Beginning

                  Frustratedly, I shoved the pillow behind my head as the hotel's buzzing intercom woke me up. It was barely dawn, and the weak light coming through the curtains was nothing like the bright stage lights I had been under yesterday and last night. Obsessive fans probably found my hotel, but I am too tired to care. I'd deal with them later—or, more likely, Arturo would before I even had the chance. Being an idol means constant invasion of privacy and no escape from the public's relentless bullshit—the price I pay for chasing the dream of fame. And Hollywood.

                   So the last thing I wanted was to deal with the outside world. I was already drunk after celebrating the opening night of my tour with the crew until midnight, then snuck in some time alone at a random club. With the headache I had, I knew I had a blast afterward. Now, my body wanted rest, not more bullshit. But that damn intercom wouldn't let me sleep.

                   A soft sigh beside me reminded me I wasn't alone. I turned my head, squinting at the figure curled up under the covers... a woman. Long, dark hair spread across the pillow, and a slender arm peeked out from beneath the duvet. What the hell? I had no idea who she was.

                  Great, did I just screw and bring a prostitute from that club? Of course, you did, you idiot!

                    I tried to piece together the damn fragmented memories of last night at that club, but all I got is a blank.

                   The damn intercom buzzed again, making me jump. The woman groaned, her eyes opening in confusion. She looked at me sleepily, then at the damn buzzing intercom. Her bangs shifted, revealing a faint scar above her eyebrow. It was still fresh, but already bruised, making it clear I didn't do it.

               "Ignore it," I muttered, trying to avoid any damn awkward explanations.

                 I lazily grabbed my phone to turn off the damn intercom when I saw some messages. I stood up, walked out of the room, showing off my nakedness, and raised an eyebrow when I saw Bianca and Arturo on the screen. Did they already handle the fan, or were they behind it? But why the hell is Bianca here? It only happens when I'm in trouble or tangled up in another scandal. I glanced back at the open door of my damn room... this can't be about the prostitute, right?

              "Maurice, darling, you awake?"

               I knew the tone of Bianca's voice. When it's casual, raspy, but still sharp—it means trouble, and damn it, trouble was the last thing I needed right now. My head felt like it was about to explode.

               Or it could just be about work. I grabbed the intercom, irritation flooding my voice. "Bianca? What the hell could be so damn important that it can't wait until a decent hour? It's barely..." I glanced at the clock, my frown deepening. "... four in the morning."

               "I'm sorry for the early hour, Maurice, but we have a situation. Open the door for us."

                 "Situation like what? Can't it wait?"

                  "For crying out loud, Maurice! Open the damn door! You've gotten yourself into another scandal, and we need to fix this mess before your next damn tour in Philadelphia!"

                     I barely had time to throw on a damn robe before Arturo stormed in like a curse summoned at the worst possible moment. His face was pale, his eyes wide with panic, his wrinkled sweatshirt and pajama pants with faded yellow minions, and his hair its usual chaotic mess.

                     "Maurice, it's a fucking disaster!" he cried, completely oblivious to the woman in my bedroom, visible from the living room. "Those damn lies about you are back, and everyone's talking about them. We need to do something big to change the damn story!"

                     I sighed painfully and asked. "What scandal this time?"

                     "Don't worry, we've already denied everything, and our lawyers are on it," Bianca said from behind him. "But you'd better get your shit together, 'cause those damn paparazzi will be all over you the second you step out of this hotel."

                    "And this is way worse than before! This could fuck everything up!" Arturo yelled, his voice shaking with anger.

                    I followed them to the couch, but then... a damn wave of nausea hit me.

                     "It's Yanna, isn't it?" I spat, my voice tight with rage. "That fucking vindictive bitch," I hissed, the venom in my words barely scratching the surface of the disgust I had for my ex. She had the audacity to try and meet me at Fleming's on Olympic Blvd, the place we first met, thinking I'd just forgive her—fuck that. I ditch her.

                      I rubbed my temples, trying to chase away the damn headache. I thought those old accusations were buried for good, but maybe her ego was bruised when I made her pay for the expensive wine I ordered before I walked out of that restaurant—the exact same shit she pulled on me years ago.

