Ash and Liam left together not long after the call, probably once they realized they weren’t getting much out of me. So now I’m alone in Liam’s apartment.
Ash had said it kindly: “I know it’s a lot to ask. But I’m willing to pay you very good money. It would be an arrangement we both profit from. Think about it and let me know.”
And then—because I’m apparently a masochist—I think of him saying my name again.
That low, gravelly “Olive” that slides down my spine like it belongs there.
I groan.
Tomorrow, I’ll be normal.
Tonight?
Tonight I’ll just be an over-caffeinated mess covered in glitter glue… dreaming about a man who absolutely, definitely, probably doesn’t want me.
Eventually, I give in to the spiral.
I grab my phone, drop onto my bed, and type into the search bar:
Ash Ryder and manager
The results load fast. Faster than I’m ready for.
The first article that pops up is from two years ago. There’s a photo attached—Ash, in a tux, grinning with his arm slung casually around a tall, stylish man with designer stubble and a dazzlingsmile. The caption reads:
“Ash Ryder’s Secret Romance? Music’s Bad Boy Gets Cozy with Manager at Afterparty”
I stare at the screen, heart doing something complicated in my chest.
They’re hugging. Kind of intimately. And the way Ash is leaning in, laughing, all warmth and easy charm… yeah.
Okay.
That coulddefinitelybe read as romantic.
My gut twists with something I can’t name. I’m not even sure why it matters.
Part of me is still in shock that he askedmeof all people to fake-marry him. And part of me… thinks I understand why.
It must be exhausting.
Living with that kind of spotlight on you. The constant pressure to perform, to sell a version of yourself the world approves of. Especially if who youreallyare isn’t something the public—or your industry—wants to see.
I think about what hiding your sexuality from the world must feel like.
He must be so tired.
And then there’s me. Sitting here in cat-print pajama pants, stressing about rent and lesson plans and whether I have enough felt for next week’s craft hour.
My life is messy, but at least it’smine.
I get to be myself. Loudly. Softly. Stubbornly. And he... doesn’t.
Maybe this is the one thing Icando for him.
Help him breathe a little easier. Give him space to be who he is, without having to explain or defend it. Let the world believe whatever version of him they want, while he gets to step offstage for once.
And yeah, I need the money.
