“How are we doing on time?” I ask Carson, who’s been directing this entire production like a small-scale military operation.
“Almost done. Guillermo wants a few shots by the fountain, and then we can wrap.”
Twenty minutes later, after what feels like hundreds of photos of us walking hand in hand, gazing into each other’s eyes, and generally performing coupledom for the camera, Guillermo finally declares himself satisfied.
“These are going to be stunning,” he tells us as he packs up his equipment. “I’ll have the edited selections to your team by tomorrow.”
Carson is practically vibrating with excitement. “This is going to be perfect for the announcement.Forbesis already interested in an exclusive feature.”
“Forbes?” Freya asks, and I can hear the note of alarm in her voice.
“Don’t worry,” Carson says breezily. “It’ll be tasteful. Business focus with some personal details. The American dream angle. Self-made billionaire finds love with his childhood artist friend.”
I watch Freya’s face as Carson talks, noting the way she’s gone very still. This is all moving so fast, spinning so far beyond what either of us originally agreed to. What started as a simple favor to help me through one dinner has become a full-scale media campaign.
“I’ll walk you out,” I tell Guillermo and Carson, needing a moment to collect myself.
After they leave, I find Freya sitting on a bench near the fountain, staring out at the lake. She’s changed back into her regular clothes—jeans and a soft blue top that makes her look young and vulnerable.
“You okay?” I ask, settling beside her.
“Just processing.”
“If it’s too much?—”
“It’s not too much.” She turns to look at me, and there’s something in her expression I can’t quite read. “It’s just differentthan what I expected. The photographer, the fancy hotel, all of it. It feels very… official.”
“Carson likes to do things properly.”
“Is this what your life is always like? Photographers and PR strategies and everything carefully managed for public consumption?”
The question makes me uncomfortable because the answer is yes, and I’ve never really thought about how that might look to someone like Freya. Someone whose life isn’t a carefully curated performance.
“Not all of the time, but sometimes,” I admit. “It’s part of the job.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“You get used to it.”
But even as I say it, I’m not sure it’s true. Watching Freya navigate today’s photo shoot, the way she had to be coached on where to look and how to smile and which angle was most flattering, I remember what it felt like to just be with someone without worrying about how it would look to the outside world.
I remember what it felt like to have a crush on her when we were teenagers, when the biggest complication in my life was finding excuses to study with her instead of alone. When I would lie awake at night thinking about what it would be like to kiss her, before I realized that wanting something that much was dangerous.
My phone buzzes with a text, then another. Then a call that goes to voicemail.
“Popular today,” Freya observes.
I glance at the screen and see several missed calls from a California number. My mother.
“Just business stuff,” I lie, sending the calls to voicemail without listening to them.
“I should get going,” Freya says. “I have a client presentation tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
