The interview had been scheduled for fifteen minutes.
That was what Adrien had been told. Safe questions. Clean answers. Nothing unscripted. Clara sat beside him, perfect posture, perfect smile, fingers resting lightly on his knee like an anchor he hadn't asked for.
The host smiled at the camera. "Adrien Agreste. Global icon. You've had a transformative year."
Adrien nodded. He had practiced this.
"Yes," he said. "I've been very fortunate."
The questions flowed easily at first—fashion, travel, upcoming campaigns. Adrien answered on autopilot, the words smooth and empty. He could see himself on the monitor across the room, polished and distant, like he was watching someone else speak.
Then the host leaned forward.
"There's been a lot of conversation lately," she said carefully, "about authenticity in art. Especially after the anonymous track that's been circulating online. Some fans feel it represents a shift—toward something more honest. What do you think?"
The room went quiet.
Adrien felt it then—the familiar tightening, the instinct to deflect, to smile and redirect. He had done it a thousand times before. He opened his mouth to do it again.
Nothing came out.
Somewhere, far away, Luka was probably tuning his guitar. Or pretending not to check his phone. Or doing everything he could not to hope.
Adrien exhaled.
"I think," he said slowly, "that honesty scares people. Especially when it doesn't fit the image they've already decided on."
Clara glanced at him, startled.
The host tilted her head. "Is that something you've struggled with?"
Adrien looked into the camera.
For once, he didn't look past it.
"Yes," he said. "For a long time."
The silence stretched, live and irreversible.
"I've spent most of my life being what I was told would keep things stable," Adrien continued. "What would keep people comfortable. But comfort isn't the same as truth."
Someone off-camera shifted. Adrien didn't stop.
"There's a song going around right now," he said, voice steady despite the way his hands trembled. "It matters to me. Not because it's about me—but because it reminded me what it feels like to be seen without being owned."
Clara pulled her hand away.
The host's voice softened. "Adrien—"
"I'm still figuring things out," Adrien said. "But I know this: I won't keep pretending I don't hear my own heart just to make things easier for everyone else."
The producer cut in moments later. Commercial break.
Too late.
Luka heard it live.
He had been in the studio, half-listening, half-pretending he wasn't waiting for the sound of Adrien's voice. When it came through the speakers, unguarded and trembling with resolve, Luka froze.
He didn't breathe until the screen went dark.
For the first time since the song had gone viral, Luka smiled.
Not wide. Not easy.
Real.
The fallout was immediate.
Calls. Messages. Damage control spinning itself into knots. Gabriel's voice cut sharp through the noise, demanding explanations Adrien no longer had the energy to give.
"I'm done," Adrien said quietly into the phone. "Not with my career. With lying."
He hung up before his father could respond.
That night, Adrien went back to the bar.
It hadn't changed much—same dim lights, same quiet corners. Luka was there, guitar case at his feet, like some things had simply been waiting.
They stood a few feet apart, unsure.
"You didn't have to do that," Luka said gently.
Adrien shook his head. "I did."
A pause.
"I don't know what comes next," Adrien admitted. "I just know I want it to be mine."
Luka stepped closer. "Then we take it slow. And loud when it matters."
Adrien laughed, breathless and relieved, and this time when he reached out, Luka didn't step back.
They didn't kiss.
Not yet.
But when their foreheads touched, it felt like the beginning of something that didn't need to hide.