Charming the reporters with lazy smiles and clever answers, tossing a wink here, a grin there, slipping between suave and playful like it costs him nothing. And the cameras? They love him. The crowd practically surges when he waves. One woman actually squeals.
And he doesn’t even flinch. Just smiles wider, poses smoother, drops a hand casually to my waist like he’s done it a thousand times.
This is his world. Glossy, electric, fast.
And he’ssogood at it.
Ash answers a question about his “upcoming wedding” with a smirk and a vague answer, somehow both teasing and respectful, and the reporter eats it up like it’s gourmet gossip.
He knows exactly what to give them—and exactly what to keep for himself.
Next to him, I feel like a kindergartener on a field trip. I smile, nod, cling to his cues like a lifeline. But he never lets me drift. Every so often, his fingers brush mine, or he leans in like he’s whispering something private just for me. Little touches. Small anchors.
I’m not used to this version of him. This Ash is a star.
Sparkling. Effortless. Untouchable.
Another reporter approaches. She’s stunning. Legs for days, a designer gown that fits like it was sewn on her body, and a glossy microphone held like an accessory. I recognize her from somewhere—an entertainment segment maybe? She probably hosts some kind of late-night celebrity gossip show with four million followers and a verified checkmark.
And now she’s interviewing Ash.
Correction: she’sflirtingwith Ash.
“Rock god Ash Ryder,” she purrs into the mic, her manicured hand landing on his arm like she owns it. “Looking sharp tonight. Who are you wearing?”
Ash flashes her a lazy grin. “Dolce & Gabbana. You approve?”
She laughs—too loud, too practiced—and squeezes his arm like she’s forgotten it isn’t hers to touch. “I do. Honestly? You’re outshining everyone on this carpet tonight.”
I stand next to him, clutching my tiny purse like a lifeline and feeling increasingly invisible. The reporter hasn’t evenlookedat me. Not once. Until—
“And who’s this?” she asks, barely glancing my way. “Your assistant?”
I blink. “I—”
Ash’s arm is around my waist in a second. “This is my fiancée,” he says smoothly, his tone cool but firm.
“Oh!” Her smile wavers for a beat before snapping back into place—brighter, faker. “Right. The wedding. So exciting!”
Now she actually looks at me—up, down, through me. And I swear, her lashes flutter with barely concealed judgment.
“I’m Olive,” I say, my smile sharp enough to draw blood.
Ash’s fingers tighten slightly on my hip. I can’t tell if it’s meant to steady me—or hold me back.
The reporter plows ahead, turning back to Ash like I’ve evaporated. “So,Ash—tell us, will there be new music coming before or after the honeymoon?”
I tune her out after that. Because watching her touch him—again—and ignore me—again—is grating on every nerve I have. It shouldn’t bother me. We’re fake. This whole thing is a performance.
Except… it doesn’t feel fake right now.
Not the warmth of his body next to mine. Not the way my heart kicks when he glances at me mid-interview like he’s checking in.
And definitely not the way I’m itching to yank her perfectly manicured hand off his bicep and hissmine.
Which is ridiculous.
Because he’s not.
