"Ignore the background. I'm the main character. #softlaunch"
It's not dirty or explicit. It's worse. It's a calculated invasion, designed to elicit precisely this reaction.
I watch the comments flood in:
"I just collapsed in the street."
"Who is this man and why is he everywhere I want to be?"
"If I go missing, just know I was trying to find him."
I turn off the screen, the glowing rectangle going dark in my hand. I'm left with the lingering image of her, and the unsettling realization that her game is far more effective than I'd ever anticipated.
She's not just a variable.
She’s a force. And she’s taking control. Not just of the narrative, but of me. One perfectly timed post at a time.
And the worst part? I’m not sure who’s using who anymore.
CHAPTER 13
NIKKI
The first rule of surviving a kidnapping? Find the angle. I'm not saying I'm thriving. I'm not exactly sending postcards home bragging about the view. But I'm going viral again. And I didn't even have to flash a single nipple. Though, honestly, if it guaranteed my freedom, I might consider it.
The mirror selfie did exactly what it was supposed to do. The internet is frothing over Rafe, like he’s the second coming of dark-haired danger. And the best part? Rafe's losing his damn mind.
Because I may not have a way out, but I still have a stage. And as long as they’re watching me, I’m not invisible. I’m not gone.
He doesn't yell or snap. No, he's above such human emotional outbursts. Instead, he calmly watches me like I'm a particularly vexing math problem he hasn't solved yet.
Like I've shifted, somehow, from "asset" to "threat" in his immaculate, designer-suit-wearing brain. And honestly, it's giving me a fabulous high I didn't know I needed.
I'm mainlining pure, unadulterated chaos, and it feels fucking fantastic.
We're at another rooftop lounge now. I don't know the name. He won't tell me. He never tells me anything that isn't directly relevant to my continued survival or his public image. I just know it's members-only.
The kind of place where the silence feels expensive, and no one's dared approach our table since we sat down. We're practically radiating an invisible force field of "don't even think about it." It's kind of hot, actually.
Rafe's sipping something dark and expensive from a heavy crystal tumbler. Probably scotch again. Or the tears of his enemies.
I'm pretending my Aperol Spritz doesn't taste like crap, but it kind of does. It's bubbly and orange, just like my public persona, and just as empty on the inside.
He hasn't spoken in ten minutes, just stares out at the city with a handsome jawline that launched a thousand fan accounts. I break the silence the only way I know how.
I raise my phone, aiming it casually, like I'm about to take a landscape shot. "Should I tag you," I ask. "I mean, the people want to know who you are, Rafe. They have questions. And I'm a giver."
He cuts his eyes at me. Slow. Lethal. "You're not funny, Nikki."
"Wrong," I correct him, a confident smirk on my face. "I'm extremely funny and the internet agrees. They think I'm hilarious. My feed is full of laughing emojis. Do you get laughing emojis? No, I didn't think so."
He says nothing. Just leans back in his chair, all menace and marble jawline, letting the silence drag on. He thinks it intimidates me and it does, a little. But I've learned to push through the fear. It's like a muscle. The more I do it, the easier it is.
I snap the photo anyway. The flash in his face is intentional. He almost flinches…almost. His fingers twitch on the glass, a subtle tremor that only I would notice.
"Don't," he warns.
"Oh, please," I scoff, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the pristine white tablecloth. "You want this to look real, don't you? You want to de-mystify yourself, to become the world's most boring, overexposed boyfriend. And real couples post thirst traps and passive-aggressive story quotes. It's called authenticity. You might want to look it up." I flash him a syrupy sweet smile, the kind I reserve for brand deals I secretly hate. "Besides, my line,'He knows my order' was a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. It implies intimacy. The little details that make people believe we're a real couple."
