His Anonymous Obsession

The car arrives at exactly 1:30.

I watch it from my bedroom window-sleek black SUV with tinted windows, driver in a suit waiting by the passenger door. My stomach clenches. This is real. This is actually happening.

The dress fits better than I remembered. Or maybe I'm smaller now. Seven years of barely leaving the house will do that. I've done my best with makeup-minimal, nothing that draws attention. Hair pulled back in a low bun. Simple black flats because I can't remember the last time I wore heels.

I look like someone pretending to be normal. Like a ghost trying to remember how to be human.

"Hae?" My father's voice from downstairs. "The car is here."

I told him I had a business meeting. An art commission. Not technically a lie. I just left out the part about Giovanni Rivers and six-month arrangements and one hundred and fifty thousand dollars that could save everything.

I grab my bag-laptop, tablet, portfolio. Armor. If this goes badly, I can hide behind my work.

The stairs feel endless. Each step down is a step toward something I can't take back. At the bottom, my father waits. He sees me and his face softens.

"You look beautiful, 宝贝." His voice cracks. "Just like your mother."

Tears burn my eyes. I blink them back. "It's just a meeting."

"A meeting where someone sends a car." He studies my face. Knows I'm hiding something. But he doesn't push. He never does. "Be careful, Hae."

"I will."

He kisses my forehead. I memorize the feeling. Just in case.

The driver opens the door as I approach. Doesn't speak. I slide into leather seats that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. The door closes with a soft thunk that sounds like a jail cell locking.

We pull away from the curb. I watch my father's store disappear in the side mirror. Jiao's Vinyl Paradise. Faded paint. Cracked windows. But still standing. Still his.

Still hers.

Traffic is light. We arrive at Maestro's in twenty minutes. My breathing gets shallower with each passing block. By the time we park, my palms are slick with sweat.

The driver opens my door. "Mr. Gray is waiting inside. Private room in the back."

Private room. Thank god. I can do private. It's the public part that destroys me.

I step out. The restaurant is exactly what I expected-expensive, exclusive, the kind of place where you need a reservation three months in advance. The hostess looks me up and down, assessing. Finding me wanting.

"I'm here to see Marcus Gray," I manage.

Her expression shifts. Professional warmth that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course. Right this way."

She leads me through the main dining room. My heart pounds with every step. People eating, talking, laughing. Normal people doing normal things. A few glance up as I pass. I keep my eyes down, counting floor tiles, breathing through my nose.

We reach the back. The hostess opens a door marked 'Private.'

Inside: a man in an expensive suit, mid-forties, styled hair, practiced smile. Marcus Gray. And beside him-

My breath stops.

Giovanni Rivers.

He's bigger than he looks on screen. Taller. More real. Black t-shirt, dark jeans, leather jacket draped over his chair. Tattoos covering both arms-intricate patterns I want to study, want to trace with my fingers, want to capture in charcoal.

But it's his eyes that destroy me. Dark, intense, looking at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Like I'm something that matters.

He stands. The movement is fluid, controlled. "Hae." My name in his voice is different than I imagined. Rougher. Gentler. "Thank you for coming."

I can't speak. Can't move. Can't do anything but stare at the man whose grief I've painted, whose hope I've captured, whose messages I've read like love letters at three AM.

The man who doesn't know I'm Veil.

Marcus clears his throat. "Please, sit." He gestures to the empty chair. "Can we get you anything? Water? Wine?"

"Water." My voice comes out strangled. I clear my throat. "Please."

I sit. Giovanni sits. We're across from each other now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to see the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum once against the table before he stills them.

He's nervous.

The thought steadies me somehow. Giovanni Rivers-three-time Grammy winner, platinum artist, man who's performed for millions-is nervous to meet me.

Marcus launches into his pitch. "Miss Jiao, I'll be direct. Giovanni needs help with his public image. Recent events have been... damaging. His ex-girlfriend's allegations, however false, have created a PR nightmare. The label is threatening to drop him if he doesn't rehabilitate his reputation."

I glance at Giovanni. He's watching me, not Marcus. Something in his gaze makes my skin warm.

"What does this have to do with me?" I ask.

"We need someone wholesome. Private. Someone who won't use Giovanni for fame because you clearly don't want it." Marcus slides a folder across the table. "Someone who needs money desperately enough to agree to an arrangement."

My fingers curl around the folder's edge. "What kind of arrangement?"

"Six months as Giovanni's girlfriend. Public appearances. Social media posts. Carefully staged relationship. In return, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Girlfriend. Fake girlfriend. Six months of pretending.

"You want me to lie." My voice is flat.

"We want to offer you an opportunity," Marcus corrects smoothly. "A business transaction. You get the money you need. Giovanni gets his reputation back. Everyone wins."

"Why me?"

Giovanni speaks for the first time since I sat down. "Because you look like being here is the last thing you want." His voice does things to me. Dangerous things. "That means you won't use me. You won't leak stories or sell photos or make this harder than it needs to be."

He's right. Being here is the last thing I want. Every instinct screams at me to run. To hide. To go back to my safe bedroom and my safe screens and my safe anonymous life.

But one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. My father's store. My mother's memory.

I open the folder. Contract. Terms. Compensation schedule. It's all real. All legal. All terrifying.

"I need to think about it."

"Of course," Marcus says. But his tone suggests he knows my answer already. "Take your time. We'll-"

Camera flashes explode outside the window.

My head whips toward the glass. Paparazzi. Telephoto lenses. Pointed at our private room. At me.

The walls close in. The room tilts. My vision tunnels.

Not now. Not here. Please not here.

But it's already happening. The panic attack crashes over me like a wave. Can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but feel the terror clawing up my throat.

The college quad. Phones everywhere. Cameras. Laughter. My face on every screen. Everyone seeing. Everyone judging. Everyone-

Warm hands grip my shoulders