The internet has a very strange love language.Some people say "I love you."The internet says "I ship you."
And right now, it's shipping me and my fake husband harder than Amazon Prime.
It starts innocently.The day after the Love in the Limelight interview, Darian and I are scheduled for a behind-the-scenes photoshoot — something Aria calls "image reinforcement," and I call "relationship theater."
It's for a magazine spread titled "Power, Partnership, and Passion."Three words that sound suspiciously like the holy trinity of PR lies.
I walk into the studio, coffee in hand, hair in waves, mentally preparing for another day of pretending to adore a man who alphabetizes his cereal boxes.
Darian's already there, looking unfairly composed in a dark suit and no tie — just rolled sleeves, wristwatch, and enough charm to trigger national thirst tweets.
"You're late," he says without looking up from his phone.
"And you're allergic to joy," I reply. "We all have flaws."
The photographer claps her hands."Okay, you two! Let's warm up with some candid shots — laugh, talk, natural energy!"
Natural energy. Right. Between me and the human embodiment of a legal contract.
We start with basic poses: him standing behind me, hand on my waist; me pretending that doesn't cause a small existential crisis.
The photographer coos, "Closer! Closer!"I grit my teeth. Darian leans in. His cologne does that unfair thing again — cedar, ambition, and bad decisions.
"Relax," he murmurs, his voice low.
"Don't tell me to relax. That's like telling a cat not to judge you."
He actually chuckles — a soft, real laugh that makes the photographer gasp."Beautiful! Hold that! Perfect chemistry!"
Flash. Click. Flash.
Break time.I slip off my heels and flop onto the makeup chair, scrolling through my phone.Darian's across the room, talking to the stylist, sleeves rolled higher now, forearms on full display like an act of emotional violence.
The makeup artist whispers, "You two have insane chemistry. Are you sure this marriage is fake?"
I laugh. "Trust me, if it were real, I'd have sued him by now."
But somewhere deep down, something traitorous stirs.
The next part of the shoot is supposed to be "soft and spontaneous."Which apparently means "Darian sits behind you on the couch while you read a script and he looks at you like you're his entire 5-year business plan."
I'm flipping through a prop magazine when my hair falls forward.Without thinking, he reaches up — slow, gentle — and tucks a loose strand behind my ear.
It's the smallest thing. A reflex. A breath of quiet in the chaos.
But the photographer squeals like she's witnessing the birth of romance itself."YES! PERFECT! That's the shot!"
I freeze.He freezes.Our eyes meet — and the rest of the room blurs out for half a heartbeat.
Click.Flash.
By evening, the internet has done what it does best.Someone uploads the photo — him tucking my hair back, me looking startled and soft at the same time.The caption:
"When fake love looks this real ❤️ #ShipThemHard #CoupleGoals"
Within three hours, it's everywhere.
"LOOK AT HIS HANDS 😭""That eye contact is ILLEGAL.""They said fake marriage, I said emotional damage."
The meme edits start rolling in before I can blink.Fan accounts. Fanfiction. A fan-compiled playlist titled "Darian x Lyra – Slow Burn Energy."
Aria sends me voice notes that are basically just squealing and panic.
I'm half-horrified, half-howling with laughter when Darian walks in.He looks at his phone, sighs deeply, and mutters, "Unbelievable."
"Don't look at me," I say, hands raised. "I didn't start the fan club."
"You encouraged it," he accuses.
"By existing attractively next to you? Tragic."
He glares. "You find this funny?"
"Absolutely," I say. "It's the most romantic thing to happen to me all week."
He pinches the bridge of his nose like a man negotiating with fate."Do you even realize how out of control this could get?"
"Relax," I grin. "At least now they're calling us cute instead of catastrophic."
He opens his mouth to argue but stops.And for a moment, he just… looks at me.Really looks.
"I don't think they're the only ones who can't tell what's real anymore," he says quietly.
My heart trips over itself. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," he says, turning away. "Forget it."
I don't forget it.Not that night.Not the next morning when our picture is still trending.Not when I find myself looking at it and thinking — for the first time — that maybe the internet isn't completely wrong.