Chapter 1: Viral Scandal and Secret Vows

The day I blew up on social media, I was curled up on the couch with an iced caramel latte, binge-watching a Netflix drama. As if the universe had nothing better to do, my world was about to turn upside down.

Sunlight slanted through the living room window, catching the light on the sweat of my glass. My feet were tucked under a fleece throw. My phone was propped up on my chest—just in case Jackie texted about a last-minute audition. There was something soothing about the drone of the TV and the chill of sweet coffee on my tongue—a little slice of normal before the storm hit.

When my agent, Jackie Monroe, called, I panicked and nearly spilled my latte. My heart leapt into my throat—what now? Kneeling up on the sofa, I answered, “What’s up, Jackie?”

The cup landed with a thud on the carpet, splashing a caramel ring that would haunt me later. Great. That’ll never come out. My heart hammered in my chest; Jackie never called unless it was urgent. I could practically hear her heels clicking down the hallway in my head.

“What did you do, Savannah Lane?”

Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass. I flinched, almost dropping the phone. For a split second, I thought, This is it. I half expected the Feds to be at my door. I fumbled for a joke, just to buy myself a second.

I was stunned. I mean, what had I done? My mind spun. “Jackie, can you tell I was drinking coffee through the phone?” I deadpanned, trying to sound casual.

I tried to sound breezy. My voice cracked—just a little. I was stalling, and we both knew it. Jackie’s silence was never a good sign.

There was an awkward silence on the other end. And then Jackie exploded: “You snuck coffee again! Just you wait.”

She sounded like my mom catching me with a hand in the cookie jar. I winced. For a second, I could see her wagging finger in my mind. Already feeling guilty, I glanced at the coffee stain on the rug. I mouthed a silent apology to my digestive tract—Jackie had put me on a strict no-caffeine diet before the next shoot.

The second she hung up, I heard the sound of the keypad at my apartment door. No way. She wouldn’t—would she? Two minutes later, I was frozen in place, clutching my phone.

My mind raced—had she made a copy of my key? Was she about to storm in and confiscate my caffeine stash? I tried to make myself invisible behind a pillow, but it was too late. My phone buzzed again, vibrating against my palm.

A few bold lines were plastered across the trending topics:

#EvanAndSavannah

#EvanCarterGetsPinned

#EvanCarterGetsTeased

#IceColdLeadingManBlushes

Each one was marked as "trending" or "hot."

The hashtags glared at me from the screen, each one more mortifying than the last. My hands shook a little as I scrolled. The word "explosive" felt like it was aimed right at my chest. I could already picture my mom texting me. Asking if I was finally dating someone nice.

The hashtags glared at me from the screen, each one more mortifying than the last. My hands shook a little as I scrolled. The word "hot" felt like it was aimed right at my chest. I could already picture my mom texting me. Asking if I was finally dating someone nice.

I tapped the video. It was a clip from backstage yesterday, where I had Evan Carter pinned to a table. He hadn’t even changed out of his costume yet. His red jacket hung loosely at his waist, revealing glimpses of skin and a thin layer of muscle. I reached out, totally shameless, and ran my hand over his chest, my tone playful and flirty: “What are you nervous about, big guy?”

The memory flashed back in full color: the scent of stage makeup, the soft hum of the dressing room lights, the way Evan's eyes widened like a startled deer. I could almost feel the warmth of his skin. God, I was shameless. The camera angle was unforgiving—every teasing smile, every touch was caught in HD.

Evan stiffened the second I touched him. He stood there, frozen. I grinned, “Come on, Evan, look at me—am I not pretty?”

I remembered how his ears turned pink, how he refused to meet my gaze. It was all in good fun, a backstage dare gone a little too far. But the internet didn’t know that.

The video ended there. But the comment section was on fire:

[What’s going on with Savannah Lane and Evan Carter? Weren’t they not even close?]

[Is this for real?]

[Dang, these two can really act.]

[Shocking! The innocent little starlet is secretly...]

[Ah! Ah! Ah! Someone clarify this, or I’m shipping it!]

