The next morning arrived with cameras already rolling. Harper didn't even have time to brush her teeth before a makeup artist was dabbing concealer under her eyes and murmuring about puffiness.
"You need sleep," she whispered, almost like a friend.
Harper gave her a tight smile. Sleep felt impossible now. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Eli's face—blank and beautiful, haunted and hiding.
Today's event was a press-led "date challenge." She and Eli were to spend the day at a charity-run animal shelter—feeding puppies, handing out adoption flyers, and smiling like they were a couple in love with both animals and each other.
Harper could fake the love for dogs. The rest was getting harder.
When Eli greeted her outside the van, he didn't say a word—just offered his hand. The cameras ate it up. Harper took it, feeling the pressure of every lens watching the tiny twitch of her fingers inside his palm.
"You okay?" he asked under his breath, just once.
"No," she answered. "But I will be."
He glanced at her then. Really glanced. And for the first time, something slipped in his mask—something weary and almost… sorry.
The shelter was chaos in the best way. Puppies yelping, fur flying, volunteers hustling around with leashes and chew toys. Harper found herself laughing—genuinely—for the first time in days when a golden retriever puppy barreled into her lap and started licking her face.
Eli knelt beside her, scratching the puppy's ears.
"You look better with dog slobber," he murmured.
She looked at him, eyes narrowed. "You should try it sometime."
He actually smiled—wide, unfiltered, dazzling. The cameras loved it.
They spent the rest of the morning filming candid moments, but between the chaos, something small kept shifting. The way Eli reached to brush hair out of her face without thinking. The way Harper's shoulder pressed into his when they crouched to feed the strays.
By afternoon, she didn't know where the script ended and she began.
During a break, Harper slipped into the staff lounge to breathe. Darius was already there, leaning against a vending machine, sipping a soda.
"You're glowing," he said, pointing to her face. "Either you're in love or allergic to dog fur."
"Maybe both." She dropped onto a folding chair, suddenly exhausted.
He tilted his head, watching her. "Harper… are you sure you're okay with all this?"
She hesitated. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I know the cameras make everything louder, but I see how he looks at you. And I know Eli. That look doesn't come with a script."
Her breath hitched.
"You think he's faking less now?" she asked.
"I think he's trying not to feel. Which means he's already too far in."
She stared at the floor. "That's not good."
"It's dangerous," Darius said softly. "Especially for you."
Before she could answer, the door opened and the producer poked her head in. "Time to wrap up, Harper. Cute couple shots at the donation desk."
As Harper walked back out, Darius called after her. "Just… don't let them write the ending for you."
She didn't turn around. She couldn't.
That night, Harper stood in front of the mirror in a silk slip, staring at her reflection. Her face looked flawless. Her heart felt ruined.
A knock at her door startled her.
She opened it to find Eli. No cameras. Just him.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
She stepped aside, letting him in.
"I don't know how to do this," he said quietly. "Not the show. Not this—whatever this is."
"Then be honest," she said. "No cameras. No crew. Just you."
He ran a hand through his hair. "When you said you weren't pretending anymore…"
Harper swallowed. "I meant it."
He stepped closer, stopping just short of touching her.
"I'm scared of what happens if I stop pretending too," he admitted.
Silence stretched between them.
Then—softly, like a secret—Harper whispered, "Maybe we both already did."
His hand reached for hers.
And in that moment, there were no rules. No lies. No games.
Just two people on the edge of something real—and terrifying.
Back in her room, Harper lay awake long after midnight. The silk sheets tangled around her legs felt too smooth, too foreign—like everything else in this illusion she was trying not to believe in. She stared at the ceiling, thoughts unraveling in endless loops.
Her phone buzzed.
A message.
Eli:Meet me. Greenhouse. Now.
Her breath caught.
She slipped out of bed, still in her robe, and tiptoed barefoot down the hallway. The mansion was quiet, but cameras always lurked, even in silence. Somehow, tonight felt different—like the set itself was holding its breath.
The greenhouse at the back of the estate was glowing faintly under the moonlight, its glass walls hazy with mist. Inside, Eli stood in a hoodie and sweatpants, looking nothing like the polished version the world adored.
He didn't speak when she walked in. Just watched her with that same unreadable expression that always made her feel half-unraveled.
"I thought we weren't supposed to meet off-script," she whispered.
"I don't care."
That silenced her. Not because of what he said, but how he said it. Like the rules didn't matter anymore.
He walked to her slowly, stopping just close enough for her to feel the gravity between them.
"I couldn't sleep," he said. "I kept thinking about what you said. About not pretending anymore."
Harper held her breath.
"And?" she asked, voice barely audible.
He looked at her like he was still figuring it out. Like he was standing at the edge of something dangerous and wasn't sure if he wanted to jump or run.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I've spent years building walls. Smiling for cameras. Playing roles."
"You don't have to play with me," she said.
His jaw clenched. "That's the problem. With you, it doesn't feel like a role."
For a moment, the tension between them pressed too tightly to breathe through.
And then he leaned in.
Slow, careful, asking without words.
She met him halfway.
The kiss was soft. Real. Nothing like the rehearsed ones they'd filmed earlier. This wasn't for the cameras.
This was theirs.
When they pulled apart, Harper didn't speak. Neither did he. There was no script here. No cue cards. Just two people standing in a greenhouse surrounded by blooming orchids and dangerous hope.
She stepped back slowly, heart pounding.
"I should go," she said, but didn't move.
"Yeah," he agreed. "Me too."
Still, they stood there for another minute.
Finally, she turned and left without looking back.
But as she walked away, she knew—whatever they'd just started couldn't be undone.
And tomorrow, the game would change.
Forever.