Aidan was everywhere.
On my phone screen. On every morning news show. On the digital billboards downtown that rotated his photo alongside headlines like "The Redemption of Aidan Blackthorne" or "From Playboy to Public Servant?" He was on Twitter, Instagram, podcasts, even TikTok — where Gen Z edits set clips of his speech to moody music and dramatic slow motion. One particularly viral video paired his words with the phrase: "When a man finally stops running."
Even the late-night hosts were weighing in, playfully teasing his transformation but ultimately applauding it.
And the internet? Obsessed. Fan accounts were popping up with names like @Aidanblacthorne and @AidanNation. One tweet with 50,000 likes read: "If Aidan Blackthorne can get it together, there's hope for every emotionally immature man alive."
It was surreal. It was effective.
It was exactly what we had planned.
And yet, watching him dominate every headline, every feed, every conversation—it didn't feel like victory. Not to me.
It felt like losing control.
Because somewhere along the way, Aidan had stopped sounding like a man reading from the script I helped write. He'd started sounding like himself. Someone… real. And worse? The world believed him.
But the thing that unsettled me most wasn't how convincingly he was playing the part.
It was that maybe he wasn't playing anymore.
And that meant neither was I.
Morning talk shows. Social media. Fashion blogs dissecting his suit choice like it held the answers to foreign policy. Even a viral video clip of his speech had made the rounds — "Authentic. Unexpected. The real Aidan Blackthorne," one news outlet captioned it. Aidan has revealed a more authentic, genuine version of himself — and people are seeing him in a new light, as if for the first time.
Everything was going according to plan.
Except for the part where I couldn't sleep.
I scrolled past another article, watching his face flash on my screen for the tenth time that morning. The photos were flattering. Too flattering. That slow, deliberate smile. The hand over his heart. The way he looked like he actually meant it.
Because he did. That wasn't rehearsed.
That was Aidan being real — and it terrified me.
"Do you ever stop working?" Jordan's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. He leaned against my office door with a coffee in one hand and a folder in the other.
"Do you ever knock?" I shot back, though my voice lacked heat.
Jordan raised an eyebrow. "So. Aidan Blackthorne, national treasure. You did it."
"We did it," I said, taking the folder. "What's the latest?"
He slid into the chair across from me. "The latest is: people love him. Like, really love him. We're getting requests from three networks, five podcasts, and one influencer who wants to go live with him while teaching him how to cook vegan lasagna."
I stared.
"Don't ask," He added, grinning. "It's a thing now."
I opened the folder, scanning the upcoming schedule. Interviews. Panel appearances. A charity gala in Chicago next week. His calendar was packed — deliberately so.
It kept us busy. Kept me from thinking too much.
"He's ready," Jordan said, watching me more closely now. "And he trusts you."
"That's part of the strategy," I replied, keeping my voice even.
Jordan didn't respond right away. Then, "Is that all it is?"
I met his gaze, letting the silence stretch between us.
Finally, he stood. "Just… be careful. You don't have to be stone all the time, you know."
When he left, I let out a long breath and glanced back at the article on my screen. Aidan's smile stared back at me.
I hated how easily it disarmed me. How warm I felt whenever I thought about the way his eyes had lingered on mine after the event. How that night — that almost-moment — kept replaying in my head like a song I couldn't turn off.
He wasn't just playing the part anymore.
And I was starting to wonder if I was.
---
Later that week, we arrived in Chicago for the gala. The hotel suite was already prepped for interviews, with makeup artists and wardrobe consultants buzzing around like caffeinated bees, as they're rushing around preparing clothes and styles for Aidan. While Jordan handled logistics. And I reviewed questions. Aidan stood at the center of it all, quietly calm in the chaos.
He walked in wearing a charcoal-gray suit and the kind of expression that made people stop talking mid-sentence. His jaw was strong and defined, the slight shadow of stubble adding a rugged edge to his otherwise polished appearance. His high cheekbones caught the soft light, hinting at the intensity beneath the surface. His eyes — a deep, stormy gray — were steady and sharp, scanning the room with a quiet confidence that commanded attention without effort. The faint crease between his brows suggested focus and determination, but there was also a softness around the corners of his mouth, as if he was holding back a smile only meant for me.
He looked collected. Grounded.
But when he caught my eye, there was a flicker — something unspoken that passed between us like static, an electric charge beneath the calm façade that only we could feel.
"You okay?" he asked when we were alone for a moment.
"I'm fine," I said, pretending to fix his lapel. "You ready?"
He gave a half-smile. "Only if you are."
I stepped back. "This is just another stop. Smile, charm, speak from the heart. We win people over, one room at a time."
He studied me for a second. "And afterward?"
"We debrief. Adjust messaging. Prep for what's next."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know," I said quickly. "But it's what we agreed on."
Aidan didn't argue. He just nodded and stepped away — but something in his eyes had shifted. A quiet resignation. Or maybe resolve.
The night went flawlessly. The gala sparkled with high-profile donors and champagne flutes. Aidan delivered a short, heartfelt speech that had the room practically glowing by the end. And as we moved through the crowd, shaking hands and smiling for photos, I felt it again — that heat between us, quiet but persistent, like a hum beneath the surface.
We were still pretending.
Only, it didn't feel like pretending anymore.
At one point, we stepped aside into a hallway while a tech team adjusted something with the sound system. It was just the two of us for a breath of a moment, and the silence between us crackled.
"You ever think about what happens if this works?" he asked suddenly.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... if people really believe I've changed. If they start expecting something real from me. Not just a campaign or a second chance."
I looked at him, unsure of what he was really asking.
"Do you believe I've changed?" he asked, quieter now.
I hesitated. My heart was beating faster than I wanted to admit. "I think… you're becoming someone people can believe in."
He nodded slowly. "But what about you, Sophie?"
"What about me?"
"Do you believe in me?"
I wanted to lie. It would've been easier. Cleaner. But all I could manage was:
"I want to."
That was the truth. I wanted to believe. I wanted to let the walls down. But wanting wasn't the same as trusting. And I didn't trust easily — not anymore.
A voice echoed down the hallway, calling us back. The moment shattered like a fragile glass.
"We should go," I said quickly.
He didn't stop me.
But that night, as I stood by the window of my hotel room, looking out over the glowing city lights, I thought about his question.
Do I believe in him?
And worse — did I want him to believe in me?
Because the plan was working. The public believed it.
But behind the perfect press and perfect strategy… the lines were starting to blur.
And I wasn't sure how long we could keep pretending before one of us fell too far to come back.
I must stop it. I must avoid it.