"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.

My art is everywhere.

Every. Single. Wall.

The album covers I created for D.R.-for him-printed massive and framed like museums. But not just those. Prints from my online shop. Sketches I posted once and deleted. Work from years ago I barely remember.

I'm standing in a shrine to Veil. To me.

My knees go weak.

"Hae?" Giovanni's hand steadies my elbow. "You okay?"

I can't speak. Can't tear my eyes away from three years of my soul laid bare.

"I know it's a lot," he says quietly. "But I wanted you to understand. This isn't just about PR or fake relationships." He moves beside me. "Veil's art saved me when nothing else could."

Her work. He said her work. Does he know?

But then he continues: "I've never met her. Don't even know her real name. But her art..." He touches one frame-my favorite, the one I painted after my mother died. "It's like she understands pain."

He doesn't know. Relief and disappointment war in my chest.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you asked why I chose you." He turns to face me. We're close. "You remind me of her. Of Veil. The way you hide but create beauty anyway."

My breath catches. He's comparing me to myself. Falling for me twice without knowing it.

I should tell him. Right now. Confess that I'm Veil.

But if I tell him, this moment ends. The arrangement ends. Any chance of helping my father ends.

"What happened to you?" he asks softly. "What made you so afraid?"

I could lie. Should lie. But he shared his panic attacks. His mother.

"College. My roommate took a photo. Photoshopped it. Posted it online. It went viral. My face became a meme. Everyone laughing." The words come faster. "I couldn't leave my dorm. Couldn't go to classes. I dropped out."

"Jesus." His hand lifts, then drops. "That's why you hide."

"I reinvented myself online. Anonymous. Safe. Veil." I watch his reaction. Still nothing. "Built a career from nothing. But I can't go back out there."

"Even for your father?"

The question lands like a blade. "That's not fair."

"No. It's not." He steps closer. "None of this is fair. But sometimes we don't get fair. We get choices."

"And you think I should choose this? Six months of lying?"

"I think you should choose to save something you love." His voice drops. "The rest-we'll figure it out."

We'll. Not you. We.

The word does something to me.

"I need guarantees. Privacy. Boundaries. No surprise paparazzi. Everything scheduled. Everything planned."

"Done."

"I want it in the contract."

"Done."

"And separate living spaces. I can't share a house. I need my space."

"The guesthouse is yours." He's already moving. "Let me show you."

The guesthouse is perfect. Small but not cramped. One bedroom. Kitchenette. Bathroom. Large windows. And most importantly-separate. Private. Mine.

"You'd have your own entrance." Giovanni gestures. "I wouldn't come over unless you invited me. Complete privacy."

I walk through. Touch the counters. Peer into the bedroom. It's bigger than my childhood room. Waiting for someone to make it home.

"I could work here," I say quietly. "My art. The livestreams. No one would know where I am."

"No one," he confirms. "This property is completely private. Gated. Secure. You'd be safe."

Safe. The word I've been chasing for seven years.

I turn to face him. He's standing in the doorway, backlit. Waiting for my answer.

"Why are you really doing this? You could find anyone. Someone who wants fame."

"Because everyone wants something from me. Fame. Money. Access. Photos." He shakes his head. "But you looked at me like I was the last person you wanted to see. That means you won't use me. Won't sell me out."

"I could. After. When the six months are up and I have the money."

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because you understand what it's like to have your privacy violated. You wouldn't do that to someone else." He crosses his arms. "Also, the contract has a pretty vicious NDA."

I laugh. The sound surprises both of us. "Practical and idealistic."

"I'm a Cancer. We're complicated."

The moment stretches.

"When would it start?" I hear myself ask.

"Immediately. You'd move in this week. Soft launch on social media. First public appearance next month." He's being careful not to push. "Marcus would handle everything. Schedule. Photos. What to wear. You'd just have to show up."

Just show up.

But I think about my father's face when I tell him the store is saved. Think about the foreclosure notice disappearing. Think about Giovanni's hands on my shoulders: You're safe.