[I don’t buy it. They don’t even say hi to each other in public.]

My thumb hovered over the screen as the comments refreshed at lightning speed. Some folks were convinced it was all PR. Others were ready to write fanfic. I felt a weird mix of dread and exhilaration. This was the kind of scandal that could make or break a career.

While everyone was arguing, another video surfaced. Of course. Because things couldn't just end there.

My stomach dropped. Here we go.

I knew what was coming next—the second angle, the one where my face was way too close to Evan’s. The internet never missed a beat. Evan, quietly refusing me. “Don’t do this. It’s not a good look.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, but the microphone caught every word. There was a tremor in it, something raw and real. For a second, I wondered if the world could see right through us.

I held his hand firmly, not letting him go. “What’s not good about it? Am I not pretty?”

My tone was light. But my heart was pounding so loud I was sure the camera picked that up, too. I could see Evan’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.

Then I dropped another classic line, leaning close to his face. “Just look at me. If you look at me, I bet your eyes won’t stay so blank.”

The air in the room had gone thick, electric. I remembered the smell of hairspray and the nervous energy buzzing in my fingertips. My words hung between us, daring him to break character.

With that, I tilted Evan’s chin up, forcing him to meet my gaze. We were so close. I could see the misty wetness in his eyes. My hand rested on his chest, feeling his heart racing, his hands hovering helplessly as if he wanted to push me away but didn’t dare. His voice trembled with unease, “Don’t do this...”

His lashes fluttered, his breath caught—he looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff. For a split second, I worried I’d gone too far, but the camera caught every nuance: the heat in his cheeks, the way his fingers curled into fists.

The moment this video hit the web, the comments exploded:

[Savannah Lane! Are you forcing him?!]

[Help! Why am I kind of into this?]

[Same! I’m dying over here.]

[Evan, blink if you’re being threatened.]

[Type 1 if he’s being held hostage, drop a skull if it’s voluntary.]

[Didn’t you see Evan resisting the whole time? He must be forced. Poor guy.]

[Stop making stuff up! They’ve never interacted, and they can’t stand each other. Don’t force this ship!]

I scrolled through the chaos, half laughing, half mortified. The internet had gone full detective. My notifications were a lost cause—my phone was practically melting in my hand.

But then there were the quieter voices, whispering:

[No one else thinks this is kind of hot?]

[Evan’s the famous untouchable, always so proper, but here he’s really tempting.]

[Yeah, he’s totally different, that half-hearted resistance... y’all, my heart’s racing.]

[Not joking, I’m so into this.]

[This video is HD—Evan’s ears are totally red.]

[The ice-cold leading man is actually a pure-hearted puppy? Wild.]

[Heh, are we part of your play, too?]

I couldn’t help but grin. I hugged my phone to my chest, letting out a snort. The internet’s thirst was both terrifying and hilarious. Evan, who’s always so reserved and proper, is just more fun to tease because of it.

I bit my knuckle, trying to stifle my giggles. God, he’d be mortified if he saw this. For a second, I forgot to be scared.

I covered my mouth, giggling like an idiot. Jackie shot me a glare. “You think this is funny? Your whole image is innocent and pure. With this video out, forget innocent—you’re lucky if you keep any reputation at all.”

Jackie’s voice cracked like a whip, snapping me back to reality. I straightened up. Oof. She was right—I’d built my whole brand on being the sweet girl next door. One viral video and I was about to be recast as the industry’s resident femme fatale.

I immediately wilted, hanging my head and putting on my best pitiful look. It’s true—my brand is pure, sweet, girl-next-door. Evan Carter is the industry’s famously aloof A-lister. If this isn’t handled right, my whole career—half a lifetime in the business—could be wiped out in a flash.

I let my shoulders droop and shot Jackie my most tragic puppy-dog eyes, the ones that usually worked on directors and baristas alike. My mind raced through damage control scenarios. Nothing looked good. I could already hear the tabloids sharpening their knives.

