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"Kate! Over here, Kate!"
"Is it true love? Or just a fling?"
"Are you guys serious?"
"How does Ben feel dating America's sweetheart?"
Their voices mix into a cacophony of needling curiosity. They don't care about the truth, only the story they can sell.
And sell it they do. Fans are eating it up, blowing up socials with #Bate or is it #Ken? Some are swooning. Others are sharpening pitchforks.
"Leave them alone!" battles against "She's too young for him!" in an online war where nobody really wins.
It's not just the fans. It's the agents, the studios, the sponsors. Everyone's got an opinion. My manager’s voice echoes in my head, her words a blend of reprimand and concern, "Kate, we need to address this. Now."
"Address it?" I snort, staring at the chaos beyond my tinted car windows. As if a simple ‘sorry’ could scrub the image from the collective mind of the internet. As if Ben and I owe the world an explanation for who we kiss or why.
But then there's the fallout—projects put on hold, endorsements questioning their contracts, whispers of morality clauses. The industry loves to pretend it's all progressive until something juicy lands in their laps. Then it's back to the stone age with us, clubbed over the head with scandal.
"Maybe we should make a statement," Ben says over the phone, his voice a mix of frustration and that cool-as-cucumber pilot calm I fell for in the first place.
"Sure," I say, rolling my eyes to the heavens. "Let's invite them to our nonexistent wedding while we're at it."
"Kate..."
"I know, I know," I cut in, feeling the weight of his unspoken worry. We're both in this tornado of flashbulbs and speculation, trying to find our footing on shifting sands. What a mess.
"Stay strong, okay? We'll figure this out together," he assures me, yet I can tell even Mr. Unflappable Pilot feels the turbulence.
"Copy that, Captain," I quip, but my humor's as thin as my patience these days.
I hang up and stare blankly at the chaos around me. Together, huh? That's one hell of a promise when the whole world's watching your every move, waiting for you to trip and fall. But hey, at least we're headline material. Isn't that what every girl dreams of?
I'm pacing my apartment like it's some kind of cage, the walls closing in with each ping of my phone—another alert, another headline. Ben's trying to be the rock, but I can see cracks in his stalwart demeanor. He’s a pilot, for crying out loud. He's supposed to navigate through storms, not become the center of one.
"Kate, love, we knew this could happen," he murmurs during our latest covert call, as if reading from the How to Stay Zen manual. "We just need to ride it out."
"Ride it out?" I scoff, an edge to my voice that's sharper than I intend. "Our faces are plastered on every trashy website known to mankind." My throat tightens as I sink into the couch, my fingers tracing the velvet pattern. "It feels like...like we're losing control, you know?"
"Yeah, I do." His sigh crackles through the line, and it's the most comforting sound I've heard all day. Because it's real, it's him, not Captain Unshakable, but Ben—my Ben—who's also scared shitless.
"Kate," he starts, and I can practically hear him running a hand through his dark hair, that nervous habit giving away his cool facade. "Whatever happens...I don't regret us."
"Neither do I." The words tumble out, raw and honest. But there's that niggling fear, creeping up my spine like ivy, wrapping around my heart and squeezing. What if the world doesn't let us forget? What if they never let us move on?
"Kate," Ben says, a little more firmly now, "whatever comes our way, we'll face it—together."
"Sure, together," I echo back, trying to believe it as much as I want to say it.
The conversation ends with promises to talk soon, and I'm left with the echo of his assurances. We hang on to the idea of unity, but in my gut, there's this gnawing uncertainty about how long we can keep holding on before the frenzy tears us apart.
I'm curled up on my bed now, staring at the ceiling, when my phone lights up again. Heart pounding, I grab it, expecting another round of digital vitriol or maybe a meme of our faces morphed into something grotesque. But instead, it's a number I recognize all too well, one that spells trouble with a capital T.
"Kate, it's Max," my manager's voice is brisk, laced with that I've-got-news-and-you're-not-going-to-like-it tone. "We need to talk. There's been a development. A big one."
"Max, what—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"Save it. Meet me at my office, first thing tomorrow. And brace yourself, kid. This is just the beginning." The line goes dead, leaving me with a heart thrashing against my ribcage.
