Real Light Staged Shadows.
Elisa stood outside the Maison Gallery in a pair of black block heels she already regretted, wearing a burgundy wrap dress with sleeves just sheer enough to hint at something underneath.
Her fingers twisted the strap of her clutch. Inside, her phone buzzed with Ava's texts.
You got this.
Remember: you're not pretending to be beautiful- you just are.
Don't overthink your arms in photos.
BREATHE.
She hadn't told Ava what tonight actually was.
Not that it was their first appearance as a "couple." Not that Mateo had orchestrated the whole thing with casual precision, telling her which gallery, which artist, which entrance.
Not that part of her was already suffocating under the pressure to play a version of herself she didn't believe she deserved to be.
She turned toward the car just as he stepped out.
Mateo Liriano in a navy suit with no tie, clean lines, shirt sleeves rolled with just a touch of rebellion. His presence felt too steady for the kind of man who usually played games.
He saw her and stopped walking for a second.
"Elisa," he said when he reached her. His gaze moved from her shoulders to her shoes, lingering just long enough to spark something sharp in her chest.
"You clean up well," she said, trying to steady her voice.
"You outshine me."
She almost scoffed- almost. But instead, she let him offer his arm. Her fingers curled around his forearm like muscle memory.
They walked together under the warm buzz of string lights, into a building already filling with patrons sipping wine and murmuring behind designer glasses.
Inside, the air smelled like soft perfume and old money.
Mateo guided her with quiet confidence, nodding to a few familiar faces.
As they entered the main hall, flashes went off.
Not a swarm- just a few. Enough to remind her she was still being watched.
"Elisa Casano," someone said.
She turned. A woman in crimson silk stepped forward, fake lashes blinking too fast. "I loved your piece Soft Fire. Still not over it."
"Thank you," Elisa managed, her voice steady even though her knees were anything but.
The woman looked between Elisa and Mateo. "You two are...?"
Mateo smiled faintly. "Just here for the art."
But his hand stayed at the small of Elisa's back just a little too long. The woman smiled knowingly and moved on.
Elisa glanced at him. "Just here for the art?"
"Would you have preferred 'deeply entangled'?"
"I'd prefer not to be an object of speculation."
"Too late," he murmured, then added, "You've always been a subject. Now you're just claiming it."
She hated how easily he said things like that. Words that curled inside her and made space where there was only doubt before.
An hour in, her cheeks ached from smiling. She'd shook hands with people she barely knew, listened to backhanded compliments about her body, and nodded politely while men looked everywhere but her eyes.
Mateo didn't hover, but he never left.
He stayed within arm's length, watching. Protecting.
When he did lean in- to whisper a quiet name she'd forgotten, or to steer her gently away from a conversation turning sour- his voice was low enough to make her skin flush.
She hated that it felt good. She hated that it felt easy.
She'd agreed to one outing. One photograph.
But this felt like more than performance.
It felt like being touched in places no hand had ever reached.
~~~
They escaped to the rooftop near the end of the evening.
The crowd thinned below, the air clearer up here, laced with the faint scent of lavender from a rooftop garden wall.
Elisa leaned against the railing, watching the city blink in the distance.
Mateo joined her a moment later, his jacket now draped over his arm.
"You did well," he said quietly.
"I survived," she murmured.
"Better than most."
"I wanted to punch that man who said I must be 'brave to wear burgundy.'"
Mateo turned to face her. "You are brave. But not for wearing a dress. You're brave for not shrinking."
She looked away. "I felt like I was drowning. A dozen eyes deciding whether I deserved to be next to you."
"You do."
She shook her head. "You don't get it."
"Then tell me."
She looked at him, searching his face for the condescension that usually followed. She didn't find it.
"I know what people think when they see us," she said. "They think you're slumming it. That I'm some lucky girl Mateo Liriano picked up out of pity or curiosity or kink."
His jaw ticked.
"I hate it," she continued. "Not because it's true, but because part of me still hears it louder than anything else."
He stepped closer, his tone even.
"If I touch you now, it won't be for the cameras. It'll be because I want to."
Her heart stuttered.
"I won't kiss you," he added. "Not until you ask."
She nodded, breath short.
"And if you never ask," he said, "I'll still want to."
She closed her eyes.
The breeze danced across her skin. Her dress pressed against her thighs. Her thoughts screamed.
And when she opened them again, he was still there. Watching her. Not hungrily. Not with pity.
With something she didn't recognize but felt in her bones.
"I told you," she whispered. "One outing."
"Then this is your goodbye?"
She hesitated.
"Maybe."
"Then say it like you mean it."
But she couldn't.
Because there was a truth rising in her chest that terrified her.
She wanted another outing. And another. And another.
She wanted to keep walking through rooms with his hand at her back. She wanted to let herself be looked at with something more than tolerance. She wanted to kiss him- and hate herself for wanting it.
Instead, she walked past him, not looking back.
~~~
The ride home was quiet.
Her driver didn't speak. Her phone buzzed. Photos. Captions. Praise. Speculation.
One tweet stood out.
Mateo and Elisa- name a more unexpected pairing. I'll wait.
She stared at it until her screen dimmed.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
She just opened her gallery app and zoomed in on one photo: her, mid-laugh, Mateo's head turned slightly toward her, like he was listening for her next breath.
It didn't look fake.
It looked like something she could have believed- if it didn't hurt so much to hope.