“Irrelevant. Your new Instagram is @BixWithLove, already verified with twelve thousand followers. We’ve backdated posts showing your sophisticated Upper East Side lifestyle.”
He turns the tablet to show me.
There I am. Or rather, someone who vaguely resembles me, in obviously photoshopped images at gallery openings, charity luncheons, and sipping Champagne at rooftop bars.
“That’s not even me!”
“It’s a model with a similar look. We’ll replace them with real photos of you once Antoine works his magic.” Milo scrolls through the feed.
“The narrative is that you’re a classically trained vocalist froman old-money family who rebelliously fell for bad-boy Slayer after meeting him at the Save the Children Gala last month.”
“But that never happened!”
“That’s why it’s called acting, darling. This story gives us the perfect hashtags: #OppositesAttract, #UptownMeetsDowntown, #BeautyTamesBeast.”
“Slayer isn’t a beast,” I find myself saying before I can stop.
Milo’s eyebrow arches. “Defending him already. Perfect chemistry.”
“What if someone asks how we met?”
“It’s all here,” Milo says, opening a beige folder containing various documents.
“You caught his eye when you were volunteering at the gala. You spilled Champagne on his leather jacket, and instead of getting angry, he asked for your number.”
“That’s actually kind of cute,” I admit reluctantly.
“Clare has a PhD in romantic narratives,” Milo says proudly. “She understands what makes the public swoon.”
He hands me a sheet labeled TALKING POINTS in bold, red letters. “Memorize these. If asked about your relationship, stick to these phrases:
‘It was unexpected.’
‘We connected over our passion for music.’
‘He’s nothing like his public image.’”
Milo taps each line. “Never sayno comment. It makes you look guilty. Always deflect with a smile and one of these approved responses.”
“This is insane,” I mutter, scanning the document. Finally, I put it down on the table before us. "I can't read all this in one sitting. Tell me one thing. Is there anything that prohibits my singing?"
Milo raises his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"
I shrug. "Just checking."
“Nothing specific in words," he says carefully. "But remember, you’re not there as a performer. You’re there as Slayer’s girlfriend. End of story.”
“But if someone finds out I’m a singer, maybe I’ll finally have a shot at a genuine audition.”
“Not part of your persona, darling.”
I look at the contract again and sigh. “How am I supposed to remember all this?”
“That’s why we have rehearsal,” he says brightly, pulling out his phone. “I’ll play an aggressive reporter. You play the adoring girlfriend.”
For the next thirty minutes, Milo fires questions at me, critiquing my responses with ruthless efficiency.
“No, no, no! Don’t mention your classes. Nobody cares about your academic pursuits.”
