“okay but the bodyguard can GET IT”
“the way she looks at him in that backstage video?? ma’am that is not professional”
“I would commit crimes to have five minutes alone with that man”
“charlie’s bodyguard is giving very much ‘I would kill for you and enjoy it’ energy and honestly? goals”
I scroll past before I can read any more, feeling heat creep up the back of my neck. The narrative has shifted completely. The escort angle is dead—buried under an avalanche of new content, new storylines, new things for the internet to obsess over. The bodyguard story is holding. Charlie’s performance overwrote everything else, gave people something new to focus on, something that painted her as triumphant rather than tragic.
Sage Hilston is a damn genius.
I keep scrolling. The tide has turned so thoroughly that I’m finding actual think pieces about Charlie’s “artistic evolution” and “vulnerability as strength.” One entertainment site has already published a retrospective of her career, framing the scandal as a catalyst for growth rather than a catastrophe. The comments are full of people supporting her continuation of the tour, claiming they “always knew she had this in her” and “never believed the haters.”
The internet has the memory of a goldfish and the loyalty of a weathervane. Yesterday they wanted to destroy her. Today she’s their queen again. Tomorrow, who knows? But for now, the tide has turned, and I’ll take the victory.
I keep scrolling, switching over to Twitter—or X, or whatever they’re calling it now. The trending topics confirm whatInstagram suggested: #CharlieRiley is up there, but this time the associated tweets are glowing. Video clips of the piano performance have been viewed millions of times overnight. Someone’s already made a fan edit set to emotional music that’s racked up six figures’ worth of engagement.
There’s even a hashtag specifically for the bodyguard situation: #CharliesBodyguard. I tap on it against my better judgment.
It’s mostly thirst tweets. Extremely creative thirst tweets, some of which describe acts that are probably illegal in some states. There are also conspiracy theories—people convinced I’m actually a secret boyfriend, or a planted actor, or some elaborate PR stunt designed to distract from the original scandal. One person has apparently spent several hours trying to identify me through analysis of the birthmark behind my ear, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
The most-liked tweet in the hashtag is a zoomed-in screenshot from backstage footage, catching a moment where I’m looking at Charlie while she talks to someone off-camera. My expression in the photo is painfully revealing. Soft in a way I didn’t realize I was being. Obvious in a way that makes my stomach clench.
The caption reads:“this man would walk through fire for her and you can’t convince me otherwise.”
The replies are full of heart emojis and keyboard smashes and people tagging their friends with comments like “find someone who looks at you like this.”
I close the app.
I should feel relieved. This is good news—great news, actually. It means the plan is working. It means Charlie’s career is recovering. It means my presence here is serving its purpose, and when this is all over, I can walk away knowing I helped instead of hurt.
Instead, I feel something more complicated. And it has nothing to do with PR strategies or professional responsibilities or the carefully constructed boundaries I’ve been maintaining since this whole thing started. It has everything to do with the woman who fell asleep in my arms last night, trusting me completely, and how badly I wanted to stay in that moment forever. My entire locus of control has shifted. Who am I now? Apparently whatever she needs. A friend. A bodyguard. Her protector. Her confidant. A man who wants her way more than he’ll ever let himself admit.
My thumb slides down the screen, pulling up a laundry list of notifications.
Charlie
Awake yet, sleeping beauty?
I check the timestamp. She sent it twenty minutes ago. There’s a follow-up from three minutes later:
Charlie
I fed Black Cat.
Another follow-up fifteen minutes later.
Charlie
Okay, twice. I fed him TWICE.
I smile at my phone like an idiot.
Me
Just woke up. What time did you get up?
Her response is immediate, like she’s been waiting for me.
