Just For The Cameras

Connie Reid doesn't date athletes. She doesn't talk about her past. And she definitely doesn't play hockey anymore. She built her new life at Crestfield University carefully — warm smile, sharp instincts, a matchmaking reputation that keeps everyone else's love lives running smoothly while her own heart stays locked away. It works perfectly. Until the university board decides her skills belong to them. The deal is simple and non-negotiable: fake a relationship with Kyrian Maddox — Crestfield's most controversial hockey recruit — on a live reality dating show, or watch her most painful secret broadcast to every student on campus. Kyrian Maddox doesn't explain himself to anyone. He arrived at Crestfield already carrying a scandal he didn't cause and a reputation he can't escape. The PR arrangement forced on him is just another thing he has no choice but to endure. The girl they've paired him with is warm, clever and reads people like open books. He finds that deeply suspicious. Off camera they're strangers who tolerate each other in cold silence. On camera they're convincing enough to trend. But the longer they share a house, an ice rink and the weight of secrets neither will speak aloud, the harder it becomes to remember where the performance ends. Then the boy who destroyed Connie's life walks into the show house smiling like no time has passed. And everything she buried starts clawing its way back to the surface. Kyrian notices the shift in her before she can hide it. What he doesn't know yet is that protecting her might cost him everything he came to Crestfield to rebuild. Some performances become real. Some secrets refuse to stay buried. And some people are worth burning everything down for.

When nineteen-year-old engineering student Sky is scouted by Dream Entertainment, he thinks it’s a scam—until life throws him into financial uncertainty and he decides to take the leap. What starts as a desperate attempt to help his family quickly evolves into something far more complicated: a chance to star in a reality show where contestants pair up and compete for a coveted lead role in a new Boys’ Love (BL) series. Night, a successful but emotionally guarded model, isn’t the type to sign on for flashy reality shows—until he sees Sky’s casting photo and feels something he can’t explain. Against his manager’s advice and his own better judgment, he joins the project, drawn to the boy with the shy smile and uncertain eyes. Thrown into a house with six striking and wildly different contestants, Sky and Night are assigned roommates—others, not each other—and must navigate awkward first impressions, lip-sync battles, late-night conversations, and the growing tension between competition and connection. As the cameras roll and emotions blur, the question that hanging in the air: Is this just a path to fame in the entertainment industry—or is it something real? Is it all just for show?

Seven years with a photographer, and I don't have a single decent photo of myself. "I only shoot landscapes, not people," my boyfriend, Dwayne Norton, always tells me. He even claims he broke up with his ex because she kept forcing him to take her picture. So, for seven years, I play nice. I never ask and never push. Until today, when I'm scrolling through social media and see a post from my influencer best friend, Aviana Reed. "My personal photographer has been shooting me for seven years. Every single shot is a masterpiece!" In the comments, there's a reply, "It's an honor to shoot my muse." The profile picture is pitch black. The tone is so familiar it leaves me completely numb. He doesn't hate shooting people. He just hates shooting me. Dwayne, since there's no room for me in your lens, then this time, there's no room for you in my world either.

I had been dating a photographer for seven years, yet I didn't have a single decent photo of myself. "I only photograph scenery, not people," Nina Jensen said. She even said her last relationship ended because her ex-boyfriend kept asking her to take pictures of him. So for seven years, I stayed quiet. I never asked or brought it up. That was until today, when I came across the latest post from my influencer friend, Julian Locke. [Let me show off my photographer. She's been taking amazing photos of me for seven years for free!] One of the top comments is: [It's an honor to photograph my muse.] The profile picture was completely white. The tone felt familiar, and it sent a chill through my entire body. Turns out, it wasn't that Nina didn't take photos of people. She just never wanted to take mine. 'Nina. If I don't exist in your viewfinder, from now on, you don't exist in my world either.'

On Valentine's Day, as my girlfriend, Christy Lawrence, and I stroll along a tourist hot spot, a photographer asks me, "Care to take a photo? Oh, you brought someone new again!" I brush it off as a joke, but Christy stops the photographer and says seriously, "He told me I'm his first girlfriend. How can you make up a lie like that?" The photographer snorts. "This young man here brings a different young woman with him to take a photo here every six months. I still have the photos to prove it!" He brings out his phone and shows us a photo of a couple—the man looks exactly like me. All of the surrounding tourists start eyeing me scornfully. I take my phone out and make a call. "Hello, I suspect that someone has stolen my identity. Could you please send a police officer over?"

Among the world's female models, Julian Vance once again ranked first as the photographer they most wanted to spend a night with. And yet he had never taken a single photograph of me. When reporters asked about it, he could never hide the fondness in his eyes. "My wife is for my eyes only. No one else gets that privilege." On my birthday, I happily changed into a lace nightdress and, for the first time, asked him to record me with his camera. Several minutes passed. The shutter never sounded. Behind the camera, Julian's expression had gone stiff. "Forget it," he said. My joy collapsed into confusion. "What's wrong?" "It's just..." He laughed dryly. "Photography is work. I don't want to mix you up with work." Then he put the camera back, turned around, and went into the bathroom. The door to the darkroom where he developed his photos was half open, red light spilling through the crack. I walked inside and saw an album on the worktable titled Vivian Blair's Private Diary. I opened it. Inside were photos in every degree of intimacy and every kind of pose.