Now came the real work. I pulled up the image on my laptop, studying my expression in the photo. My genuine smile—the one I’d captured mid-laugh at something ridiculous on my phone—looked too real. Too unguarded. My eyes crinkled at the corners, and there was something vulnerable in the tilt of my head.
I clicked through to the next shot. This one was better. Practiced. The smile that saideffortlessly happywithout actually revealing anything.
You’re selling aspiration, not fraud,I reminded myself as I prepared to replace the real smile with the safer one.Keep posting like nothing’s wrong. Tonight’s the exclusive that turns this disaster into opportunity.
The acid in my stomach churned at the thought, but I swallowed it down. Again.
“What are you doing?” The deep voice from the doorway made me jolt.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I spun around to find Axel leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, hair still damp from the shower. Dark strands fell across his forehead in a way I’d never seen. The water separated them into points, one piece curling slightly at his temple. It was unsettling how much I wanted to reach up and brush it back. Like he needed yet another thing to make him look like the sexiest man alive.
“Jesus.” My hand flew to my chest. “Knock much?”
But he wasn’t looking at me. His cerulean eyes were fixed on my laptop screen, and something in his expression made my stomach drop. His jaw clenched, the muscle actually jumping beneath the stubble that darkened his face and made that sharp line even more pronounced. The tendons in his forearms flexed as his grip tightened on his biceps while I caught the clean scent of his soap, something that shouldn’t have been distracting but absolutely was.
“This is my home.” His voice came out rough, and when his gaze finally met mine, there was something cold in it.
“And this is the corner you designated me to,” I countered, gesturing to the sad little ten-by-ten space he’d graciously allowed me to occupy. “My very own Dakota detention center.”
He pushed off the doorframe and moved into the room. “You were switching them.”
“Switching what?”
“The photos.” He stopped a few feet away, and I hated how his white T-shirt clung to his still-damp chest, how his gray sweatpants hung low on his hips. How, even angry, he looked unfairly attractive. “I watched you. You had a real smile, and you were about to replace it with …” He gestured at the screen with something like revulsion. “That.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “It’s called editing. Every influencer does it.”
“I know what it’s called.” Something flickered across his features. Pain maybe or memory. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I’m asking why you do it.”
“Because the real one wasn’t good enough.” The words came out defensive.
“Wasn’t good enough,” he repeated slowly, like he was tasting something bitter. “Or wasn’t fake enough?”
My spine stiffened. “You don’t know anything about my business.”
“I know plenty about faking it for an audience.” His voice dropped, went rough. “I know what it looks like when someone performs their whole life. When everything is curated and calculated and hollow.”
The venom in that last word made me blink. This wasn’t just generic disapproval. This was personal.
“Why do you even care?” I stood, closing my laptop with more force than necessary, the cut beneath my bandaged hand biting. “What does it matter to you if I edit my photos or swap out smiles or stage my entire feed?”
His eyes flashed. “Because I promised your brother I’d keep an eye on you.”
“Oh, please.” I let out a harsh laugh. “You’ve barely spoken to me in years. If you’re so concerned about Knox’s little sister, you’ve been doing a terrible job.”
“I don’t need to talk to you to keep an eye on you.”
The admission landed between us like a grenade.
I took a step toward him, pulse hammering. “You follow my social media.”
“It invades my feed,” he protested.
“You can block it.” Another step. “Mute it. Scroll past. But you don’t.”
A cord of tension stood out in his neck. “Someone needs to watch when you’re about to do something catastrophically stupid.”
“Or maybe”—I closed more distance, had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze—“you just like watching.”