                   "Not only is she spreading the old rumors, but she's twisting them, claiming you were physically abusive the entire time, that you've got a damn pattern of violence against women..."

                   "That's bullshit!" I exploded. "She's the o ne who hit me! We have the medical records to prove it! She did it to extort money, gold-digging piece of—"

                    "It doesn't matter, Maurice!" Arturo threw his hands up in frustration. "The public... they don't give a damn about the truth. They just want juicy gossip and scandal 'cause Yanna's playing the damn victim like a pro! So you'd better be ready, or worse, ready to lose everything—"

                      "I'm not gonna let that happen! We've come this far, and I'll be damned if we let it all go to hell!" I cut him off.

                          Silence fills the air. Bianca's accepted two calls from our damn lawyers, while Arturo's sinking in a sea of media calls and all that fucking bullshit.

                         This isn't the first damn time I've been dragged into the mess of a vengeful ex. But my issue with Yanna? It's the worst of them all, and it could still ruin everything, even now. And what really gets under my skin is how society twists the shit out of it—when a man abuses a woman, it's obvious, wrong as hell, and the world's ready to tear him apart. But when a woman does it? It gets brushed off like it's no big deal. No one gives a damn when a man's the one getting hurt!

                        "Alright, here's the deal."

                          I shifted in my seat, grinding my teeth, just waiting for them to hurry the hell up. Arturo's probably also still drunk and nursing a damn headache since he covered me up when I left the club after celebrating with the crew, but because of this shit, he had to suck it up. And somehow, I couldn't help but feel guilty as hell.

                         "We need to come up with a damn convincing love story for you, Maurice. A fake relationship to take the heat off these ridiculous accusations."

                          I clenched my fists, struggling to keep my rage in check. That fucking night hit me like a goddamn freight train—the sting of the trophy she slapped me with, the way her eyes burned with that sick mix of fury and greed. It all came rushing back, and I just wanted to lose it, to destroy everything. And his fucking friends—nearly breaking my nose over a lie, accusing me of cheating on her.

                         "A love story?" I asked Biance, raising an eyebrow, totally thrown off.

                          Was this really the best they could come up with?

                          "Yes! And we've got the perfect damn candidate in mind! Aubrey!" Arturo jumped in, his eyes gleaming with hope.

                          "Damn it, no! That's such a ridiculous excuse! No one's gonna buy that crap! I'd rather take this to court and face Yanna myself!"

                            "Maurice, your tour at Wells Fargo Center is at risk of being postponed, and the rest of your scheduled tours could be affected if this situation isn't handled swiftly! Let's focus on managing this through a PR strategy first to clear the air, but if that doesn't resolve things, we'll have to explore legal action as our next step!"

                           Bianca nodded in agreement.

                           The thought of asking Aubrey, of all people, to be a part of this damn charade made my skin crawl. It wasn't just that she was America's Darling, with her precious image to protect. No, it was more than that. It was the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her charity work, the raw passion in her voice when she discussed her craft. She was different. Or so I thought.

                            "She's Hollywood's current sweetheart, Maurice. Talented, beautiful, with a perfect reputation. No one will buy those damn lies about you when they see you with Aubrey."

                             "Are you out of your damn mind? Aubrey will never agree to this!"

                            I'd only spent a short time with Aubrey, a damn brief encounter two years ago, but it had been... intense. She was nothing like any woman I'd ever met. Smart as hell, sharp, with this quiet strength that cut through her delicate looks. She saw right through my bullshit, the whole charming playboy act, and she wasn't impressed one bit.

                            She'd called me out on my bullshit, challenged everything I thought I knew, and made me question my own damn behavior. It was a refreshing change from the usual fawning and adoration I was used to. At first.

                             But then, the damn possessiveness kicked in. It started subtle, a lingering touch, a jealous glare when I talked to another woman. Then it turned suffocating—nonstop texts and calls, demanding to know my every move, accusing me of flirting with every woman who even looked my way.

                           She wanted my world to revolve around her, to be at her damn beck and call twenty-four-seven. It was emotionally draining, and exhausting as hell.

