Three weeks passed in a blur, like I'd been living someone else's life. And in a way, I guess I had been.
It was all part of the plan—Caleb and Megan, the perfect couple, parading around like we were madly in love. And we were doing a damn good job of it.
Too good, honestly.
Every day was another carefully orchestrated scene. We hit every trendy restaurant, walked through every paparazzi-filled street, and visited every high-profile event we could get our hands on. It was like clockwork.
We'd show up, act all sweet and affectionate, and then let the media eat it up. It was easy at first—just pretend. But the more time we spent together, the more I started to wonder if I was pretending at all.
The first week started off simple enough. We had lunch at a café in the middle of downtown, a place I knew was crawling with photographers. The second we sat down, I could see the flash of cameras in the distance, the subtle click of shutters as they tried to capture us without being obvious about it.
Megan was sitting across from me, laughing at something I said, her eyes sparkling in the midday sun. She looked… happy. And that killed me.
It couldn't be real.
I reached across the table, brushing a stray hair from her face, and she smiled at me like I was the only guy in the world. God, she was good. She was a better actress than I gave her credit for.
But something about the way she looked at me made my chest tighten. I had to remind myself that this was just part of the game. A contract.
"Smile, Caleb," she whispered, leaning in closer. "They're watching."
I forced a grin, my thumb brushing against her cheek in what I hoped looked like a natural, loving gesture. "I'm always smiling when I'm with you," I said, playing along.
Her eyes flickered with something I couldn't quite place, and for a split second, I wondered if maybe she wasn't pretending either. But then she laughed and leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of her iced tea like she hadn't just thrown my mind into chaos.
The rest of that day went by in a haze of hand-holding and stolen kisses for the cameras. By the time we got back to my place, I was exhausted.
But it wasn't the public attention that drained me—it was the constant battle in my head. The back-and-forth of pretending not to feel something I wasn't supposed to feel.
The second week was even worse. We had a full schedule of events lined up—charity galas, red carpets, and even a couple of movie premieres. It was non-stop. The whole world was watching, and we were giving them exactly what they wanted.
We'd show up arm in arm, her head resting on my shoulder, my hand casually resting on the small of her back. And every time I touched her, it felt too good.
One night, we attended a black-tie event at some high-end hotel. Megan was wearing this red dress that hugged every curve, and for the life of me, I couldn't stop staring at her. It reminded me of when we first met.
She looked like she belonged on the cover of some fashion magazine, not hanging on the arm of a guy like me. But there she was, smiling and laughing like this was the best night of her life.
We posed for pictures, her body pressed against mine in a way that made it hard to think straight. I could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric of her dress, the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Every moment felt like a test of my self-control, and I was failing miserably.
At one point during the night, we found ourselves standing off to the side, away from the main crowd. Megan was sipping champagne, her eyes scanning the room like she was looking for something—or maybe someone.
I leaned against the wall, trying to play it cool, but my heart was racing for reasons I didn't want to admit.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice soft as she turned to face me.
I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just… tired, I guess."
She stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on my arm. "Are you sure? You've been kind of… distant tonight."
It took everything I had not to flinch at her touch. "I'm fine. Really."
Her eyes searched mine, and for a second, I thought she was going to call me out on my bullshit. But instead, she smiled and leaned in, her lips brushing against my cheek in a way that sent a shiver down my spine.
"You're a terrible liar, Caleb," she whispered, her breath warm against my skin.
I swallowed hard, my hand instinctively reaching for hers. "I'm not lying."
She pulled back, her eyes locking with mine in a way that made it hard to breathe. "Sure you're not."
The rest of the night was a blur after that. I spent the entire time trying not to think about how good it felt to have her close, how every smile, every laugh, made me feel like I was sinking deeper into something I couldn't control. And the more I tried to push it away, the stronger it got.
By the third week, I was a fucking mess.
We'd been seen everywhere—shopping in high-end boutiques, sipping wine in rooftop bars, even walking through the park hand in hand like a couple of lovesick teenagers. The media was eating it up.
The headlines were full of us. 'Caleb and Megan: Hollywood's Hottest Couple.' 'The Perfect Love Story.' And the more they believed it, the more I started to question what was real and what wasn't.
One afternoon, we decided to go for a walk on the beach. It was supposed to be low-key, just the two of us, but of course, the paparazzi found us within minutes.
Megan was in a flowy sundress, her hair blowing in the wind, and I couldn't stop thinking about how goddamn beautiful she looked. We walked along the shoreline, our feet sinking into the warm sand, her hand securely in mine.
At one point, she kicked off her sandals and started running ahead, laughing as the waves lapped at her ankles. I watched her for a moment, my chest tightening with something I didn't want to name.
She looked so carefree, so happy, and I couldn't help but wonder if she'd be better off without this whole charade. Without me.
"Come on, slowpoke!" she called over her shoulder, waving me forward.
I jogged to catch up with her, my heart pounding in time with my footsteps. When I reached her, she spun around, her arms wrapping around my neck as she pulled me in for a kiss. It was soft, sweet, the kind of kiss that should've been just for show. But it didn't feel like it.
Not to me, anyway.
And that's when it hit me. I was in way too deep. I denied this heavy feeling in my chest. No way. It couldn't be.
I pulled back, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Megan looked up at me, her eyes searching mine for answers I wasn't ready to give.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I shook my head, trying to play it off like it was nothing. "Nothing. I'm fine."
But I wasn't fine. I was anything but fine. Because somewhere along the way, I'd crossed a line I wasn't supposed to cross. And now, I don't know how to get back.
For the rest of the day, I tried to keep my distance, but Megan wasn't making it easy. She kept touching me—small, innocent gestures that felt anything but innocent. A hand on my arm, a brush of her fingers against mine, a soft smile that made my heart ache.
By the time we got back to the house, I was ready to lose my mind.
I needed space. I needed time to think. But the second we stepped inside, Megan turned to me, her eyes filled with something I couldn't quite read.
"You have something on your mind," she said, her voice soft but firm.
I looked at her, my throat tight. "Nothing—"
"Don't," she interrupted, stepping closer. "Don't lie to me, Caleb. I can see it. You're worried about something. What is it?"
I swallowed hard, my hands clenching at my sides. "It's nothing."
She raised an eyebrow, her expression challenging. "Then what is it?" she asked again.
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Because the truth was, I didn't have an answer. Not one I was ready to admit, anyway.
So instead of saying anything, I did the only thing I could think of.
I kissed her.