Chapter Three: The Fan Photo & Contract

“Sit.”

Gerald didn’t say it to me this time. He said it to the room, because when I walked back into his office twenty minutes later, I wasn’t the only one in it. Cole was already sitting on the far side of the table, the same coverless book resting on his knee, looking like a man who’d been dragged somewhere against his will and had decided to be perfectly still about it.

“What is this.”

“This,” Gerald said, “is damage control.”

“He’s a reporter.”

“He’s a ghostwriter. Freelance. Very good at making people look exactly how their publicist wants them to look.” Gerald slid a folder across the table, thick, tabbed, already printed like it had been sitting ready for hours. “And as of six this morning, he’s also the reason your leak isn’t the top story anymore.”

I looked at Cole. He didn’t look away.

“Somebody posted a photo,” he said. “From the coffee shop. It’s already got more traction than your single.”

“So?”

“So Gerald bought the rights to run with it before anyone else could.” Cole’s jaw moved, tight, like the words cost him something to say out loud. “Boyfriend narrative. Mystery man turns out to be the ghostwriter helping you rebuild after the leak. It writes itself.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“You do now,” Gerald said. “For the next eight weeks, minimum.”

I laughed, short and humorless. “You can’t just decide that.”

“I already did. The board loves it. It tests better than any press strategy we’ve run in two years.” He tapped the folder. “Read it before you say anything else.”

I didn’t want to touch it. I did anyway, because not touching it wouldn’t make it stop existing. The contract was exactly what it looked like — dates, appearances, a clause about matching social media activity, a clause about physical contact “appropriate to a public relationship,” a clause about an end date, clean, no messy renegotiation, eight weeks and then it simply stopped, like a lease.

“This is insane,” I said.

“This is the only thing standing between you and the board pulling your album,” Gerald said. “Take it or don’t. But if you don’t, I can’t promise there’s a next record after this one.”

I looked at Cole again. “And you’re fine with this?”

“No.” He said it flat, no performance in it at all, which was somehow worse than if he’d tried to sell me on it. “I’m not fine with any of it. But I owe somebody, and this is how I pay it, so I’m doing it whether you sign that or not.”

“Owe who? You never said.”

“I’m still not saying.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It’s not meant to be convenient. It’s meant to be true.” He finally looked at me straight on. “I don’t like this any more than you do. I just don’t have a version of my life where I get to say no.”

“You could at least look like you don’t hate this,” I said to him.

“I could. I’m choosing not to.” He said it without heat, which somehow made it land harder. “I’d rather you know exactly what this is than pretend it’s something softer.”

“Believe me, I’m not confused.”

“Good. Neither am I.”

“Then we agree on something already.”

“First time for everything,” he said, and there was no warmth in it, just fact, and I decided I preferred it that way. At least his resentment was honest. Everyone else in the room was only pretending to be on my side.

Gerald cleared his throat like he was reminding us both he was still in the room. “We don’t have all day.”

I read the clauses again, slower this time, and somewhere around the third page I understood I wasn’t actually deciding whether to do this. I was deciding how I wanted to walk into it, furious and dragged, or furious and in control of at least the terms. I picked up the pen.

“I want rules,” I said. “My rules, not just the label’s.”

“Fine,” Gerald said.

“No real feelings. This is public only, cameras only. The second we’re alone, we’re strangers again.”

Cole’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like he’d expected exactly that and was relieved I’d said it first. “Agreed.”

“And there’s an end date. Eight weeks, like it says. Not a day more, no matter how well it’s testing.”

“Agreed,” Gerald said, before Cole could even answer, like he’d take either of our terms as long as the ink went down.

“One more thing.” I looked at Cole, not Gerald. “If either of us breaks a rule, the whole thing’s over. No warnings.”

“Fine by me,” Cole said.

I signed my name on the last line before I could think better of it. Cole signed his after, and his handwriting surprised me, small, careful, nothing like the man who’d sat across from me all morning refusing to give a straight answer to a single question. Gerald snatched the folder back up like it might evaporate if he waited too long.

“Photographer’s downstairs,” he said. “We’re doing a first look. Nothing major, just enough to prime the story before it drops tonight.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

They put us against a plain gray backdrop in a room three floors down, a man with two cameras telling us to stand closer, closer, like the shot itself would collapse if there was daylight between our shoulders. Cole’s hand landed at the small of my back, light, careful, exactly the kind of touch a stranger would use for a photo and nothing more.

Except it didn’t move. The photographer kept shooting, calling out angles, and Cole’s hand stayed exactly where it was, his thumb pressed flat against my spine like he’d forgotten it was there at all. I kept my chin up and my smile even and told myself I only noticed because it was unprofessional. I told myself that twice, and neither time did I quite believe it.

“You can let go now,” I said quietly, once the camera dropped for a second to check the shots.

“Right.” He pulled his hand back like it had cost him something, and neither of us looked at each other while the photographer scrolled through the frames on his screen, nodding, already pleased with what he had.

“These are good,” the photographer said. “Really good, actually. You two didn’t even have to fake it.”

Neither of us answered that.

Gerald’s phone buzzed before the silence could stretch too long. He read the message, and whatever was on the screen made him smile in a way I didn’t trust at all.

“Change of plans,” he said, sliding the phone back into his pocket. “The story drops in six hours instead of tomorrow. Which means your first public appearance isn’t next week like we planned.”

“When is it, then,” I said.

He was already halfway out the door, already done with both of us for the day. “Tonight.”