CHAPTER TEN: WHISPERS, HEADLINES & HANGOVERS
MAYA
I woke up to twenty-three missed calls, forty-six unread messages, and one viral headline.
"Voltaire Heir Locks Lips With Mystery Woman at Gala"
I dropped my phone on my chest and groaned.
Lola kicked open my door with a smoothie in one hand and her phone in the other.
"You're trending!" she screamed.
"Please say you mean in a good way."
She jumped on the bed. "You. Damian. The kiss. The dress. Girl, Twitter is in heat. There's already a ship name. 'Mayan.'"
"Oh my God."
"Someone made fan art."
I covered my face with a pillow. "We kissed once. Once."
"And it shook the timeline. Be proud. You broke the internet with your lips."
The comments weren't all sweet.
"She's just another social climber."
"Watch him drop her in a week."
"Another PR romance. Classic."
Some were vicious. Others bizarre. One fan claimed we were soulmates based on our "eyebrow symmetry."
I stared at myself in the mirror and tried to remember who I was before all this.
Before the gym. Before the video. Before Damian.
Lola plopped down beside me.
"Don't let the noise rewrite your story," she said. "You're not a headline. You're a human who kissed a rich guy. Sue me."
Then he texted.
DAMIAN: "I know this is a lot. Come by the gym if you want a quiet place to breathe. Or yell. Your choice."
I stared at it for a full minute.
Then grabbed a hoodie, sunglasses, and my keys.
Elevate Lab was empty. Private. The lights were low, like it was closed to the world.
He waited by the back stairwell, out of sight from cameras. Black hoodie. Sweatpants. No press, no mask, no image to manage.
Just him.
When I walked in, he didn't say anything. Just opened his arms.
I stepped into them.
I didn't cry. I didn't talk.
I just stood there. Breathing.
Letting someone else hold the weight for a second.
We ended up on the floor, backs against a punching bag, sipping protein shakes like it was a therapy session.
"Is this what your life is always like?" I asked.
He nodded. "Noise. Eyes. Opinions. And always a camera somewhere."
"And you still kissed me like the world wasn't watching."
"I forgot it was."
That made my chest ache.
He took a breath, then added, "I spent years curating everything. My image. My company. My relationships. Everything was filtered. Controlled. Then you happened."
"Oh God. Am I the chaos?"
"You're the only honest thing I've had in a long time."
He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it.
We walked to the small kitchen at the back of the gym. He started making breakfast like it was second nature.
Eggs. Pancakes. Toast with way too much butter. It smelled like comfort.
We sat on yoga mats and watched a silent documentary on whales. It was oddly calming.
He reached over mid-bite, wiped syrup off my lip with his thumb.
"You're a mess," he said.
"You're worse."
He smiled. "Yeah, but you still showed up."
"I don't know what I'm doing," I admitted.
"Neither do I. But I'd rather figure it out with you than without you."
We didn't define anything. No labels. No declarations.
Just pancakes, silence, and a kind of closeness I didn't know I was allowed to feel.
As I left the gym hours later, I looked back at him standing in the doorway.
Damian Voltaire. The man behind the gym. The heir behind the headlines.
He raised a hand and smiled softly.
And for once, I didn't feel like running.
I felt like turning back.