His Anonymous Obsession

My art is everywhere.

Every. Single. Wall.

The album covers I created for D.R.-for him-printed massive and framed like museums. But not just those. Prints from my online shop. Sketches I posted once and deleted. Work from years ago I barely remember.

I'm standing in a shrine to Veil. To me.

My knees go weak.

"Hae?" Giovanni's hand steadies my elbow. "You okay?"

I can't speak. Can't tear my eyes away from three years of my soul laid bare.

"I know it's a lot," he says quietly. "But I wanted you to understand. This isn't just about PR or fake relationships." He moves beside me. "Veil's art saved me when nothing else could."

Her work. He said her work. Does he know?

But then he continues: "I've never met her. Don't even know her real name. But her art..." He touches one frame-my favorite, the one I painted after my mother died. "It's like she understands pain."

He doesn't know. Relief and disappointment war in my chest.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you asked why I chose you." He turns to face me. We're close. "You remind me of her. Of Veil. The way you hide but create beauty anyway."

My breath catches. He's comparing me to myself. Falling for me twice without knowing it.

I should tell him. Right now. Confess that I'm Veil.

But if I tell him, this moment ends. The arrangement ends. Any chance of helping my father ends.

"What happened to you?" he asks softly. "What made you so afraid?"

I could lie. Should lie. But he shared his panic attacks. His mother.

"College. My roommate took a photo. Photoshopped it. Posted it online. It went viral. My face became a meme. Everyone laughing." The words come faster. "I couldn't leave my dorm. Couldn't go to classes. I dropped out."

"Jesus." His hand lifts, then drops. "That's why you hide."

"I reinvented myself online. Anonymous. Safe. Veil." I watch his reaction. Still nothing. "Built a career from nothing. But I can't go back out there."

"Even for your father?"

The question lands like a blade. "That's not fair."

"No. It's not." He steps closer. "None of this is fair. But sometimes we don't get fair. We get choices."

"And you think I should choose this? Six months of lying?"

"I think you should choose to save something you love." His voice drops. "The rest-we'll figure it out."

We'll. Not you. We.

The word does something to me.

"I need guarantees. Privacy. Boundaries. No surprise paparazzi. Everything scheduled. Everything planned."

"Done."

"I want it in the contract."

"Done."

"And separate living spaces. I can't share a house. I need my space."

"The guesthouse is yours." He's already moving. "Let me show you."

The guesthouse is perfect. Small but not cramped. One bedroom. Kitchenette. Bathroom. Large windows. And most importantly-separate. Private. Mine.

"You'd have your own entrance." Giovanni gestures. "I wouldn't come over unless you invited me. Complete privacy."

I walk through. Touch the counters. Peer into the bedroom. It's bigger than my childhood room. Waiting for someone to make it home.

"I could work here," I say quietly. "My art. The livestreams. No one would know where I am."

"No one," he confirms. "This property is completely private. Gated. Secure. You'd be safe."

Safe. The word I've been chasing for seven years.

I turn to face him. He's standing in the doorway, backlit. Waiting for my answer.

"Why are you really doing this? You could find anyone. Someone who wants fame."

"Because everyone wants something from me. Fame. Money. Access. Photos." He shakes his head. "But you looked at me like I was the last person you wanted to see. That means you won't use me. Won't sell me out."

"I could. After. When the six months are up and I have the money."

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because you understand what it's like to have your privacy violated. You wouldn't do that to someone else." He crosses his arms. "Also, the contract has a pretty vicious NDA."

I laugh. The sound surprises both of us. "Practical and idealistic."

"I'm a Cancer. We're complicated."

The moment stretches.

"When would it start?" I hear myself ask.

"Immediately. You'd move in this week. Soft launch on social media. First public appearance next month." He's being careful not to push. "Marcus would handle everything. Schedule. Photos. What to wear. You'd just have to show up."

Just show up.

But I think about my father's face when I tell him the store is saved. Think about the foreclosure notice disappearing. Think about Giovanni's hands on my shoulders: You're safe.

Think about six months in this guesthouse. Away from my childhood bedroom and the walls that have kept me prisoner.

Maybe this is my chance. Not just to save the store. But to save myself.

"Okay." The word comes out steady. "I'll do it."

Giovanni's shoulders drop. Relief. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I want everything in writing. Every guarantee. Every boundary. And if you violate any of them-"

"You walk away with the money. No questions asked." He extends his hand. "Deal?"

I stare at his hand. Once I shake it, I'm committed. Six months of lying. Six months pretending to be someone's girlfriend while hiding the fact that I'm the artist whose work covers his studio walls.

Six months of the most complicated lie I've ever told.

But also-six months with someone who might understand. Who gets panic attacks. Who sees broken things and finds them beautiful.

I take his hand.

His grip is firm. Warm. The contact sends electricity up my arm. Our eyes lock. Neither of us moves.

Then his phone rings.

He releases my hand to check it. "Marcus. I should-"

"Take it."

He answers. "Yeah?" Pause. His expression darkens. "When?" Another pause. "Fuck. Okay. Handle it."

He hangs up. Runs a hand through his hair. "The paparazzi got photos. Of us leaving the restaurant. Of you. They're already posting."

Ice floods my veins. "What kind of photos?"

"Your face is mostly hidden. The cap helped. But they're speculating. Marcus says we need to control the narrative before they dig deeper."

"How?"

"We go public. Now. Tonight. Post a photo. Announce the relationship on our terms." He watches my face. "Are you okay with that?"

No. Everything is moving too fast. Too public. Too real.

But I think about the contract. The money. My father.

"What kind of photo?"

"Something simple. Casual. Like we're just... together. Natural."

Nothing about this is natural. But I nod anyway.

He steps closer. His hand lifts to my face, gentle, giving me time to pull away. I don't. His fingers tuck hair behind my ear. The touch is intimate. Careful.

"Is this okay?" he whispers.

My heart is racing. Not from panic. From something more dangerous.

"Yes."

He takes out his phone. Pulls me closer with his other hand, warm on my waist. I can feel his heartbeat.

"Look at me," he says softly.

I do. His eyes are dark. Intense. Looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.

He's acting, I tell myself. This is all acting. For the camera. For the world.

But when his thumb traces my cheekbone, when his lips curve into a small smile, when he whispers, "Perfect"-

It doesn't feel like acting at all.

He takes the photo. Shows it to me. We look happy. Natural. Like we belong together.

Like we're not lying at all.

"I'm going to post it," he says. "Last chance to back out."

I should back out. Should run. Should choose safety over salvation.

Instead, I watch his thumb hover over the 'post' button and whisper: "Do it."

He posts.

And just like that, the world knows I exist.