Think about six months in this guesthouse. Away from my childhood bedroom and the walls that have kept me prisoner.

Maybe this is my chance. Not just to save the store. But to save myself.

"Okay." The word comes out steady. "I'll do it."

Giovanni's shoulders drop. Relief. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I want everything in writing. Every guarantee. Every boundary. And if you violate any of them-"

"You walk away with the money. No questions asked." He extends his hand. "Deal?"

I stare at his hand. Once I shake it, I'm committed. Six months of lying. Six months pretending to be someone's girlfriend while hiding the fact that I'm the artist whose work covers his studio walls.

Six months of the most complicated lie I've ever told.

But also-six months with someone who might understand. Who gets panic attacks. Who sees broken things and finds them beautiful.

I take his hand.

His grip is firm. Warm. The contact sends electricity up my arm. Our eyes lock. Neither of us moves.

Then his phone rings.

He releases my hand to check it. "Marcus. I should-"

"Take it."

He answers. "Yeah?" Pause. His expression darkens. "When?" Another pause. "Fuck. Okay. Handle it."

He hangs up. Runs a hand through his hair. "The paparazzi got photos. Of us leaving the restaurant. Of you. They're already posting."

Ice floods my veins. "What kind of photos?"

"Your face is mostly hidden. The cap helped. But they're speculating. Marcus says we need to control the narrative before they dig deeper."

"How?"

"We go public. Now. Tonight. Post a photo. Announce the relationship on our terms." He watches my face. "Are you okay with that?"

No. Everything is moving too fast. Too public. Too real.

But I think about the contract. The money. My father.

"What kind of photo?"

"Something simple. Casual. Like we're just... together. Natural."

Nothing about this is natural. But I nod anyway.

He steps closer. His hand lifts to my face, gentle, giving me time to pull away. I don't. His fingers tuck hair behind my ear. The touch is intimate. Careful.

"Is this okay?" he whispers.

My heart is racing. Not from panic. From something more dangerous.

"Yes."

He takes out his phone. Pulls me closer with his other hand, warm on my waist. I can feel his heartbeat.

"Look at me," he says softly.

I do. His eyes are dark. Intense. Looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.

He's acting, I tell myself. This is all acting. For the camera. For the world.

But when his thumb traces my cheekbone, when his lips curve into a small smile, when he whispers, "Perfect"-

It doesn't feel like acting at all.

He takes the photo. Shows it to me. We look happy. Natural. Like we belong together.

Like we're not lying at all.

"I'm going to post it," he says. "Last chance to back out."

I should back out. Should run. Should choose safety over salvation.

Instead, I watch his thumb hover over the 'post' button and whisper: "Do it."

He posts.

And just like that, the world knows I exist.

His thumb hovers over the screen for three seconds that feel like three years.

Then he presses post.

The photo uploads. Me and Giovanni Rivers, looking at each other like we're the only two people in the world. The caption is simple: "Sometimes the best things happen when you're not looking."

Within seconds, the likes start rolling in. Hundreds. Thousands. Comments flooding faster than I can read them.

My phone-which has been silent for years-starts buzzing. Notifications. Messages. People I haven't talked to since college suddenly want to know who I am.

I watch the numbers climb and my chest tightens.

"Hey." Giovanni's hand covers my phone screen. "Don't look at that. Look at me."

I do. His eyes are concerned. Understanding.

"We don't have to read any of it," he says quietly. "Marcus will handle the press. We just... exist. Together. That's all."

Just exist together. Like it's simple. Like my entire life didn't just become public property.

But his hand is still on mine. Warm. Steady. Real.

"I should go home," I hear myself say. "My father-he'll see this. He'll have questions."

Giovanni nods slowly. Doesn't let go of my hand. "Let me drive you."

"You don't have to-"

"I want to." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. The gesture is so casual, so intimate, it makes my breath catch. "Please."

