Chapter 8

(Asher’s POV)

The morning sunlight streamed into the grand, minimalist bedroom of my luxury penthouse, its rays bouncing off the sleek, polished floors and pristine white walls. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my phone buzzing incessantly on the nightstand.

I sighed and picked it up, scrolling through messages from my manager, fan accounts tagging me in their posts, and media alerts about yet another glowing review of my latest movie.

‘Asher Skylar stuns in his latest romantic drama, cementing his place as the heartthrob of the decade!’

I dropped the phone back onto the bed, running a hand over my face. Fame, success, adoration…it all felt so hollow lately.

Dragging myself out of bed, I threw on a loose shirt and joggers before heading to the kitchen. My assistant had left a note. 

“Photoshoot at noon. Interview at 3 PM. Dinner event at 8”.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, leaning against the counter as my mind wandered to my father’s words from the previous day.

"You’ve mastered the art of pretending, Asher. Maybe this marriage will teach you how to live authentically…how to connect again”.

The comment had stung because it wasn’t entirely untrue. I had spent years crafting a persona that the world adored, a character that had become synonymous with perfection, charm, and unattainable romance. But behind the camera, behind the carefully curated image, I felt invisible.

Later that day, I stood under the harsh lights of a studio, surrounded by a team of stylists, photographers, and assistants. I posed effortlessly, flashing my trademark smile, my every movement calculated for maximum allure.

“Perfect, Asher! That’s the one!” The photographer exclaimed, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.

I nodded politely, stepping off the set and grabbing a bottle of water. As the crew fussed over the shots, I leaned against a wall, my thoughts drifting again.

‘Marriage? Me? To a girl I don’t even know?’

I chuckled humorlessly. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The world believed me to be the epitome of romance, the ultimate lover. Yet, in reality, I had never experienced a connection that felt real.

‘What would she think of me?’ I wondered, imagining the girl my father had chosen. ‘Was she like everyone else…drawn to the image of Asher Skylar rather than the man beneath? Or could she somehow see past the façade?’

By mid-afternoon, I was seated in a plush chair opposite a well-known journalist. The interview was live, and the cameras were rolling.

“So, Asher,” The interviewer began, leaning forward, 

“You’ve become a symbol of love and romance for so many people. Does that reflect your personal life as well? Are you the hopeless romantic everyone believes you to be?”

My practiced smile faltered for a split second before I recovered. 

“Well, I’d like to think there’s some truth to it,” Ie replied smoothly. 

“But let’s just say the characters I play are much better at romance than I am” The audience laughed, but my chest tightened. It was the closest I had come to admitting the truth.

That night, I sat alone on the balcony of my penthouse, the city lights twinkling like stars below me. A glass of wine rested on the table beside me, untouched. My guitar, an old companion, lay across my lap as I absentmindedly strummed a melancholic tune.

I stared at my phone, a photo of my family pulled up on the screen. My father stood proudly in the center, flanked by us. I zoomed in on my own face, noticing the carefully placed smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

‘She’ll probably see me the same way everyone else does. Another mask, another role.’ But then, another thought crept in. ‘What if she doesn’t? What if she’s different?’

I strummed a few more chords, the melody shifting into something lighter, almost hopeful.

For the first time since my father’s announcement, I allowed myself to imagine the possibility of something real. ‘Perhaps this girl, whoever she was, could be the one to finally see me…not Asher Skylar, the superstar, but… Asher, the man.’

(Ian’s POV)

The morning sun streamed through the large windows of my bedroom in the family mansion. The room was a chaotic blend of gym gear, football equipment, and textbooks, with posters of famous athletes adorning the walls. My alarm blared, and I groaned, rolling over to hit the snooze button.

“I swear, mornings aren’t my thing” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes.

After dragging myself out of bed, I threw on a hoodie and joggers before heading to the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee greeted me, and I found my father sitting at the breakfast table, sipping from a mug.

 “Morning, Dad,”  I greeted while grabbing an apple and making a beeline for the door.

“Don’t forget dinner tonight” My father called after me.

“Yeah, yeah” I replied, waving without turning around.

By late morning, I was on the college football field, the cool breeze energizing me as I jogged laps with my teammates. My  passion for the sport was evident in the way I moved…quick, agile, and full of life.

The coach barked orders, and I took every drill in stride, laughing and joking with my friends between sprints. Yet, even as I immersed myself in practice, my mind wandered to the conversation from the night before.

"Ian, this marriage isn’t just about you. It’s about family."

The words echoed in my head like an annoying buzz. I was the youngest, the carefree one, the one who hadn’t yet been forced to shoulder the burdens my brothers carried. Now, suddenly, the weight of adult responsibility was crashing down on me.

During a water break, I sat on the sidelines, staring at the grass. My teammates teased me about zoning out, but I barely responded.

Back at the mansion, I sprawled on the couch in the den, a sports channel playing in the background. My football bag lay forgotten on the floor, and my textbooks sat untouched on the coffee table.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling through social media. Photos of my brothers popped up frequently…Owen at some high-profile business event, Ryan flaunting his latest venture, and Asher’s face plastered across a movie poster.

“Guess I’m the odd one out” I muttered, tossing the phone aside.

Later that evening, I found myself in the backyard, kicking a football aimlessly while the sun dipped below the horizon. The rhythmic thud of the ball against the ground was soothing, almost meditative.

I thought about my father. As much as I hated the idea of marriage, I couldn’t ignore the worry in my dad’s eyes. 

“Why does he think this will fix everything?” I asked aloud, kicking the ball harder than intended.

I stopped, catching the ball as it bounced back. A sense of unease settled over me. I had always avoided responsibility, but this situation forced me to confront the cracks in our family.

I sighed, tossing the ball to the side and heading back inside. ‘I wasn’t ready for marriage, but for my father’s sake, I would try.’