Chapter 3
1043 Words
Noah
The problem with scandals is that they stop being about what actually happened.
They become about what people want to believe.
I’m standing in front of the mirror in my penthouse bathroom, tie hanging loose around my neck, and my phone buzzing nonstop on the marble counter. My reflection looks calm. Relaxed even. The version of me the public trusts when I tell them I’m fine.
I’m not.
I haven’t opened the news yet. I don’t need to. I can already hear Jack’s voice in my head—measured, and irritated in that way that means he’s been putting out fires since dawn.
One photo. One second.
That’s all it takes.
I finally grab the phone and scroll.
There it is.
The image freezes, something I didn’t realize mattered until it was ripped out of context. I’m mid-step, hand half-extended, eyes locked on someone just beyond the frame.
Her.
The mystery woman.
The internet has decided she’s a lover. A secret girlfriend. A rebound. A distraction planted by my team. A nobody. A somebody.
They’re wrong about all of it.
I know exactly who she is.
I close the app and exhale through my nose. The silence in the penthouse presses in on me, thick and expensive and lonely. The kind of quiet you pay for because you don’t trust anything else.
My phone rings.
Jack.
I answer without speaking.
I spoke with her, he says immediately.
“She’s real,” he adds.
I tighten my jaw. “I know.”
“She didn’t sell the photo. Didn’t talk. Didn’t even correct the speculation.”
“And?” I ask.
“And that makes her valuable, which means we can trust her.” he replies.
I lean my hands against the counter, staring at my reflection again. “She didn’t ask for this.”
“Neither did you,” Jack says. “But here we are.”
I think back to yesterday.
The chaos. The crowd. The shouting. Cameras everywhere like loaded weapons. I remember stepping back too quickly, misjudging the curb—
And then she was there.
Or maybe I was.
She slipped. I didn’t catch her in time. That part replays in my head more than I want to admit—the sharp flicker of surprise in her eyes, the instinctive reach of her hand, the way my body reacted before my brain did.
I remember the way she looked up at me afterward.
Not starstruck.
Not impressed.
Not afraid.
Annoyed.
Like I’d inconvenienced her.
It was… refreshing.
“What are you thinking?” Jack asks.
“That you’re already five steps ahead,” I say. “And I’m still stuck on the first.”
Jack sighs. “Noah, listen to me. This narrative works because it wasn’t planned. You look human. Focused. Soft.”
I scoff. “Soft.”
“You stared at her like the world fell silent,” he says. “People noticed.”
I close my eyes.
I hadn’t realized anyone else had been watching.
“You met her?” I ask.
“Yes. I called her this morning and scheduled a meeting.”
My chest felt heavy. “And?”
“She showed up.”
That surprises me.
“Which means,” Jack continues, “she’s either smarter than we think—or more desperate than she wants us to believe.”
“She’s neither,” I say before I can stop myself.
Jack pauses. “You sound sure.”
“I am.”
Silence stretches between us.
Finally, Jack says, “I told her we’d like to talk. Nothing more.”
“You didn’t promise anything,” I say carefully.
“No. But I hinted.”
I run a hand through my hair, irritation prickling under my skin. “This isn’t just PR, Jack.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why it’ll work.”
I hang up before he can say anything else.
Two hours later, I’m seated in a glass-walled conference room, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. The city sprawls beneath us, bright and indifferent. Jack stands near the window, phone in hand, while my publicist, Lara, flips through a tablet.
“She met with Jack,” Lara says.
I'm aware, I say. My pulse ticking faster than it should.
I shouldn’t care.
I’ve done this dance before—manufactured romances, strategic appearances, carefully curated smiles. I know how to play the role.
So why does this feel different?
“What do we know about her?” I ask.
Lara looks up. “Olivia Brown. Twenty-nine. Aspiring journalist. No scandals. No leaks. Clean digital footprint.”
“That’s rare,” Jack says.
“She grew up working-class,” Lara continues. “Father left when she was young. Raised by her mother. Very private.”
Something in my chest shifts.
“She doesn’t believe in love,” Jack adds casually, watching me.
I glance at him sharply. “And you know this how?”
“She said it.”
I look away, my jaw clenched.
Figures.
I shouldn’t relate to that. I shouldn’t feel the pull of recognition.
But I do.
“What’s her angle?” I ask.
Jack shakes his head. “She doesn’t have one. That’s the problem.”
I let out a slow breath.
For years, people have wanted something from me—access, relevance, proximity. Desire always wrapped in ambition.
But Olivia hadn’t looked at me like that.
She’d looked at me like I was just a man who got in her way.
And somehow, that’s what unsettled me most.
“If she says no,” Lara says, “we pivot.”
“And if she says yes?” I ask.
Jack’s gaze sharpens. “Then you meet her.”
I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling.
Meet her.
Not the mystery woman.
Not the headline.
Not the narrative.
The real Olivia Brown.
The woman who doesn’t believe in love stories.
The woman who doesn’t know she’s about to walk straight into mine.
I laugh quietly to myself.
Because for the first time in years, the danger isn’t the press.
It’s the fact that I already know—
If this becomes real, even by accident…
I’m the one who’s going to lose control.
- Writer
