Chapter 2
1457 Words
Olivia
My phone blowing up the next morning wakes me up.
Messages.
Mentions.
Emails.
I open the news.
And there it is.
A photo.
My photo.
Noah Roberts, mid-step, eyes fixed on someone just out of the frame.
Me.
My face isn’t visible. Just the angle of my body, a sliver of wavy hair. A hand reaching out.
The headline reads:
Who Is This Mystery Woman—and Why Can’t Noah Roberts Stop Looking at Her?
My stomach drops.
Someone caught the angle, twisted the moment, and turned it into a story.
I scroll.
Speculation everywhere.
Zoomed-in analyses.
Thousands of comments dissecting a second they know nothing about.
I close the app and rub my temples, releasing a long sigh.
My phone rings.
Unknown number.
I hesitate—then answer.
“Olivia Brown,” I say.
“Olivia,” a smooth voice replies. “This is Jack. I work with Noah Roberts.”
I sit up straighter.
“We’d like to talk to you about yesterday.”
How did they get my number? How did they know it was me?
My grip tightens around the phone.
“About what?” I ask carefully.
There’s a pause. Then—
“An opportunity,” he says. “A collaboration of some sort.”
My heart sinks—not because I want to know what it is.
But because I know, deep down, that whatever this is, it’s going to change everything.
Call it intuition.
“I think you have the wrong number,” I say, though my voice betrays me. Too steady. Too careful.
Jack chuckles softly, like he expected resistance.
“I don’t think so. Olivia Brown. Freelance photographer. Occasionally writes reports for Martin Hayes’ desk.”
My stomach twists.
I swing my legs off the bed, the cold floor biting into my feet. My apartment looks different in the harsh morning light—smaller. Exposed. Like it knows, I’ve been found.
“How did you get my number?” I ask.
“We have our sources,” he replies smoothly. “And yesterday put you on our radar.”
I press my lips together, breathing slowly. I don’t like this. I don’t like how easy it was for them to reach me. How quickly a moment I never asked for has turned into leverage.
“I didn’t sell that photo,” I say. “If that’s why you’re calling—”
“We know,” Jack cuts in gently. “And that’s exactly why we’re calling you.”
I close my eyes.
That damn photo—Noah’s hand on my arm. The weight of it. The look in his eyes.
Or maybe I imagined that part.
I push it away.
“What do you want?” I ask.
Another pause. Stretches a bit longer this time.
“We’d like to meet,” Jack says. “Have a conversation. No commitments. No assumptions.”
“I don’t do exclusive deals,” I say immediately. “And I don’t—”
“This isn’t about photos,” he interrupts. “Or buying silence.”
That gives me pause.
I lean back against the bedframe, my fingers clenching around my phone.
“Then what is it about?”
“Damage control,” he says plainly. “And narrative.”
There it is.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You want me to disappear.”
“No,” Jack says. “We want you to exist—very carefully.”
My pulse quickens.
“I don’t understand.”
“You will,” he replies. “But not over the phone.”
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. I should be getting ready for work. I should be pitching stories, worrying about deadlines.
Instead, I’m barefoot, heart racing, talking to a man who represents one of the most scrutinized celebrities in the world.
“When?” I ask quietly.
“Today. Late morning. Neutral location.”
Every instinct screams no. To hang up. To protect myself.
But another part of me—the tired part, the ambitious part—knows better.
Running doesn’t make you invisible.
It just makes you irrelevant.
“Send me the details,” I say.
“Good,” Jack replies. “And Olivia?”
“Yes?”
“No recording devices. No cameras.”
I swallow. “Understood.”
The call ends.
I stare at my phone long after the screen goes dark.
****
The café Jack chooses is quiet in the way expensive places always are. Muted tones. Soft music. People who look like they belong.
I don’t.
I sit by the window anyway, order the cheapest thing on the menu, and pretend my hands aren’t shaking.
I don’t wait long.
Jack looks exactly how I imagined—mid-forties, tailored suit, calm eyes that miss nothing. He smiles like we’re old acquaintances.
“Olivia,” he says, extending a hand.
I shake it briefly. “Jack.”
He sits, folding his hands neatly. “Thank you for coming.”
“I’m still not sure why I did.”
He smiles. “Honesty. I like that.”
A server sets my coffee down. I wrap my hands around the cup, grounding myself.
Jack studies me—not invasive, but calculating. Like he’s measuring how much pressure I can take.
“Yesterday created a situation,” he begins. “One we didn’t plan for—but one we can work with.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“And that’s precisely the point,” he replies. “You didn’t chase him. You didn’t profit from the moment. You didn’t even publish the photo.”
I stiffen. “You’ve done your homework.”
“It’s my job.”
“So what’s the situation?”
Jack leans back. “The public is bored with Noah Roberts as a playboy. Outrage has diminishing returns. What they respond to now is change.”
I don’t like where this is going.
“And I’m supposed to help with that?”
“In a way. You represent something Noah hasn’t been associated with in a long time.”
“Which is?”
“Normalcy,” he says. “Restraint. Credibility. Stability.”
I almost laugh.
“You don’t even know me.”
“We know enough. You’re not a tabloid chaser. You’ve turned down payoffs. You’re honest. You’re quiet.”
Quiet.
The word stings.
“The mystery surrounding you has already softened the narrative,” Jack continues. “People aren’t asking what Noah did wrong anymore. They’re asking who you are.”
“I don’t want to be part of his image rehabilitation.”
“I understand,” he says. “Which is why this wouldn’t be one-sided.”
He slides a slim folder across the table.
I don’t touch it.
“What’s in it for me?”
Jack’s eyes sharpen.
“Access. Legitimate access. First-hand coverage of Noah’s projects.
My breath catches.
“You’d be allowed to cover them,” he adds. “Exclusively.”
This is exactly what I’ve been working toward. The kind of credibility that opens doors.
“And,” Jack says, “you’d be compensated.”
My rent flashes through my mind. My mother’s voice. The exhaustion of always scraping by.
“What’s the catch?”
“We’d like you to play along with the narrative. Public appearances. Limited interaction. A relationship.”
The word sits heavy between us.
“A fake one.”
“A private agreement,” he corrects. “Clear boundaries. Fixed duration.”
“You’re asking me to lie.”
“We’re asking you to control a story that’s already lying about you.”
I cross my arms. “And what does Noah think?”
Jack pauses.
“He agreed to the conversation,” he says carefully.
Something tightens in my chest.
“I need time.”
“Of course. But understand this—whether you participate or not, the narrative will continue. We’re offering you a chance to shape it.”
I stare out the window, watching strangers pass by, unknowing, existing normally, far from the chaos of this life.
I think of my dreams.
Of my mother.
Of the way Noah looked at me like I wasn’t supposed to exist.
“I don’t believe in love stories,” I say quietly.
Jack nods. “Neither does Noah.”
That’s when it hits me.
This isn’t coincidence.
It’s a collision.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
Jack stands. “We’ll be in touch.”
As he walks away, my phone buzzes.
Another article.
Another story.
I don’t open it.
Because suddenly, the scariest part isn’t the attention—
It’s the possibility that saying yes might finally give me everything I’ve worked for ...
And also cost me everything.....
- Writer
