I didn't sleep.
How could I, when my phone wouldn't stop buzzing? Every notification was another reminder that my life had been uploaded, analyzed, and judged by millions of strangers before I'd even taken off my heels.
By 3 AM, I'd given up on sleep entirely. I sat on my bed, wrapped in a blanket, scrolling through the wreckage.
#VennyAndAndre — 2.4 million tweets.
"LOUNDEL HEIRESS DATING ANDRE ALHALE?" — trending article #1.
"From Nobody to Andre's Girl: Venny Loundel's Overnight Rise" — trending article #2.
The photos were everywhere. Zoomed in. Edited. Analyzed frame by frame. People had already made fan edits set to romantic songs. Others had dug up old photos of me from the academy, comparing them to now, creating timelines and theories.
One comment stopped me cold:
"She's been chasing him since high school. Finally got her claws in. Gold digger confirmed."
My chest tightened. I wanted to throw the phone across the room, but I couldn't look away.
Another comment: "Andre can do SO much better. She's not even that pretty."
And another: "Rita must be DESTROYED. Poor thing."
Rita?
I'd forgotten about her in the chaos. Andre's fiancée. The woman who'd kissed him in front of everyone at the audition.
I searched for her name and immediately regretted it.
RITA SINCLAIR BREAKS SILENCE ON ANDRE SCANDAL
My hands shook as I clicked the article. There was a statement from her publicist, carefully worded but dripping with hurt:
"Rita is deeply disappointed by recent events. She believed in a future with Andre and feels betrayed by these developments. She asks for privacy during this difficult time."
Betrayed?
The word sat heavy in my stomach.
I hadn't done anything. I'd bumped into him. That was all.
But the world had already written a different story.
Morning came too fast.
Eida knocked on my door around eight, carrying coffee and a grim expression.
"You need to see this," she said, handing me her tablet.
I didn't want to, but I took it anyway.
The screen showed a morning talk show. Two hosts sat on a bright purple couch, smiling as they discussed "breaking news."
"So Andre Alhale—Hollywood's golden boy—was spotted getting cozy with Venny Loundel at an exclusive gala last night," the female host said, barely containing her excitement.
The male host leaned in. "And get this—Venny is the daughter of beauty mogul Richard Loundel. But here's the twist: she's been essentially disowned by her family for pursuing acting instead of joining the family business."
"A modern Cinderella story!" the woman gushed.
"Or a calculated social climb," the man countered. "Andre was engaged to Rita Sinclair, daughter of music executive Thomas Sinclair. Now suddenly he's photographed with an aspiring actress? The timing is suspicious."
My stomach turned.
"There's more," Eida said quietly, taking the tablet back. "Your parents called. Three times. Harvey left a voicemail. And…" She hesitated. "Andre's team reached out."
I looked up sharply. "What?"
"His publicist wants to meet. Today. They sent a car."
"A car?" I stood up too quickly, the blanket falling to the floor. "Eida, I can't—this is insane. I don't even know him. We barely spoke."
"I know." Her voice was gentle but firm. "But you need to deal with whatever this is."
She was right. Running wouldn't make the photos disappear. Wouldn't stop the comments or the articles or the damage this was doing to everyone involved.
Including me.
"The car's downstairs," Eida said. "They're waiting."
The black SUV had tinted windows and smelled like expensive leather. The driver didn't speak, just pulled smoothly into traffic and headed toward downtown.
I stared out the window, watching the city blur past, trying to prepare myself for whatever came next.
We pulled up to a sleek high-rise, all glass and steel. Andre's management company. I'd looked them up during the car ride—Meridian Entertainment, one of the biggest agencies in the industry.
Security escorted me to the top floor, where I was led into a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
And there, standing with his back to me, was Andre.
He turned when I entered. Still in expensive clothes—dark jeans, a fitted black shirt—but his expression was different from the gala. Tired and tense.
"Miss Loundel," he said, and I hated how formal it sounded.
"Just call me Venny," I replied, crossing my arms. "Considering the entire internet thinks we're dating."
