted, whose hope I've captured, whose messages I've read like love letters at three AM.

The man who doesn't know I'm Veil.

Marcus clears his throat. "Please, sit." He gestures to the empty chair. "Can we get you anything? Water? Wine?"

"Water." My voice comes out strangled. I clear my throat. "Please."

I sit. Giovanni sits. We're across from each other now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum once against the table before he stills them.

He's nervous.

The thought steadies me somehow. Giovanni Rivers-three-time Grammy winner, platinum artist, man who's performed for millions-is nervous to meet me.

Marcus launches into his pitch. "Miss Jiao, I'll be direct. Giovanni needs help with his public image. Recent events have been... damaging. His ex-girlfriend's allegations, however false, have created a PR nightmare. The label is threatening to drop him if he doesn't rehabilitate his reputation."

I glance at Giovanni. He's watching me, not Marcus. Something in his gaze makes my skin warm.

"What does this have to do with me?" I ask.

"We need someone wholesome. Private. Someone who won't use Giovanni for fame because you clearly don't want it." Marcus slides a folder across the table. "Someone who needs money desperately enough to agree to an arrangement."

My fingers curl around the folder's edge. "What kind of arrangement?"

"Six months as Giovanni's girlfriend. Public appearances. Social media posts. Carefully staged relationship. In return, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Girlfriend. Fake girlfriend. Six months of pretending.

"You want me to lie." My voice is flat.

"We want to offer you an opportunity," Marcus corrects smoothly. "A business transaction. You get the money you need. Giovanni gets his reputation back. Everyone wins."

"Why me?"

Giovanni speaks for the first time since I sat down. "Because you look like being here is the last thing you want." His voice does things to me. Dangerous things. "That means you won't use me. You won't leak stories or sell photos or make this harder than it needs to be."

He's right. Being here is the last thing I want. Every instinct screams at me to run. To hide. To go back to my safe bedroom and my safe screens and my safe anonymous life.

But one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. My father's store. My mother's memory.

I open the folder. Contract. Terms. Compensation schedule. It's all real. All legal. All terrifying.

"I need to think about it."

"Of course," Marcus says. But his tone suggests he knows my answer already. "Take your time. We'll-"

Camera flashes explode outside the window.

My head whips toward the glass. Paparazzi. Telephoto lenses. Pointed at our private room. At me.

The walls close in. The room tilts. My vision tunnels.

Not now. Not here. Please not here.

But it's already happening. The panic attack crashes over me like a wave. Can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel the terror clawing up my throat.

The college quad. Phones everywhere. Cameras. Laughter. My face on every screen. Everyone seeing. Everyone judging. Everyone-

Warm hands grip my shoulders

"Look at me." Giovanni's voice cuts through the panic. "Just me. Not them. Me."

But I can't. The cameras. The flashes. The college quad overlaying this restaurant until I don't know what's real anymore. My chest is a vice. Lungs refusing to work. Throat closing.

I'm dying. I'm actually dying this time.

Giovanni moves. Suddenly he's beside me instead of across from me. His body blocks the window. Blocks the cameras. Blocks everything except him.

"Breathe with me." His hands are steady on my shoulders. Grounding. "In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?"

I shake my head. Can't. Can't breathe at all.

"Yes, you can." His voice is calm. Too calm for someone watching a stranger fall apart. "Look at me, Hae. Focus on my voice. In for four."

He breathes in. Slow. Controlled. I watch his chest rise.

"Hold for four."

I try. Manage two seconds before I'm gasping again.

"That's okay. Try again. In for four."

His hands slide down my arms. Not restraining. Supporting. His thumbs make small circles on my wrists. The touch is gentle. Careful. Like I'm something that might break.

I focus on those circles. The pressure. The rhythm. Try to breathe with him.

In. Hold. Out.

In. Hold. Out.

Slowly-so slowly-my vision clears. The quad fades. I'm back in the restaurant. Private room. Giovanni blocking the window. Marcus on his phone, probably dealing with the paparazzi.

"There you go." Giovanni's voice is soft. Almost tender. "You're okay. You're safe."

I'm not okay. I'm mortified. I just had a panic attack in front of Giovanni Rivers and his manager during what was supposed to be a professional meeting. They probably think I'm insane.

"I'm sorry." My voice is wrecked. "I should go. This was a mistake. I can't-"

"Stop." His hands tighten fractionally on my wrists. "Don't apologize. And don't leave."

"You don't understand. I can't do this. I can't be your fake girlfriend or go to public events or have my picture taken. I can barely leave my house."

"I know." He says it simply. Like it's a fact, not a judgment. "That's why Marcus chose you. Because you won't want the attention. Won't seek it out. You'll do the minimum required and nothing more."

