Chapter 8: Meeting the Media

I’ve changed outfits three times.

My apartment floor is covered in rejected clothes and crumpled confidence.

“You look fine,” Mia says from my bed. “More than fine. You look hot.”

“I look like I’m trying too hard.”

“You’re going to a charity gala with a billionaire. You’re supposed to try hard.”

I stare at myself in the mirror. The navy dress fits perfectly. My hair is swept up after forty YouTube tutorials. Minimal jewelry.

I look like me trying to be someone else.

“What if I trip?” I turn to Mia. “What if I say something stupid? What if I forget the fake origin story and accidentally tell someone we met because my ex called me ordinary?”

“Then you’ll be human.” Mia sets down her phone. “Zara, you’re spiraling.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re panicking.” She stands, walks over, and takes my shoulders. “Listen to me. You walked into that dinner and dumped Ryan in front of everyone. You told Adrian Knight you’d rather walk away than let him buy you clothes. You are not the girl who falls apart at a party.”

“This isn’t just a party. There will be photographers. Press. People who matter.”

“And you’ll be with Adrian.” She raises an eyebrow. “Who, despite being emotionally constipated, seems to think you’re worth all of this.”

My phone buzzes on the dresser.

Adrian: “Car is downstairs. Take your time.”

I look at Mia, panicked.

“Go.” She shoves my clutch at me. “And text me everything. I need content for tomorrow’s blog post.”

“You’re not posting about me.”

“I’m posting about Adrian Knight’s mysterious new girlfriend who no one has ever heard of and who’s about to break the internet.” She grins. “But don’t worry, I’ll be nice.”

I take the elevator down. Through the glass doors, I see a black car at the curb.

Adrian stands beside it in a tuxedo, looking like he stepped out of a magazine.

Then he sees me, and something shifts in his expression.

“Hi,” I manage.

“You look beautiful.”

The way he says it, like the words surprised him, makes my cheeks heat.

“You clean up okay too.”

He almost smiles. Opens the car door. “Ready?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good. Neither am I.”

I slide into the car, and he follows. The partition is up, giving us privacy.

“You’re nervous,” Adrian observes.

“Terrified.”

“Don’t be. You’ve done harder things than smile for cameras.”

“Have I though?”

“You rebuilt your career from scratch. You stood up to me in a boutique.” He pauses. “Compared to that, tonight is easy.”

“Easy. Right.”

“When you put it that way, it does sound complicated.”

I laugh despite my nerves. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying to distract you. It’s working.”

The car pulls up to the venue. Red carpet. Photographers. Camera flashes.

“Oh god.”

Adrian’s hand finds mine. “Look at me.”

I do.

“We walk in together. We smile. If anyone asks questions, I handle it. All you have to do is stay next to me.”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Then pretend.” His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “You’re good at pretending. You’ve been pretending to be confident for the last ten minutes.”

“How did you…”

“I notice things.” He releases my hand. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

The driver opens the door. Sound hits me first. Voices shouting, cameras clicking, that electric buzz of controlled chaos. Adrian steps out, then turns to offer me his hand.

I take it. The moment my heel touches the red carpet, the flashes intensify.

“Mr. Knight! Over here!”

“Adrian! Who’s your date?”

“Is this the new girlfriend?”

“What’s her name?”

The questions blur together. The lights are blinding. I can’t see past the photographers, can’t focus on anything except the overwhelming sensation of being watched by dozens of eyes, judged by hundreds more through camera lenses.

I freeze.

My hand tightens on Adrian’s. My smile feels plastic. I can’t remember how to stand naturally, where to look, whether I’m supposed to wave or just exist.

Adrian leans in, his mouth close to my ear. To anyone watching, it looks intimate. Romantic.

“Just look at me,” he whispers. “Forget everyone else.”

I turn my head. His face fills my vision, blocking out the chaos around us. Dark eyes steady on mine, jaw tight with focus, but there’s something gentle in his expression.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There’s no one here but us.”

His hand settles on my waist, pulling me closer. Not enough to be inappropriate, but enough that I feel anchored. Solid.

“Better?” he asks.

“Getting there.”

“Good. Because you’re doing great.”

“I’m having a panic attack on a red carpet.”

“You’re standing next to me looking like you belong exactly where you are.” His thumb traces a small circle on my waist, probably unconscious. “Trust me. They’re not seeing panic. They’re seeing confidence.”

The cameras keep flashing. Someone shouts another question I don’t process. But Adrian’s eyes don’t leave mine, and somehow, that makes it bearable.

“We should probably go inside,” I say.

“Probably.” But he doesn’t move. Just keeps looking at me like I’m the only person here.

Later, scrolling through my phone after midnight, still in my dress, I find the photo.

It’s everywhere. T*****r. I*******m. Mia’s blog, naturally. Entertainment websites I didn’t know existed.

Adrian and me on the red carpet. His hand on my waist. My face turned up to his. Both of us looking at each other like the rest of the world has disappeared.

The caption varies by source:

“Adrian Knight’s mystery woman revealed”

“Who is Zara Bennett?”

“Billionaire finally finds love?”

But my favorite, the one Mia posted, simply says: “When he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.”

Fifteen thousand likes and counting.

I zoom in on the photo. On Adrian’s face. On the way he’s looking at me.

He’s a good actor. We both are.

That’s what I tell myself as I stare at the image, trying to remember if his hand on my waist felt like acting. If the way my breath caught was part of the performance.

My phone rings. Adrian’s name flashes across the screen.

It’s past midnight. We said polite goodbyes hours ago, professional and distant.

I answer. “Hello?”

“I saw the photo.” His voice is different. Quieter. Less controlled.

“So did everyone else.”

“Zara.” A pause. “That moment on the carpet. When I told you to look at me.”

My heart hammers. “What about it?”

Silence stretches.

“Nothing,” he finally says. “Just making sure you’re okay. First public appearance can be overwhelming.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.” Another pause. “You did well tonight.”

“Thanks. So did you. Very convincing.”

“Right. Convincing.” Something in his tone shifts. “Get some rest. We have brunch with my grandmother tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Victor didn’t mention—”

“He will. Nine AM. I’ll pick you up at eight thirty.”

He hangs up before I can argue.

I stare at the photo still on my screen. At the way Adrian’s looking at me like I matter.

The most dangerous thing about this contract isn’t Vanessa, or Ryan, or the press.

It’s the way I can’t tell anymore where the acting ends and the truth begins.