The Rules of the Lie

Maya

By the next morning, the internet had apparently decided I belonged to Leo Thorne.I opened one video and instantly regretted it.

Someone had edited slow-motion clips of Leo looking at me at the café, adding soft music and dramatic captions like we were characters in some tragic sports documentary instead of two people being blackmailed into public humiliation. Another account had already made a compilation called The Ice King Melting for Maya Ellison, complete with zoom-ins on his hand brushing mine. There were fan theories about how long we had secretly been dating, threads analyzing body language, and hundreds of comments debating whether I was “good enough” for Northridge hockey royalty.

I stared at the screen in disbelief.Few days ago, nobody on this campus noticed me unless they needed someone to hold a boom mic during film projects. Now strangers were arguing over my relationship status before I had even brushed my teeth.

A hard knock sounded against the connecting door.

“Five minutes,” Leo’s voice called through the wood, sounding as irritated as I felt. “Cassandra wants us downstairs.”Of course she did.

The Thorne dining room looked less like a place people actually ate and more like a boardroom pretending to be elegant. Cassandra sat at the far end of the long table in a cream-colored suit so sharp it probably had its own legal representation, while Mr. Thorne stood beside the window with his hands behind his back like he was preparing to announce wartime strategy instead of discuss fake dating guidelines.

Leo dropped into the chair beside me with all the enthusiasm of someone reporting for community service. His hoodie was wrinkled, his blond hair still messy from sleep, but somehow he still looked annoyingly expensive.

Cassandra slid a tablet across the table toward us. “Congratulations,” she said smoothly. “Your relationship engagement numbers are outperforming every projection we had.”

I frowned at the screen. “Engagement numbers?”

“Seven hundred thousand views overnight,” she continued. “Three trending hashtags. Two sports media outlets already calling this the redemption romance of the year.”

“It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” I muttered.

“Exactly,” Cassandra replied. “Which means the public is emotionally invested already.”

Leo leaned back in his chair, looking exhausted. “Can we skip the part where you talk about us like a N*****x campaign?”

“No,” Cassandra said flatly. “Because unlike you, Leo, I understand that public perception is now the only reason NHL scouts haven’t completely buried your future.”

The room went quiet after that.

Even Leo didn’t argue.

Cassandra tapped the screen again and a schedule appeared. “These are the new rules moving forward. You will appear physically comfortable together at all times in public spaces. No visible hostility. No contradicting stories during interviews. Weekly livestream appearances begin next Friday, Maya attends hockey-related events, and Leo will begin appearing at film department functions.”

I blinked at her. “I’m sorry, livestreams?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

Cassandra barely looked at me. “It’s non-negotiable.”

“I’m a film student, not an influencer.”

“You’re whatever this contract requires you to be.”

The irritation that had been simmering in my chest since yesterday flared instantly. “You know, normal people usually ask before hijacking someone’s entire life.”

Mr. Thorne finally spoke, his voice cool and measured. “Normal people don’t cost universities millions in sponsorship damage.”

I laughed once under my breath. “Right. I forgot. Everything here comes with a price tag.”

Beside me, Leo stayed silent, staring down at the table like he had already mentally checked out of the conversation. Something about that annoyed me even more.

“You could at least pretend to care,” I snapped at him.

His gaze lifted slowly. “About what?”

“The fact that your family just turned me into a public circus act.”

“You signed the contract.”

“After your father threatened my scholarship.”

“And you still signed it.” His tone sharpened slightly. “So stop acting like you’re the only hostage here.”

I stared at him. “Hostage? Please. You’re still the golden boy around here.”

A humorless smile pulled at his mouth. “You really think that?”

“Yes, actually. I think you’ve spent your entire life being protected from consequences because people worship you every time you step onto the ice.”

“And I think,” he replied coolly, “that you spend so much time hiding behind that camera you forgot how real people work.”

The tension snapped tight instantly.

Cassandra, somehow unfazed, simply continued scrolling through analytics. “Excellent,” she murmured. “The hostility reads believable. We can work with that.”

I turned toward her in disbelief. “You can’t seriously be enjoying this.”

“Conflict creates audience investment,” she replied. “But not in public. Publicly, you’re affectionate.”

Leo muttered something under his breath that sounded dangerously close to a swear word.

The rest of the meeting dragged like slow torture. By the time Cassandra dismissed us, I already felt emotionally exhausted and the day had barely started.

Campus was worse.

Everywhere we walked, people stared openly now. Some smiled at us like we were celebrities. Others whispered. Phones followed us down hallways. Someone actually asked for a picture outside the student union, which would have been absurd if Leo hadn’t looked so genuinely dead inside while posing for it.

Near the media building, I spotted Chloe standing with two girls from the journalism department. Normally she would have waved at me immediately. Instead, her expression shifted the second our eyes met, polite but distant, like there was suddenly invisible glass between us.

The worst part was that she wasn’t cruel about it.

Cruel would have been easier.

She simply excused herself from the group and walked the other direction before I could say anything.

Leo noticed too. “Your friend seems thrilled.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything insulting.”

“You were about to.”

“That’s fair.”

For the first time all morning, his mouth twitched slightly like he was fighting a smile.

Unfortunately, the moment died the second we reached the rink.

Jax was already there near the entrance with Noah, spinning a hockey stick lazily between his palms while several freshmen hovered nearby pretending not to stare at us.

“Well, look at this,” Jax called out loudly. “The Ice King brought his girlfriend to practice. Should we all clap or something?”

Leo kept walking. “Don’t start.”

“No, seriously,” Jax continued, falling into step beside us. “I’m trying to adjust here. One minute you’re emotionally unavailable to the entire female population, next minute you’re buying caramel macchiatos and staring into Maya’s eyes like she hung the moon.”

“I don’t stare at her like that,” Leo muttered.

Jax grinned. “Apparently the internet disagrees.”

Noah glanced between them carefully. “People are already making edits.”

“I know,” I groaned.

“You should see the comments,” Jax added. “Half the campus thinks Leo secretly wrote poetry about you.”

Leo looked genuinely horrified. “I would rather get hit by a truck.”

“See?” I shot back instantly. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said today.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re a spoiled hockey prince with anger issues.”

Jax laughed so hard he nearly dropped his stick. “Wow. You two actually hate each other.”

“Yes,” both of us answered at the exact same time.

The silence afterward lasted one beat too long.

Then everyone started laughing including Leo and I

Later that night, Cassandra uploaded the first official promotional photos from the café shoot without warning either of us.

I was lying across the guest bed scrolling through comments when I saw the image everyone was reposting.

It wasn’t the staged hand-holding photo.

It wasn’t the smiling one near the counter either.

It was a candid shot taken while I’d been looking away.

Leo was staring directly at me in the picture, his expression unreadable but strangely soft, like he had forgotten cameras existed for half a second.

The comments underneath were already exploding.

“That look doesn’t seem fake.”

“No guy looks at someone like that for PR.”

“The Ice King is gone.”

I should have rolled my eyes and closed the app.

Instead, I sat there staring at the picture far longer than I meant to, hating the uncomfortable twist low in my stomach because for one dangerous second, I almost wondered if the commenters were right.