The livestream may be off.
The war is not.
The silence after the screen goes black is louder than the comments ever were.
No cameras. No millions watching. Just the soft hum of the city and the very real urge I have to scream into a pillow—or at Darian's perfectly symmetrical face.
"You've lost your mind," I say calmly.
This is how you know I'm furious. When I stop yelling and start speaking like a judge.
Darian doesn't flinch. He never does. He just sets the phone down on the table like it's a loaded weapon.
"I did what I had to," he says.
"You turned my trauma into content."
"I turned lies into transparency."
I laugh. Short. Sharp. "You turned me into a season finale."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. "Lyra—"
"No," I cut in. "You don't get to 'Lyra' your way out of this."
I grab my phone and wave it in his face. "Do you know what they're saying right now?"
He doesn't answer.
"Oh, let me help you," I continue, scrolling furiously. " 'Marriage Hunger Games.' 'Blink twice if you're kidnapped.' Someone made a poll asking if we'll survive till Day Three."
A beat.
"…What's the percentage?" he asks.
I stare at him.
"You are unbelievable."
I pace the living room, adrenaline buzzing in my veins. "You don't get to decide this alone. I am not your brand extension. I am not your damage-control accessory. And I am definitely not your unpaid reality show actress."
He watches me carefully now, like he's recalibrating.
"What do you want?" he asks.
I stop pacing.
That question lands.
Because for the first time since the scandal began, someone is actually asking me that.
"I want rules," I say slowly. "If you're dragging me into this circus, I'm not going in blindfolded."
He nods once. "Fine."
"Real rules," I emphasize. "Not PR fluff."
"Agreed."
I pull my laptop from the table and open a blank document.
Title: LIVESTREAM AGREEMENT – REVISED
Darian raises an eyebrow. "You came prepared."
"I'm a journalist," I reply. "We survive by anticipating disasters."
I start typing. Reading aloud as I go.
"Rule one: No scripts. No rehearsed affection. No telling me what to say or how to behave."
"Agreed."
"Rule two: Cameras off from midnight to 6 a.m."
He hesitates.
I look up. "This is non-negotiable."
"…Agreed."
"Rule three: No touching for optics."
That one makes him blink.
I smirk. "If you're touching me, it's because you want to—not because the internet does."
Silence.
Then, quietly: "Agreed."
I continue, gaining momentum.
"Rule four: I control my social media. All of it."
"Accepted."
"Rule five: No PR team interference during the livestream."
His jaw tightens. "That's risky."
"So is marrying someone without consent," I shoot back.
A pause. Then: "Accepted."
I grin. "Good. Now the most important one."
I type it slowly.
"Rule six: If at any point I say stop, we stop. Immediately. No arguments. No persuasion."
I finally look up.
Darian is very still.
"You're asking for an escape hatch," he says.
"I'm asking for agency," I reply. "Big difference."
For a long moment, he just studies me.
Then he reaches for the laptop, scrolls to the bottom, and signs.
No fight.
No negotiation.
No hesitation.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
We sit there, the contract between us like a truce document after a long war.
"So," I say finally, "congratulations. You've just agreed to seven days of unscripted chaos."
He exhales. "You're enjoying this."
"Don't flatter yourself," I say. "I just refuse to be powerless."
He looks at me then—not as a CEO, not as a strategist—but as a man who might actually be impressed.
"When do we start?" he asks.
I check my phone.
The internet is still spiraling.
@LiveUpdate: THEY WENT OFFLINE??
@WeNeedDay1: BRING THEM BACK
@TeamLyra: IF SHE AGREED, SHE'S IN CONTROL 😌
I meet his eyes.
"Tomorrow morning," I say. "Day One."
A beat.
"Try not to ruin my life before breakfast."
He almost smiles.