Jackie glared at me again, then whipped out her phone and started barking orders at PR. I sat quietly, hugging my coffee. Jackie, still on the phone, snatched it from me and tossed it in the trash with a loud slap. I stared at the latte in the trash, then at Jackie, who looked ready to explode. I wanted to be mad, but I didn’t dare.

She paced the room like a caged lion, phone pressed to her ear, barking out orders to the PR team. I watched my precious latte ooze into the trash can, feeling the sting of caffeine withdrawal and regret. I hugged my knees to my chest, wishing I could disappear. Why did I have to pick today to be a rebel?

Feeling guilty, I sat behind her and started massaging her shoulders, hoping it’d earn me a few mercy points. Suddenly, she shoved her phone in my face: “Look at this. What’s going on?”

She spun around and nearly smacked me with her phone. Her eyes were wild, and I braced myself for another round of yelling.

I took a glance and sat up straight in shock. Evan Carter, who barely posts on Instagram once a year, had just posted something bizarre:

[Eyeball.]

I blinked, sure I was hallucinating. Evan’s Instagram was usually a wasteland—one post a year, max, and never anything this cryptic. My jaw dropped. Was this his version of the “blink if you’re in trouble” meme?

The moment he posted that, Instagram went nuts. Notifications flooded in like a tidal wave. Every group chat I was in started blowing up. I could practically hear my high school friends gossiping already.

[Did I read that right?]

[Can someone explain what this means?]

[Let me explain: it means ‘I’m willing, leave us alone, he loves it!’]

[Careful, you’re drooling.]

[Wow, Savannah Lane, sneaking around behind our backs with this prize.]

[Can someone get them on a reality show ASAP? I need to see what else they do!]

The internet’s collective confusion was almost comforting. At least I wasn’t the only one who had no idea what Evan was thinking. Honestly, I was just as lost as everyone else. I buried my face in the couch cushions, wishing I could disappear.

I flopped face-first onto the couch, covering my face. My reputation was toast! Great. Maybe I could start over as a barista in Idaho.

I let out a dramatic groan, muffled by the couch, and kicked my feet in the air. If Jackie hadn’t been there, I might’ve screamed. Instead, I just let the existential dread wash over me.

I shot up, tears in my eyes, grabbing Jackie’s hand. “Announce my retirement—I’m quitting tomorrow. No, right now!”

I tried to look as tragic as possible, hoping for a little sympathy. I even squeezed out a fake tear for effect. Jackie looked unimpressed.

I tilted my head back, striking my most tragic pose. “I can’t face anyone anymore. Boo hoo.”

I let my voice wobble, channeling my inner soap opera queen. I threw the back of my hand to my forehead for good measure. Inside, I was dying. Jackie rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck.

Jackie patted my shoulder. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’ve already talked to the director—he’ll come out and clarify things.” She paused, letting me absorb the news. “You’re not quitting. Not on my watch.”

Her tone was brisk but not unkind. I let out a shaky sigh, my melodrama deflating. Whew. If anyone could fix this, it was Charles Tilden. I clung to that hope like a lifeline. Maybe I’d survive after all.

I finally relaxed. Director Charles Tilden has been in the industry forever—he’ll know how to clear this up.

Charles was a legend—he’d seen bigger scandals than mine and lived to tell the tale. I trusted him to handle things with his usual dry wit and gravitas. I refreshed Instagram every thirty seconds, waiting for his post. Please, Charles, save me.

I kept refreshing Instagram, waiting for salvation. A few minutes later, Charles Tilden posted:

[That clip was a scripted scene. Both actors were doing their jobs. Please look forward to the show.]

I stared at the screen, mouth open. That was it? No spin, no clever wording, just the facts. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Maybe both.

I was dumbfounded. That’s his plan? We filmed a scene like this? When did that happen? My mind was blank. Is this damage control or just giving up?

I racked my brain for a memory of shooting that scene, but all I could remember was the heat of the lights and Evan’s nervous laughter. Maybe Charles was right—it was all just acting. Or was it? I couldn’t tell anymore.

Nervously, I clicked into the comments:

[Okay, I believe it. Waiting for the show to air. (I'll behave)]

[Fine, I believe it too. Can’t wait to see how this spicy scene fits into a supernatural drama.]