A woman in a sharp blazer stepped forward, extending her hand. "I'm Claudia Morris, Mr. Alhale's publicist. Thank you for coming on such short notice."
I shook her hand warily. "Did I have a choice?"
"Not particularly," she said smoothly, gesturing to a chair. "Please, sit."
I sat while Andre remained standing, his arms crossed, jaw tight.
Claudia pulled up a tablet, swiping through screens. "As you're aware, photos from last night's gala have gone viral. The narrative forming online is that you and Andre are romantically involved."
"We're not," I said firmly.
"I know." She didn't look up from her tablet. "But perception is reality in this industry. And right now, the perception is damaging multiple parties."
She turned the tablet toward me. On screen were more articles, each one more invasive than the last.
"Rita Sinclair's Father Threatens Legal Action Against Andre Alhale"
"Loundel Family Refuses to Comment on Daughter's Scandal"
"Andre's Sponsors Demanding Answers After Cheating Allegations"
I felt sick.
"This isn't my fault," I said quietly.
"No one's saying it is," Claudia replied. "But fault doesn't matter. What matters is controlling the narrative before it destroys careers."
She looked at Andre, who finally moved, pulling out the chair across from me and sitting down.
His blue eyes met mine. "I'm sorry you're caught up in this."
The apology surprised me. I'd expected arrogance, maybe even blame.
"Your fiancée—" I started.
"Ex-fiancée," he corrected, voice flat. "As of this morning. Rita's father terminated my contract with his label. He's threatening to sue for breach of endorsement deals. My entire team is in damage control."
"Because of a photo," I said, disbelief coloring my words.
"Because of what the photo implies," Claudia interjected. "That Andre is a cheater. That he's reckless. That he can't be trusted." She leaned forward. "In this industry, reputation is everything. And right now, both of your reputations are in freefall."
"So what do you want from me?" I asked. "A statement? I'll say we're not dating. That it was an accident."
"That won't work," Andre said. His voice was steady but his hands were clasped tightly together on the table. "If we deny it, we look like liars caught in the act. Rita's statement already positioned her as the victim. Any denial makes me look worse."
"So what, then?" Frustration leaked into my voice. "I'm just supposed to let people think I'm a home-wrecker?"
Claudia and Andre exchanged a look. Something passed between them—a decision already made.
"There's another option," Claudia said carefully.
My stomach dropped.
Andre leaned forward. "We will lean into it."
I blinked. "What?"
"The photos, the speculation, the narrative," he continued. "We won't fight it. We will confirm it."
"You want to lie?" I said incredulously.
"I want my career to survive," he shot back. "And right now, the only way out is through."
Claudia pulled up another document on her tablet. "A public relationship would accomplish several things. First, it neutralizes Rita's victim narrative—if you and Andre started dating after his engagement ended, there's no cheating scandal. Second, it rehabilitates Andre's image from 'cheater' to 'man who found real love.' Third…" She looked at me meaningfully. "It gives you the visibility you need to launch your acting career."
I stared at her. "You're insane."
"I'm being practical, Miss Loundel," she corrected. "You're talented—I saw your chemistry read footage. You got the role, by the way. Congratulations. But talent isn't enough in this industry. You need buzz. Attention. Even a story."
"So I'm supposed to be his story?" I stood up, anger flooding through me. "I'm supposed to pretend to date him so he can save his career?"
"And boost yours," Andre said quietly.
I turned to him, searching his face for the smirk, the arrogance I'd seen at the audition. But he looked exhausted and cornered.
More human this time.
"This is insane," I repeated, but my voice was weaker now.
"Six months," Andre said. "We date publicly. Attend events together. Post on social media. Give them the love story they want. Then we break up quietly, amicably. You get your career boost. I repair my reputation. Everyone wins."
"Except it's all a lie."
"Welcome to Hollywood," he said without humor.
I looked at Claudia, then back at Andre. Every instinct screamed to walk out, to refuse, to protect myself from whatever mess this would become.