Archive of Our Own

The city stretched wide beneath them, like a postcard left out in the rain. Up here, above it all, the noise softened. Just low music in the background, laughter floating in from the bar, the kind of expensive quiet that only belonged to actors and people who pretended not to be lonely.

Agatha stood barefoot against the chill of the rooftop tile, a champagne flute tilted loosely between two fingers. Her heels were long forgotten beneath a chaise lounge, one strap dangling like a surrendered ribbon. The silk of her dress clung in all the right places, slipping slightly off one shoulder with a kind of deliberate elegance. She looked effortless. Like the ending of a very good film.

Next to her, Rio was leaning back against the railing, the skyline cutting a sharp line just behind her jaw. The collar of her shirt was undone, dark hair pulled into something careless that still managed to look intentional. There was a glass of something amber in her hand, but she hadn't taken a sip in a while. Not since Agatha had come outside.

“You ever gonna miss the stunt work?” Agatha asked, watching the city, not her.

Rio’s voice came low and dry. “Only when the acting gets too polite.”

That earned a slow smile. “So, in two days then.”

She laughed, the sound softer than usual, like she was saving the sharp edges for later. Her fingers brushed Rio’s arm, light, familiar. Like it wasn’t the first time.

Rio’s hand drifted, gently, almost instinctively to Agatha’s waist. Nothing bold. Nothing rehearsed. Just a quiet, steadying gesture that didn’t ask permission.

Agatha didn’t step away.

She leaned in instead, wine-sweet breath grazing Rio’s cheek. Her voice was barely there. “They’re going to talk, you know.”

Rio didn’t blink. “Let them.”

A camera clicked from somewhere behind them, muffled by distance, unnoticed in the moment. But it didn’t matter. Not yet.

They stayed like that for a while. Close, but not touching. Barely sharing a few words.

From a distance, they looked like a secret unfolding in real time.

And by morning, they’d belong to the world.

The first thing she noticed was the headache.

The second was the vibrating.

Agatha groaned into her pillow, dragging the blanket over her head like it might muffle the entire universe. But her phone buzzed again. Long, insistent, cursed with purpose. Whoever it was wasn’t giving up.

She cracked one eye open. Light stabbed through the curtains. Her phone was somewhere under the mess of last night’s clothes and the silk wrap she'd never actually tied closed.

Eventually, she found it, face down on the nightstand like it knew it was guilty. The screen lit up as she picked it up.

19 missed calls.
31 texts.
Her publicist, twice. Her manager, four times.

A group thread with her PR team that she previously had renamed “Hell.”

And then, at the very top, timestamped at 3:12 a.m.

Rio Vidal: You’re trending. Again. You’re welcome.

A link followed. She didn’t click it. Not yet.

Agatha exhaled, long and slow, before collapsing back against the pillows with a theatrical sigh that no one was around to appreciate.

“Goddammit.”

The phone buzzed again, this time it was a call. Jennifer Kale. Or as it was written on her screen: “Satan’s Vegetable”.

She debated letting it ring. She lost.

“Mm.” It wasn’t a greeting. It was a noise. Grumpy. Hungover. Barely human.

“Oh thank god, you’re awake,” Jennifer said in a voice that clearly already had two coffees and three crises. “Don’t say anything. Just listen.”

Agatha squinted at the ceiling. “I haven’t even—”

“You’re on three blogs, Variety’s online front page, and you’re in the sidebar of TMZ right under someone’s leaked sex tape. Do you know what that means?”

“That I’m still more interesting than a Kardashian?”

“No,” Jennifer hissed. “It means you’re accidentally in a lesbian power couple now and we need a narrative.”

Agatha groaned again. “This is about Rio, isn’t it?”

“It’s not about Rio. It’s about Rio’s hand on your waist, the way you were whispering in her ear, and the fact that someone’s already making fan edits of you two with Sappho quotes in cursive font.”

“I was drunk,” Agatha muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “And barefoot.”

“Exactly. Which makes it look like you were comfortable. Intimate. Real.”

Agatha sat up and immediately her head spun. “It wasn’t real.”

“Didn’t look like it.”

She ended the call before she could say something that would end up in a group chat. The phone pinged again, this time another message from Rio.

Rio Vidal: Let me know when you’ve had coffee and stopped pretending it was nothing.

Agatha stared at the text, then at the ceiling, then back at the text.

Outside, Los Angeles was already bright and oblivious.

Inside, Agatha Harkness was caffeineless, hungover, and already on the defensive.