[Waiting +1]

[Is this a clarification or a roundabout way of going public? Guess we’ll have to wait for the show.]

The fans were divided, but at least the pitchforks were gone. I breathed a little easier. Maybe this wouldn’t end in total disaster after all. Maybe.

I furiously typed out a rant to Charles, who replied with a few noncommittal words:

[If worst comes to worst, just go public.]

His text was as casual as ordering takeout. I let out a strangled laugh, wondering if he had any idea what going public would actually mean for us. Did he realize the internet would eat us alive?

I choked. The truth is, Evan and I are married. We’ve been together for years. But we never made it public. At first, it was because my career was on the rise—I didn’t want people to say I was riding his coattails. Later, we avoided each other so much that our fans started feuding online, always at each other's throats. If they found out their idols were actually married, I...

I stared at the ceiling, memories swirling—late-night rehearsals, whispered phone calls, secret glances across crowded rooms. I’d built a wall between my public life and my real life, and now it was crumbling. The line between the two was starting to blur.

So I insisted we keep it secret. Evan, helpless, agreed. We tried not to see each other, just in case. It hurt, but what else could we do?

It became our little game—how much could I push him before he cracked? Sometimes I thought he liked the danger, the thrill of almost getting caught. I know I did. It made every stolen moment feel electric.

I love role-playing with him. Sometimes, when we’re on a reality show together, I’ll lean in and tease him, “Big guy, I’m so close to you.” Won’t your wife get mad? He’d go bright red, then sternly tell me to stop fooling around, his voice low and sexy, driving me crazy.

I’d catch the tiniest tremor in his voice, the way his jaw clenched when I got too close. The crew would snicker, thinking it was all for show, but I knew better. I lived for those moments.

Or, when we’re about to go out, I’ll make him put on shirt garters, then lower my voice and ask, “What’s that on your thigh? Can I see?” He’ll blush and mumble. “You can look when we get home.”

Those shirt garters were a running joke between us. I’d act all innocent, but really, I just wanted to see him squirm. I’d act like I didn’t know what I was doing, but the truth was, I loved making him blush.

God, he’s so cute. My pure little puppy. I just want to kiss him to death.

Sometimes I wondered how I got so lucky. Evan was a world-class actor, but with me, he was just a shy, sweet guy who’d do anything to make me smile.

When the phone rang, I couldn’t help but smile at the caller ID. I picked up, and Evan’s voice came through: “Baby, are you okay?”

His voice was soft, a little worried, the kind of tone he only used when it was just us. I felt my nerves settle just hearing him. He always made me feel safe.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Are you okay?”

I tried to sound breezy, but I couldn’t keep the smile out of my voice. I wanted to hear him say he missed me, even if it was just for a second.

He sounded confused. “Me? What happened to me?”

His confusion was so genuine I almost laughed. I pictured him sitting in his kitchen, brow furrowed, coffee cup in hand, completely oblivious to the online chaos.

I said, “Didn’t you see people online calling you seductive? Aren’t you happy?”

I grinned, waiting for him to get flustered. He never liked being called sexy in public, but I loved pushing his buttons.

His voice dropped, sending shivers down my spine. “As long as I seduce you, I’m happy.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut—smooth, confident, and just a little bit wicked. My cheeks burned. I clapped a hand over my mouth, trying not to squeal.

God, he’s laying it on thick—how am I supposed to handle that?

My cheeks burned. I fanned myself with the phone, trying to regain my composure. Evan rarely flirted so openly, and when he did, it always knocked me off balance.

I clutched my wildly beating heart, pretending to be calm. He always knew how to get under my skin.

He chuckled, then asked, “So when will I get an official title?” His laugh was low and warm, like honey.

I thought for a moment. “Can you tell me what your Instagram post meant first?”

Checkmate. He was silent for a long time before saying, “Honestly, it’s fine if we don’t go public. I never said we had to. Public or not, I’m still your husband.” His words were quiet but steady, and something in my chest loosened.

With that, he hung up. I stared at the phone, a little dazed.