Lily Thompson
If perfect couples were a product, PR would’ve boxed us, slapped a gold sticker on the front, and shipped us to every camera in Manhattan.
Hand in hand. Smile tilt just so. His palm warm at the small of my back, mine resting light on his sleeve like I wasn’t counting the seconds until I could breathe again.
The event was supposed to be soft press—children’s museum fundraiser, pastel balloons, tiny cupcakes with too much frosting. The kind of room where even scandal puts on a bowtie. We walked the step-and-repeat, did the wave-and-nod rhythm, answered three “How are you holding up?”s and two “You look radiant, Ms. Thompson”s that felt like compliments with teeth.
Since the start of our fake dating, Denzol had clawed its way back into profit, and the press couldn’t get enou
