The rooftop breeze carried the hum of traffic far below, city lights blinking like restless stars. Emily sat at the edge of the lounge's low sofa, a glass of sparkling water in her hands, her mind still tangled in the headlines.
Dylan Ward's Mystery Woman.
She hadn't asked for it, hadn't planned for it — but the picture was everywhere. And now the reporters were circling like hawks.
Dylan strolled over, jacket slung over one shoulder, his easy confidence a stark contrast to her restless fidgeting. He set a coffee in front of her and sat across, eyes steady on hers.
"Emily," he said, his voice calm but carrying weight, "you're in the spotlight whether you like it or not. And I'm telling you now — the smartest thing you can do is use it."
Her brows knit. "Use it how?"
He leaned in, elbows on his knees. "When the reporters ask, you nod. You tell them you're my love. Just like that — problem solved. In a week you'll be in the cine industry with me, not knocking on doors for some half-hearted contract."
She stared at him, unsure if he was teasing or deadly serious. "That's… bold."
"It's safe," Dylan corrected. "Safe with me. And don't start thinking about leaving — I'm not a stepping stone, Emily." His gaze softened but never wavered. "You're always my first priority. Always. Never forget that, woman."
The words sank deep, wrapping around her in a way that was both reassuring and dangerous. She didn't smile, but she stopped fidgeting.
Dylan leaned back, satisfied. "Good. Tomorrow, we face them together."
Emily took a slow sip of her drink, the decision already forming in her mind. Let them talk, let them guess. If this was her ticket in, she'd take it.
The morning sun flashed off the rows of camera lenses, each one trained on the sleek black car that pulled up to the hotel entrance.
Dylan had expected Emily to be nervous. Maybe shy. Maybe still unsure about playing his love in public. But when the driver stepped out and opened her door, Dylan's jaw almost went slack.
She emerged like she'd been born for the spotlight — hair tumbling in soft waves, a fitted white dress that caught the light with every step, and eyes that didn't flinch under the hungry gaze of the press.
And then she did it.
She slid one hand around his hip — not timidly, but with the easy possession of someone who belonged there — and leaned into him as they started walking.
It was Dylan who felt the warmth rise to his cheeks.
Get a grip, Ward. You're the actor here.
Reporters swarmed, questions flying in every direction:
"Emily! How long have you been seeing Dylan?"
"Is this serious?"
"Can we expect a wedding?"
Emily didn't falter. She tilted her chin, her voice smooth and steady. "Yes… Dylan's my love."
The shutters clicked like gunfire, and for a moment, Dylan forgot his lines entirely. She wasn't just agreeing to the plan — she was owning it. The confidence in her step, the subtle smile, the way she looked at him like she'd done it a hundred times before… it was all perfect.
They moved together through the crowd, Dylan's arm sliding naturally around her waist. But if anyone thought he was leading her, they were wrong — she was setting the pace.
Inside the hotel lobby, away from the flashes, Dylan finally let out a low laugh. "You know, you're too good at this."
Emily glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "Acting, remember? You said it's safe with you. I'm just making sure the world believes it."
For the first time in years, Dylan Ward — the man who could charm an audience of millions — was the one feeling like he'd just been outplayed.