Chapter 2

Kiana Perkins POV:

Our relationship existed in a delicate balance, a fragile ecosystem built on anonymity and screens. Then, one Tuesday, I blew it all up with a mis-clicked video of a cat falling off a bookshelf.

I had meant to send it to my sister. Instead, in a moment of sleep-deprived carelessness, I sent it to C.L.

My blood turned to ice as I saw the "Delivered" checkmark appear next to the video in our chat. I frantically jabbed at the screen, trying to un-send it, but it was too late. The double blue checkmarks appeared. He' d seen it.

A wave of mortification washed over me. It was such a stupid, unprofessional thing to send. I was supposed to be his sharp, witty branding consultant, not some girl who sends him silly cat videos. A sliver of guilt pricked at me; I had been so cold to him lately, shutting down his attempts at anything personal. This accidental video felt like a crack in my carefully maintained armor.

Before I could type an apology, his reply came through.

C.L.: Is that your cat?

Me: No. It was an accident. Sorry.

C.L.: I see. I was wondering what you like.

The question caught me off guard.

Me: What I like?

C.L.: Yes. I realize I know very little about you, personally. You know I enjoy rainy days and classical music. I know nothing of your preferences.

Before I could formulate a deflective response, a new message popped up. It was a video. My curiosity overriding my caution, I tapped play.

The video was shaky, clearly self-shot. It was a close-up of Cristian' s hands as he worked a piece of wood on a lathe. The camera panned up slowly, lingering on the muscles in his forearms, taut with effort, then up to his chest, the thin fabric of his gray t-shirt clinging to him. He was sweating, a light sheen on his skin. He glanced at the camera for a split second, his cheeks flushing slightly, before looking away, a shy, almost embarrassed smile touching his lips. He looked... incredible. Human. Real.

The video ended. I stared at the black screen, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Me: Send more of those.

C.L.: More of what? Woodworking videos?

Me: No. Videos of you. Looking like that.

The three dots appeared instantly. A few moments later, another video came through. This time he was at a gym, lifting weights. It was clearly after hours; the space was empty. The camera angle was slightly awkward, but it did a very good job of showcasing the way his back muscles moved under his tank top. He looked powerful and focused, but when he caught his own reflection in the gym mirror, the same shy blush colored his cheeks.

My mouth went dry. This was a side of Cristian Lancaster the world never saw. The intimidating author was, in private, a bashful man who blushed when he filmed himself working out.

And I was the only one who got to see it.

For the first time, I admitted it to myself: I was attracted to him. Deeply. It wasn't just his brilliant mind or his dry wit anymore. It was the whole package.

He was addictive.

That night marked a shift. Our conversations deepened, growing more intimate. The professional line blurred until it disappeared completely. We were no longer consultant and client. We were two lonely people who had found each other in the digital ether.

One evening, after a long conversation that stretched late into the night, he laid his cards on the table.

C.L.: I want to be with you, Kiana.

My name on his lips, even typed out, sent a jolt through me.

C.L.: I know you' re not ready to meet. I understand. But I can' t pretend this is just a friendship anymore. Let me be your boyfriend. We can be whatever you want us to be, as long as we' re together.

I stared at the message, my mind racing. It was insane. A relationship with a man I' d never met, whose real voice I' d never even heard. But it also felt... right. He saw me. The real me, the one hiding behind 'Pixel_Perfect.' He didn' t just tolerate my anxiety; he understood it. He made me feel safe.

Me: Okay.

C.L.: Okay?

Me: Okay. We can try. But there are rules.

I laid them out, a shield against my own fears.

1. Online only. No phone calls, no video chats. Just messages and the occasional picture or pre-recorded video.

2. No personal details. No last names (even though we both already knew), no addresses, no talk of meeting.

3. If either of us wants to end it, we end it. No questions asked.

He agreed, albeit reluctantly. And just like that, I had a secret, anonymous, online boyfriend who happened to be one of the most famous authors in the world.

For two years, it was perfect. Our relationship was a protected bubble, a fantasy world where my anxiety couldn't touch me. I helped him navigate his growing fame, and he became my biggest cheerleader, encouraging me to take on more ambitious freelance projects. He was my confidant, my best friend, my lover. I was happy.

Until the publisher forced his hand.

C.L.: My publisher is forcing a book tour. Across the country. I need to meet you.

The message shattered our perfect bubble. The real world was invading our safe space, and I panicked.

Me: We can' t. That was the rule.

C.L.: I need you, Kiana. I' m not good with people. You know that. I can' t do this alone. Just one dinner. Please.

My chest tightened. He didn't understand. For him, it was just a dinner. For me, it was a nightmare. The thought of sitting across from him, in the flesh, with nowhere to hide... it made me feel physically ill. The brilliant, confident woman he knew would be replaced by a stammering, awkward mess. The fantasy would be over.

Me: No. I can' t.

C.L.: Why not? Are you ashamed of me? Or are you hiding something?

His words, born of desperation, felt like a slap.

Me: This isn't working. We want different things.

C.L.: What does that mean? Kiana?

Me: Then maybe we should end this.

I threw my phone onto my sofa as if it were on fire. He called. I ignored it. Messages flooded my screen, a torrent of panic and confusion from him. I silenced my notifications, my heart aching with a pain so sharp it stole my breath. This was the only way to protect myself. To protect our perfect, impossible love story from the harsh reality of who I really was.

The next morning, I walked into the office of the publishing house that had hired me for a long-term freelance contract-the same publisher that represented Cristian Lancaster-feeling hollowed out. Genevieve Griffith, the ambitious publicist in charge of Cristian's campaign and my main point of contact, was in a foul mood.

"He' s being impossible," she snapped, not even looking up from her desk as I entered her office. "Cristian is threatening to cancel the entire book tour. The biggest launch of his career, and he' s decided to become even more of a recluse. It' s a disaster."

She sighed dramatically, finally looking at me. Genevieve was the kind of woman who was professionally charming and personally ruthless. She had made it clear that she considered Cristian not just her star client, but her personal project. Her obsession with him was an open secret in the office.

"His mood is poison," she continued, rubbing her temples. "I can' t even get him on the phone. Kiana, I need you to handle this. Take the final campaign proofs up to his private office. He' s contractually obligated to approve them today."

My body went rigid. "Me? Why me?"

"Because," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness, "I don't want to get my head bitten off, and you're the new blood. He might go easy on you."

I knew what she was really doing. She was throwing me to the wolves, avoiding a confrontation she didn't want to have. The thought of facing Cristian-the real, breathing Cristian, who was currently heartbroken because of me-sent a wave of panic through me. I couldn't do it. I had to maintain the firewall between my two lives.

"I don' t think that' s a good idea," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I' m just the designer."

Genevieve' s smile tightened. "And you' ll do what you' re told. He' s on the top floor. Don' t take too long."

The folder she pushed across the desk felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. I had to face him. The man I loved, who thought I had just ripped his heart out. And he had no idea it was me.

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