I laugh. The sound is bitter. "You just watched me fall apart because of cameras. How is that the minimum?"

"I get panic attacks too." His admission stops my spiral cold. "After my mom died. During performances. In the middle of interviews. The label makes me take pills. Makes me hide it. Makes me pretend I'm fine when I'm drowning."

I stare at him. Search his face for the lie. Find only truth. Raw, painful truth.

"You're the first person I've told," he continues quietly. "Because you're the first person who might actually understand."

Something shifts in my chest. Not the panic this time. Something else. Something dangerous.

"We're leaving." Giovanni releases my wrists. Immediately I miss his touch. "Back entrance. Marcus, handle the vultures."

Marcus nods, already moving toward the front. Giovanni shrugs into his leather jacket, then does something unexpected. He takes off his baseball cap and puts it on my head. Pulls it low over my face.

"Keep your head down. Stay close." His hand finds the small of my back. The touch is possessive. Protective. "I've got you."

We move through the restaurant. Staff parts for us. Giovanni's presence commands space in a way I never could. We slip through a door marked 'Staff Only,' down a hallway, through the kitJiao where chefs don't even look up, and out into an alley.

A sleek black car idles at the end. Different from the SUV that brought me. Giovanni opens the passenger door. "Get in."

I hesitate. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe." His eyes meet mine. "I promise."

I should say no. Should call my own car. Should put distance between myself and this man who makes me feel too much too fast.

But his hands on my shoulders are still warm on my skin. His voice in my ear still echoes: You're safe.

I get in the car.

Giovanni slides into the driver's seat. Not a driver. Him. He's driving. The intimacy of it-just the two of us in this small space-makes my pulse spike for entirely different reasons.

He pulls out of the alley. Takes side streets instead of main roads. No one follows. After several minutes of silence, he speaks.

"You don't have to do this." His voice is low. "The arrangement. I'll find another way. You shouldn't have to torture yourself for money."

"What if there is no other way?" The words escape before I can stop them. "What if this is my only chance to save something that matters?"

He glances at me. "The store?"

"My mother died three years ago. Cancer. The medical bills..." I swallow hard. "The store is all my father has left of her. Every record, every memory. If we lose it, he loses her all over again."

Giovanni's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry. About your mother."

"Me too." I trace the window with one finger. "About yours."

His jaw tightens. "How did you know?"

"I googled you. Last night. After Marcus called." I risk a glance at him. "You mentioned her in an interview. Two years ago. You cried during your Grammy speech."

"The label said it was good for my image." His laugh is hollow. "Humanized me. Made me relatable. They had no idea I was actually breaking."

We drive in silence. I study his profile. Strong jaw. Straight nose. The kind of face that belongs on screens and magazine covers. But there's pain in the lines around his eyes. Exhaustion in the set of his shoulders.

He's not what I expected. Not the arrogant celebrity or damaged artist the media paints him as. He's just... a person. Broken in the same places I am.

"Where are we going?" I ask again.

"My place. Private. Gated. No cameras. I want to show you something. Then you can decide." He pulls onto a highway heading west. "About the arrangement. About all of it."

I should be scared. Should demand he take me home. I don't know this man. Don't know if I can trust him.

But I've read his messages for three years. Know his grief and his hope and the way he sees beauty in broken things. And right now, sitting beside him in this car, I feel safer than I have in seven years.

Which is exactly what makes him dangerous.

We turn into the Hollywood Hills. The houses get bigger, more private, surrounded by walls and gates. He stops at one-massive iron gates with a security panel. Types in a code. The gates swing open.

The driveway is long. Winding. Trees on both sides creating a tunnel of green. Then the house appears.

Modern. Glass and steel. Beautiful in a stark, lonely way. And beside it, a smaller building. Guest house, maybe.

He parks. Kills the engine. Sits in silence for a moment before turning to me.

"Before we go in, I need to tell you something." His eyes are serious. "I know this is insane. The whole arrangement. Asking a stranger to pretend to be my girlfriend. But I'm desperate, and you're desperate, and maybe that makes us perfect for each other."

"Or maybe it makes us both idiots," I counter.

His lips quirk. Almost a smile. "Also possible." He opens his door. "Come on. I want to show you where you'd be staying. If you agree."

I follow him out. The air is cooler here. Cleaner. I can see the city sprawling below, glittering in the afternoon sun. It's beautiful. Isolated. Safe.

Everything I need. Everything I fear.

But instead of going to the guesthouse, he stops at another door. The studio.

"I want to show you something first." He opens the door.

I step inside and my heart stops.