This is ridiculous. I’ve known him for what, a few weeks? We’ve shared exactly one sexual experience that didn’t even technically count as sex. He has a whole other life outside of me. For some reason, I don’t like that. Not that he has another life, just that I’m not a part of it.
I stare at my phone on the nightstand, willing it to light up with his name. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. He’s probably still in the air, crammed into a middle seat between a snoring businessman and someone’s emotional support animal, deliberately choosing discomfort over accepting anything from me.
God, I’m such a mess.
The thing is, I get it. I understand why he’d be hurt. Everything people see of me is manufactured—from the boyfriend who exists only in photo ops to the sparkly persona that bears no resemblance to who I am when no one’s watching. I’ve spent years polishing an image that doesn’t even feel like me anymore. How could I ask Taio to step into this funhouse-mirror version of a relationship? What kind of person would willingly sign up for that?
But the alternative is…what? Going public with the escort I hired to pretend to be my bodyguard? Announcing to the world that America’s sweetheart is dating a man whose job may or may not be legal? The headlines write themselves. The scandal would make the balcony thing look like a minor PR hiccup.
I could lose everything.
Then again…what exactly am I holding on to?
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I let it sit there for a moment, examining it from different angles. What am I so afraid of losing? A career that’s made me miserable? An image that requires constant maintenance? The approval of millions of strangers who’d turn on me the moment I stop performing for them?
I think about Claire, pregnant and radiant, building a life that has nothing to do with fame or followers. I think about my dancers today, the way they lit up when I gave them permission to be more than background decoration. I think about Taioreading romance novels because he wants to believe in happy endings.
What if I just…stopped?
Not forever. Not dramatically. But what if, after this tour, I actually took the break I’ve been pretending I don’t need? What if I took some time to figure out who Charlie Riley is when she’s not performing for anyone?
The idea is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. I’ve been on since I was sixteen. Nearly a decade of constant visibility, constant output, constant pressure to be bigger, better, more. When was the last time I did something just because I wanted to? When was the last time I made a choice that wasn’t filtered through “how will this affect my brand?”
I need to prove to Taio that I’m serious about him. That he’s not just a convenient secret, a safe practice run before I find someone more publicly acceptable. But how do I do that when my entire existence is built around image management?
Maybe I start by dismantling the image.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I lunge for it so fast I nearly knock over the water glass beside it.
Please be Taio. Please be Taio. Please be?—
Grayson Hemsley.
My insides twist like I’ve swallowed ice water too fast. Grayson’s name pulses on the screen, demanding attention it doesn’t deserve at this hour. My thumb hovers over the red decline button. It’s two in the morning. What could he possibly want?
I can’t resist the pull of the unknown. My thumb betrays me, sliding to accept.
“Hello?”
“Charlie. Hey!” His voice is bright, energetic, completely inappropriate for this hour. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s two in the morning, Grayson.”
“Right, right. Time zones. I always forget Miami’s three hours ahead.” His words slur slightly at the edges. “I’m in LA. Just got out of this…thing, and I was thinking about you.”
The pause before “thing” stretches just long enough for me to fill it with images of perfume-scented sheets and lipstick on his collar.
“You were thinking about me.” I say it flatly, not bothering to hide my skepticism.
“I saw the clips from your Miami show. The piano thing? That was actually really cool. I didn’t know you could play like that. I didn’t know you could sing like that.”
I blink at my ceiling, trying to recalibrate. In the three months since our teams arranged this fake relationship, Grayson has shown approximately zero interest in my actual life. Our interactions have been limited to carefully staged photo ops, the occasional text coordinating logistics, and one deeply awkward dinner where we ran out of things to talk about before the appetizers arrived. Now suddenly he’s calling in the middle of the night to praise my artistic choices?
“Are you drunk or on drugs tonight, Grayson?”
He laughs, but there’s something forced about it. “Come on, don’t be like that. I’m trying to be a better boyfriend here.”
“No need. We’re not actually dating, remember? This is a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial PR strategy. Your words, not mine.”