                           And that's why I ended things so damn abruptly. She was just like Yanna, a different kind of monster hiding behind an angelic mask. It was easier to label her that way, to convince myself I was getting the hell out of another toxic mess. The truth? I was just fucking disappointed. Disappointed that she wasn't who I thought she was, disappointed that her so-called love felt more like a damn cage than a safe haven.

                           And now, here I was, about to ask her to do me the biggest damn favor imaginable—putting her own reputation on the line to save mine? In exchange of what? Another version of Yanna? Though Aubrey's too damn classy to let the paparazzi get involved. We both know the hell that comes with them being in the mix.

                      "We know it's risky, Maurice," Bianca said, sounding firm. "But it could save your career. Think of it as damage control, a strategic move."

                     "And what about Aubrey?" I snapped, my voice rising with frustration. "Why the hell would she risk her reputation to help me? What's in it for her?"

                       Bianca shot me a hard look. "That's where your charm comes in, Maurice. You need to convince her that this is a win-win. Make her see how this fake relationship can help her career too."

                      I slumped back in the chair, feeling drained. This was going to be harder than I thought. A lot harder.

                       The room fell silent.

                      Why the hell was Yanna doing this again? I thought that chapter of my life was closed, the wounds healed, the scars faded. I'd paid her off handsomely back then, enough to buy her silence, or so I thought. Apparently, her greed had no damn limits.

                      "It has to be about money," I muttered, cursing under my breath. "She's always been after money."

                        I couldn't help but think back to the early days of our relationship—her endless list of expensive gifts she had to have and the sweet little threats when I didn't meet her impossible expectations. God, I was so damn naive, blinded by infatuation, letting her flaws and manipulative games slide. Yeah, I sure as hell learned the hard way.

                        "It might not just be about money this time, Maurice," Bianca said, her voice cautious. "She seems... different. More determined. Almost... hell-bent on revenge."

                         I scoffed. "Vengeful? What the hell does she have to be vengeful about? I'm the one who should be seeking revenge! She damn near ruined my career, shredded my reputation..."

                         I clenched my fists, that damn memory fueling my anger. I was nothing back then—just some struggling artist trying to make a name for myself. And Yanna's accusations? They damn near destroyed me before I even had a shot at anything.

                       I looked at Arturo, whose face was a mask of worry. "You're sure about this video... it's that damn damaging?"

                      Arturo nodded miserably. "It's bad, Maurice. Really bad! It's not conclusive, but it's enough to cast doubt. And with Yanna's new accusations, her claims of a pattern of abuse... it's starting to build a narrative, a very dangerous one!"

                    I ran a hand through my hair, my frustration boiling over. "This is fucking insane! I never hit her, never laid a finger on her. She's twisting everything, making me out to be some kind of fucking monster!"

                    "That's how this shit works, Maurice," Bianca said, her voice dripping with bitter understanding. "The court of public opinion doesn't give a damn about the truth. They want drama and scandal."

                    I looked at them both—my agent and my manager, the two assholes who had been with me through thick and thin, helping me navigate the hellhole that is fame and fortune. And now? They looked just as lost and confused as I felt.

                    This plan—this pathetic, desperate attempt to save my reputation with a fake relationship—suddenly seemed like the joke it was, a flimsy shield against the onslaught of accusations and public outrage. How the hell could I possibly convince Aubrey to risk her spotless image by getting involved with me now?

                   My body sank onto the edge of the chair, gripping its arms like it might save me from the storm. My gaze locked on Bianca, a glimmer of desperate hope flickering in my eyes as if she held the power to undo this cursed mess.

                   "You'll figure something out, won't you, Bianca? You always do—like the scheming little witch you are."

                    Bianca locked eyes with me, her stare sharp and unyielding, yet shadowed with a flicker of doubt—as if she were bracing herself for the curse she was about to unleash.

                    "I'll do my best, Maurice. But this time... this time, it's different. This time, we're fighting a battle that might just bury us both."

                     And just like a curse, the prostitute appeared, emerging from my room wrapped in my plush hotel bathrobe. Her tousled blonde hair and sleepy eyes gave her an effortless allure, but even in her disarray, she was unmistakably beautiful. It was her—the woman from last night.

                  "What's happening?" she mumbled, her voice sleepy, then looked at me. "Who are they?"