Whatever this was, whatever it was about to become, it had already started.

And the world was watching.

The next text came in two minutes later.

No emojis. No punctuation. No room for misinterpretation.

Lilia Calderu: Meeting. 8 sharp. Don’t be late.

Agatha stared at it for a moment like it might vanish if she blinked. It didn’t.

She groaned, again, and finally threw back the covers like a woman accepting defeat. Her head still throbbed, the kind of ache that settled behind the eyes like a spiteful little drumbeat. The aftermath of three too many toasts and one very specific hand on her waist.

The floor was cold under her feet. Her mouth tasted like rich people’s champagne and bad decisions. In the mirror, her eyeliner had survived the night. Her dignity? Less so.

The shower was hot, almost punishing. She stood under it longer than necessary, hoping the steam would do something about the knots behind her eyes and the way her stomach dropped every time she thought about Rio’s message.

You’re trending. Again. You’re welcome.

She didn’t know what annoyed her more, the smugness or the accuracy of the statement.

By 7:23, she was in a black silk blouse and wide-leg slacks, hair up, makeup down to just the essentials: clean lines, sharp lips, sunglasses to hide the hangover. A look that said “unbothered,” even if her pulse said otherwise.

Coffee was non-negotiable. She downed two shots of espresso and a single aspirin with the quiet reverence of someone preparing for battle.

By 7:40, she was in the car, sliding into the backseat like a woman preparing for war. The driver didn’t speak. She appreciated that. Her phone buzzed again somewhere in her coat pocket, but she ignored it this time.

Lilia didn’t like waiting. She was likely already at the office, immaculate and irritable, probably ordering the exact brand of cucumber water she made everyone pretend to enjoy during strategy meetings. Jennifer Kale would be there too, in pink heels and dry sarcasm, already ten steps into damage control. And across town, Rio was probably still barefoot and smug and drinking her coffee black with a smirk.

Agatha pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the car window and exhaled slowly.

She wasn’t in trouble. Not really. This was all manageable.

She just hated being managed.

Agatha walked in two minutes early and immediately regretted it.

Rio was already there, slouched comfortably in a chair near the far end of the table like she’d personally designed the meeting to irritate her. Her combat boots were up, paired with slouchy jeans, a worn leather jacket, and the kind of smirk that made Agatha’s teeth grind.

She looked fresh. Worse, she looked amused.

Across from her sat Alice Wu-Gulliver, legs crossed, tablet in hand, chewing lightly on the arm of her designer glasses like she was already mentally drafting a press release.

Jennifer Kale was halfway through her god knows how many espresso and typing furiously on her phone without looking up.

And Lilia Calderu? Lilia looked like she’d walked through a fire, survived, and decided this was her next war.

“Nice of you to join us,” Alice said cheerfully.

“I was two minutes early,” Agatha muttered, sliding into the empty seat across from Rio.

“Exactly,” Rio said, gesturing vaguely. “They’ve already been diagnosing us with co-dependent intimacy and unresolved sexual tension. Showing up fashionably late would’ve helped.”

Jennifer snorted. “They’re not wrong.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Agatha warned.

Rio just smiled, slow and maddening. “Morning, Aggie.”

Agatha’s brow twitched. Aggie. The audacity.

Lilia cleared her throat with the precision of a judge calling the room to order. “Now that we’re all here, let’s be clear: this is a joint opportunity or a joint disaster. How it lands is entirely up to how well you two perform.”

Agatha opened her mouth to argue, but Alice raised a hand.

“Before you object, no, we’re not asking for a full on-couple display. No kissing on talk shows. No declarations of love. Just proximity. Appearances. Coordinated chaos.”

Agatha frowned. “So we’re supposed to… what? Casually exist near each other until the media writes our love story for us?”

Jennifer grinned. “Exactly. Welcome to modern PR.”

Rio leaned back, hands behind her head. “Honestly? I’ve had worse co-stars.”

“We weren’t co-stars,” Agatha snapped.

“We were in the same scenes.”

“I threw a drink at you.”

“Five takes,” Rio said fondly. “You really committed.”

Jennifer slid a stack of potential press opportunities across the table. “We start with the basics. An appearance together at the Vulture party. Maybe a Vanity Fair photo op. A candid at a café.”

“A ‘candid’,” Agatha repeated flatly. “With Rio.”

Rio blinked at her. “You say my name like it personally offended you.”

“You say it like it’s a punchline.”