Twenty minutes later, we're pulling up to my father's apartment above the record store. The sun is setting, painting everything gold and amber. Giovanni kills the engine but doesn't move.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "About the restaurant. The panic attack. Ruining everything before it even started."

He turns to face me. "You didn't ruin anything."

"I fell apart in front of cameras. That's literally the opposite of what you need."

"Hae." He says my name like it matters. "If anything, you made it real."

I blink. "What?"

"The whole point is to look like a real couple. Real couples aren't perfect. They're messy and complicated and..." He gestures between us. "What happened today? Me helping you through a panic attack? That's more real than any staged photo could ever be."

My throat tightens. "You're being kind because you feel sorry for me."

"I'm being kind because I know what it's like." His voice drops. Raw. "The panic attacks. The feeling like you're dying. The shame after."

I study his face. See the truth there.

"When's the last time you had one?" I ask softly.

"Three weeks ago. Middle of a recording session. Had to lock myself in the bathroom for an hour." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The label thinks I was being difficult. Diva behavior. They have no idea I was on the floor trying to remember how to breathe."

"Why didn't you tell them?"

"Because they'd see it as weakness. Liability. Another reason to drop me." He meets my eyes. "You're the first person I've told. The first person who might actually understand."

The confession sits between us. Heavy. Important.

"I understand," I whisper.

His hand finds mine again. Fingers lacing through mine like it's natural. Like we've done this a thousand times.

"I know you do." He squeezes gently. "That's why this might actually work."

We sit in silence. The sky darkens. His thumb traces patterns on the back of my hand and I'm acutely aware of every point of contact. The warmth of his skin. The calluses on his fingers from guitar strings. The way my pulse jumps every time he moves.

"I should go in," I say. Don't move.

"Yeah." He doesn't let go of my hand.

"My father's probably worried."

"Probably."

Neither of us moves.

Then I do something brave. Something terrifying. I reach out with my free hand and touch his arm. Brief. Tentative. My fingers barely grazing the tattoos I've been wanting to trace since I first saw them.

"Thank you," I whisper. "For not giving up on me."

He goes very still. His eyes drop to where my hand rests on his forearm. When he looks up, something in his expression makes my stomach flip.

His other hand covers mine. Trapping it against his skin. The touch is gentle but deliberate.

"I'm not sure I could." His voice is rough. "Give up on you."

The admission hangs in the air between us. Both of us seem surprised he said it out loud.

My fingers flex against his arm. I should pull away. This is too much, too fast, too real for something that's supposed to be fake.

But his skin is warm under my palm. I can feel his pulse jumping in his wrist. Fast. Like mine.

"Giovanni-" I start.

"Don't." He shakes his head. "Don't overthink it. Not tonight. Just... let it be what it is."

What it is. A contract. An arrangement. A lie we're telling the world.

But his hand is still covering mine and nothing about this feels like lying.

I pull away first. Have to. Before I do something stupid like lean across the console and kiss him.

"Goodnight," I manage.

"Goodnight, Hae."

I get out of the car. Walk to the door. My hand is on the handle when I hear his car door open.

I turn. He's standing beside his car, watching me.

"What?" I call.

"You're going to be okay." It's not a question. It's a promise. "We both are."

I want to believe him. Want to believe this insane arrangement could actually work. Want to believe I can do this without destroying myself in the process.

Instead, I just nod and slip inside.

The stairs to the apartment feel endless. Each step echoing. When I reach the top, I hear music from the store below. My father, closing up for the night. The familiar sound grounds me.

I lean against the door and pull out my phone. The photo is everywhere. Trending. Everyone speculating about who I am. But I don't look at the comments.

Instead, I open my email.

One new message from D.R.

My finger hovers over it. Then clicks.

Veil,

I met someone today. Someone who understands breaking. Someone who might understand me.

I'm still hoping you'll take the commission. But I wanted you to know-you're not the only one who saves me anymore.

- D.R.

I close my laptop.

Walk to my closet.

Pull out my tablet and stylus.

And start painting.