His Anonymous Obsession

"Look at me." Giovanni's voice cuts through the panic. "Just me. Not them. Me."

But I can't. The cameras. The flashes. The college quad overlaying this restaurant until I don't know what's real anymore. My chest is a vice. Lungs refusing to work. Throat closing.

I'm dying. I'm actually dying this time.

Giovanni moves. Suddenly he's beside me instead of across from me. His body blocks the window. Blocks the cameras. Blocks everything except him.

"Breathe with me." His hands are steady on my shoulders. Grounding. "In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?"

I shake my head. Can't. Can't breathe at all.

"Yes, you can." His voice is calm. Too calm for someone watching a stranger fall apart. "Look at me, Hae. Focus on my voice. In for four."

He breathes in. Slow. Controlled. I watch his chest rise.

"Hold for four."

I try. Manage two seconds before I'm gasping again.

"That's okay. Try again. In for four."

His hands slide down my arms. Not restraining. Supporting. His thumbs make small circles on my wrists. The touch is gentle. Careful. Like I'm something that might break.

I focus on those circles. The pressure. The rhythm. Try to breathe with him.

In. Hold. Out.

In. Hold. Out.

Slowly-so slowly-my vision clears. The quad fades. I'm back in the restaurant. Private room. Giovanni blocking the window. Marcus on his phone, probably dealing with the paparazzi.

"There you go." Giovanni's voice is soft. Almost tender. "You're okay. You're safe."

I'm not okay. I'm mortified. I just had a panic attack in front of Giovanni Rivers and his manager during what was supposed to be a professional meeting. They probably think I'm insane.

"I'm sorry." My voice is wrecked. "I should go. This was a mistake. I can't-"

"Stop." His hands tighten fractionally on my wrists. "Don't apologize. And don't leave."

"You don't understand. I can't do this. I can't be your fake girlfriend or go to public events or have my picture taken. I can barely leave my house."

"I know." He says it simply. Like it's a fact, not a judgment. "That's why Marcus chose you. Because you won't want the attention. Won't seek it out. You'll do the minimum required and nothing more."

I laugh. The sound is bitter. "You just watched me fall apart because of cameras. How is that the minimum?"

"I get panic attacks too." His admission stops my spiral cold. "After my mom died. During performances. In the middle of interviews. The label makes me take pills. Makes me hide it. Makes me pretend I'm fine when I'm drowning."

I stare at him. Search his face for the lie. Find only truth. Raw, painful truth.

"You're the first person I've told," he continues quietly. "Because you're the first person who might actually understand."

Something shifts in my chest. Not the panic this time. Something else. Something dangerous.

"We're leaving." Giovanni releases my wrists. Immediately I miss his touch. "Back entrance. Marcus, handle the vultures."

Marcus nods, already moving toward the front. Giovanni shrugs into his leather jacket, then does something unexpected. He takes off his baseball cap and puts it on my head. Pulls it low over my face.

"Keep your head down. Stay close." His hand finds the small of my back. The touch is possessive. Protective. "I've got you."

We move through the restaurant. Staff parts for us. Giovanni's presence commands space in a way I never could. We slip through a door marked 'Staff Only,' down a hallway, through the kitJiao where chefs don't even look up, and out into an alley.

A sleek black car idles at the end. Different from the SUV that brought me. Giovanni opens the passenger door. "Get in."

I hesitate. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe." His eyes meet mine. "I promise."

I should say no. Should call my own car. Should put distance between myself and this man who makes me feel too much too fast.

But his hands on my shoulders are still warm on my skin. His voice in my ear still echoes: You're safe.

I get in the car.

Giovanni slides into the driver's seat. Not a driver. Him. He's driving. The intimacy of it-just the two of us in this small space-makes my pulse spike for entirely different reasons.

He pulls out of the alley. Takes side streets instead of main roads. No one follows. After several minutes of silence, he speaks.

"You don't have to do this." His voice is low. "The arrangement. I'll find another way. You shouldn't have to torture yourself for money."

"What if there is no other way?" The words escape before I can stop them. "What if this is my only chance to save something that matters?"

He glances at me. "The store?"

"My mother died three years ago. Cancer. The medical bills..." I swallow hard. "The store is all my father has left of her. Every record, every memory. If we lose it, he loses her all over again."

Giovanni's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry. About your mother."

"Me too." I trace the window with one finger. "About yours."

His jaw tightens. "How did you know?"

"I googled you. Last night. After Marcus called." I risk a glance at him. "You mentioned her in an interview. Two years ago. You cried during your Grammy speech."

"The label said it was good for my image." His laugh is hollow. "Humanized me. Made me relatable. They had no idea I was actually breaking."

We drive in silence. I study his profile. Strong jaw. Straight nose. The kind of face that belongs on screens and magazine covers. But there's pain in the lines around his eyes. Exhaustion in the set of his shoulders.

He's not what I expected. Not the arrogant celebrity or damaged artist the media paints him as. He's just... a person. Broken in the same places I am.

"Where are we going?" I ask again.

"My place. Private. Gated. No cameras. I want to show you something. Then you can decide." He pulls onto a highway heading west. "About the arrangement. About all of it."

I should be scared. Should demand he take me home. I don't know this man. Don't know if I can trust him.

But I've read his messages for three years. Know his grief and his hope and the way he sees beauty in broken things. And right now, sitting beside him in this car, I feel safer than I have in seven years.

Which is exactly what makes him dangerous.

We turn into the Hollywood Hills. The houses get bigger, more private, surrounded by walls and gates. He stops at one-massive iron gates with a security panel. Types in a code. The gates swing open.

The driveway is long. Winding. Trees on both sides creating a tunnel of green. Then the house appears.

Modern. Glass and steel. Beautiful in a stark, lonely way. And beside it, a smaller building. Guest house, maybe.

He parks. Kills the engine. Sits in silence for a moment before turning to me.

"Before we go in, I need to tell you something." His eyes are serious. "I know this is insane. The whole arrangement. Asking a stranger to pretend to be my girlfriend. But I'm desperate, and you're desperate, and maybe that makes us perfect for each other."

"Or maybe it makes us both idiots," I counter.

His lips quirk. Almost a smile. "Also possible." He opens his door. "Come on. I want to show you where you'd be staying. If you agree."

I follow him out. The air is cooler here. Cleaner. I can see the city sprawling below, glittering in the afternoon sun. It's beautiful. Isolated. Safe.

Everything I need. Everything I fear.

But instead of going to the guesthouse, he stops at another door. The studio.

"I want to show you something first." He opens the door.

I step inside and my heart stops.