The Tattoo Artist

“From our point of view, we know the fiancé is just an extra, but Henry doesn’t know that! He thinks the guy’s a tall, rich, handsome rival!”

“For Henry, as long as 'Miss Rivers' looks at him, even just once, he’s willing to be the spare for eternity!”

“Why do they still keep the secret crush play? We want adult tension! Female lead, explain yourself, now!”

Fiancé? Were they talking about that womanizer, Ethan Grant?

“Actually, he and I…”

The explanation had barely left my mouth when my phone's ringtone exploded.

The caller ID read: Ethan Grant.

…

Henry glanced at the name flashing on the screen, and the fingers that had been about to reach for the ink stiffened almost imperceptibly.

In that instant, I felt the air grow cold.

He quickly looked away and refrained from asking any questions.

“I’m going to mix some colors. Let me know when you’re done.”

The curtain partition slid down, cutting off that broad yet lonely silhouette.

I let out a long breath and slid my finger to answer the call.

“Say what you need to say. I’m busy.”

On the other end of the phone, Ethan’s voice came through, amidst a noisy background, as obnoxious as ever.

“Busy with what? Counting ants in that crappy tattoo shop? Tomorrow night’s charity gala. You have to be there.”

I frowned. “Not going. I’m busy.”

“Don’t be like that, my dear Miss Rivers!” Ethan panicked.

“That Whitman girl just got back to Riverton.

“Tomorrow night, she’s definitely going to eat me alive. Since we’re both involved, you have to act this whole thing out with me!”

He paused, and his tone grew unusually solemn.

“You need to act especially in love with me.

“Holding hands, hugging… Even a kiss or two is fine! My parents have to believe we’re madly in love and that you won’t marry anyone but me. Otherwise, I won’t be able to explain myself!”

“Acting is exhausting enough, and you want me to kiss you? Dream on,” I snapped irritably.

“As long as you help me this time and cooperate to make this whole act look real, I’ll have that limited-edition motorcycle you've always wanted delivered straight to your home.”

At the mention of the motorcycle, the refusal already on my lips took an abrupt turn.

It was the same model Henry had admired the last time he saw it.

A sly glint flashed in my eyes as I lowered my voice.

“Deal. I’ll be there on time tomorrow. Remember what you said. I want that motorcycle as payment.”

“Alright, alright. As long as you cooperate, forget the motorcycle, I'll pluck the stars from the sky for you!”

After hanging up, I was happily scheming how to get the motorcycle to Henry, but when I looked up, the partition curtain had been lifted.

Henry stood there, holding a fresh cup of ink, his expression unreadable.

Yet the controlled edge of his temper now seemed to seep out uncontrollably, tendrils of it drifting around him, tinting his pitch-black eyes with a hint of scarlet.

I shivered involuntarily.

Wasn’t the air-conditioning a bit too cold?

Before I could say anything, several scarlet comments appeared:

“It’s over, it’s over! Henry heard everything!”

“Don’t forget! The beast’s hearing is a hundred times better than a human’s. Even through the curtain, it’s like shouting into his ear!”

“He heard your words… He’s definitely thinking the female lead is selling her body for that motorcycle!”

“Henry must be thinking: “So she behaves so obediently in front of that rich kid, willing to kiss him for money… My heart is shattered into pieces.”

Was it really like that?

My chest tightened.

I wanted to explain, but looking at Henry’s icy, unreadable face, I didn’t even know where to start.

If I told him I was “performing” just to get him a new motorcycle, would he think I was selling myself?

Or worse, consider it an insult?