                  I ignored her. Arturo looked at me

                  "Darling, I'm Bianca. Sorry to wake you from your beauty sleep, but we have a super urgent matter to discuss with Maurice." Bianca took charge.

                   Though this prostitute is hot. Hopefully... I won't end up with whatever shit she might've picked up from her past customers.

                     "Our driver will take you home and, of course, grab some hangover soup and medicine on the way—because that's exactly what you need right now."

                     The woman, still clearly confused, looked from Bianca to me and then back to her.

                     "Um, okay. But..." she hesitated, then turned to me, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. "Could you maybe call me when you're done with whatever this is?"

                     Bianca, always cool and collected, flashed a smile like everything was perfectly fine. She walked over to the woman, giving her a gentle push toward the door, guiding her out with a firm yet casual shove.

                     "Of course, darling. I'll make sure he calls—because if not, I'll make sure he does!" Bianca said, rolling her eyes as soon as the woman's back was turned.

                   Then, she handed the woman a small card with her name and contact info.

                     "Just give this to our driver waiting outside the door, and he'll make sure you get home safely."

                    With a small wave of her hand, Bianca signaled for Arturo to take the woman out. As she reached the door, she gave me one last hopeful look. I raised an eyebrow and forced a fake smile.

                  This whole damn situation was giving me a serious case of déjà vu. This woman, with her hopeful glance and desperate need for me to call, was way too familiar. It reminded me of Aubrey—the same innocent facade, the same desperate craving for attention.

                     "He'll definitely call you, darling. Don't worry," Bianca said, cutting off the view of me.

                      The woman, reassured by my manager's damn confident tone, gave a small smile and left with Arturo. As the door slammed shut behind them, Bianca turned back to me, her expression all serious.

                     "Women and their damn expectations after sex," I muttered, barely hiding the smirk.

                      "Alright, let's get back to this mess you're in. We need to fix it before eight o'clock, or your career's toast!"

                  I sank into the couch, a sense of dread creeping over me. Bianca was right, but the idea of dragging Aubrey into this damn mess made my stomach twist.

                      "Maurice, we don't have time for second thoughts. This situation needs to be handled quickly. Every minute that passes, the video spreads more, and the rumors gain traction. We need to call Aubrey. Now."

                           I'm not sure this is a good idea. Aubrey's not going to like this. She's not the type to play along with some stupid publicity stunt. And knowing her, she'd probably turn this whole fake relationship into a damn real-life drama, sucking up all my time and energy, making this mess even worse than it already is. The last thing I need is another clingy, demanding woman in my life.

                       "There has to be another way. Can't we just release a damn statement? Hire a better PR team? Anything but this Aubrey bullshit?"

                       "Maurice, darling," Bianca said, her voice calm with just a hint of impatience, "You underestimate your charm. And besides, we're not asking her to marry you. Just a few public appearances, some carefully staged photos... it's a small price to pay for saving your career, don't you think?"

                       Bianca sighed.

                       "Maurice, I know you're frustrated, and I believe you. But the truth, sadly, doesn't always matter in this business. Perception is everything, and right now, people see you as a violent abuser. We need to change that, and fast."

                     I sighed, defeated.

                    "So that's it, huh? No choice? I have to play along with this damn charade, pretend to be in love with someone who's probably just a damn version 2.0 of Yanna, all to save my damn career?"

                     Bianca massaged my shoulder like that was somehow supposed to fix everything.

                     "I know this isn't ideal, Maurice, but it's the best option we have for now. We'll take it one step at a time, handling it carefully and making sure we control the narrative."

                     I stayed silent, my eyes locked on the damn chandelier pattern on the ceiling. I knew they were downplaying the risks, pretending the fallout wouldn't be shit. But this wasn't some stupid game. It was playing with fire, and I swear, we were all about to get burned to hell.

                          "And who knows?" she murmured, her smile slow and suggestive. "Maybe you'll enjoy it. Aubrey has a way of making everything... pleasant."

                          I smirked.

                           "Where the hell did you drag that woman from, Maurice?" Arturo snapped as he returned.

                       "To a club."

                         "What?"

                          I flashed Bianca a smile, one laced with sarcasm, knowing it would rattle her.

                        "She's a prostitute."

                        "Maurice!"