ASHLEY
I had taught myself how to handle crisis. It’s what I do when our paper is in chaos.
But, personally?
I don’t think there’s a single masterclass, meditation app, or overpriced candle that could’ve prepared me for this particular apocalypse:
My face. And Beckett’s.
On every website known to man.
“Uhm…”
It’s Kara.
I blink, startled. Apparently, I’d zoned out mid-meeting, eyes glazed over some color-coded agenda I have no memory of approving.
“Sorry, what is it again?”
Kara clears her throat. “You good?”
I swallowed, rub my temple, and forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… multitasking.”
I push my chair back, stretch, and try to focus on the agenda. But my eyes keep drifting back to the photos—Beckett’s face, my own—both impossible to unsee.
It’s day one of our fake relationship