“I am the punchline,” Rio said. “That’s why people like me.”

Alice leaned in. “This works because you’re opposites. Fire and ice. Grace and grit. This isn’t just a pairing, it’s a narrative.”

Agatha turned to Lilia. “And you’re just… fine with this?”

Lilia didn’t blink. “You need the soft press after last awards season. And Rio’s team needs to reintroduce her as leading-lady material. This works for both of you, if you don’t kill each other first.”

Agatha leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“No.”

Jennifer barely looked up from her phone. “No, what?”

“No, I’m not doing it.” Agatha’s voice was calm, but coiled. “I’m not faking a relationship. I’m not grinning for tabloids. I’m not doing some glorified celebrity performance art with—”

She flicked her fingers toward Rio, who raised a brow in mock offense.

“With her.”

“You wound me,” Rio said, hand to heart. “And here I was, already imagining our couple's name.”

Agatha ignored her. “You said it yourself, Lilia, this is a circus. I’m not interested in being the lion in anyone’s little ring.”

Lilia didn’t flinch. “You won’t be the lion. You’ll be the one holding the whip. But either way, you're still in the tent.”

Jennifer slid her phone across the table, screen facing Agatha. A headline in huge font blared:

“Agatha Harkness and Rio Vidal: Secret Lovers or Strategic Stars?”

Followed by: “A dozen insiders weigh in on Hollywood’s most unexpected maybe-couple.”

Photos were already everywhere. Rio’s hand at her waist, Agatha laughing into her shoulder. From this angle, it didn’t look platonic. It looked cinematic.

“It’s out there, Agatha,” Jennifer said quietly. “Whether you like it or not. You can either manage the narrative or let it manage you.”

“I can also tell the truth,” Agatha snapped. “That it was a wrap party, I was drunk, and she—”

Rio held up a finger. “Careful. You’re about to make it sound like I took advantage of you.”

Agatha shot her a glare. “You didn’t. You just… loitered.”

Rio grinned. “And yet you didn’t move away.”

Agatha’s chair creaked as she sat up straighter. “This is ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous,” Alice chimed in lightly, “is turning down a story people already want to believe. You two are trending higher than any award nomination from last night. Public interest doesn’t lie.”

“Neither do I,” Agatha bit out. “I don’t do this kind of thing. I don’t need to.”

Lilia’s voice cut through, cool and final. “You didn’t need to win the indie darling narrative three years in a row either, but here we are, because you played the game.”

A tense silence followed.

Rio leaned her elbows on the table, eyes on Agatha now, too amused, too quiet. “What’s the real problem, Harkness? Scared they’ll believe it too easily? Or scared you might?”

Agatha gave her a long, unblinking stare. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” Rio said, leaning back again. “Already printing matching jackets.”

Agatha looked to Jennifer. “Do I have to?”

Jennifer met her eyes, and for once, didn’t smile. “If you want to control this fallout and protect the projects you’ve got lined up? Yeah. You do.”

She turned to Lilia. “And if I don’t?”

Lilia didn’t blink. “Then we go into full damage control. But if the press smells you flinching, they’ll eat you alive. Again.”

Agatha exhaled hard through her nose, then pinched the bridge of it.

Finally, she looked at Rio, who was smiling like the cat that got the full cream, the dish, and the dairy farm.

“Fine,” she said, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “I’ll do it.”

Rio’s smile widened. “Can’t wait to make you fall in love with me.”

Agatha gave her a look colder than marble. “Don’t hold your breath.”

The room was silent for a beat.

Then Rio reached for her water, lifted it slightly toward Agatha.

“To not killing each other.”

Agatha clinked her glass against it without looking at her.

“Yet.”

Agatha opened the front door, already annoyed.

Rio leaned against the frame like she’d been waiting for hours, even though she hadn’t. Just enough to make it feel intentional. Sunglasses still on, jacket slung over her shoulder, she looked like every terrible ex that showed up in a music video with a smirk and bad intentions.

“You’re late,” Agatha said, stepping aside.

“I brought coffee. That buys me five minutes.”

Rio held up two cups. Agatha took one, sniffed it suspiciously, then walked off without a thank you.

The house was sleek, sharp lines and muted luxury. The kind of place meant to impress without looking like it was trying.

They sat in the living room, each at opposite ends of a low velvet couch. A glass coffee table between them, metaphorical and literal.

“So,” Agatha began, setting her cup down. “Ground rules.”

“Mm.” Rio lounged, legs crossed. “Sexy.”

Agatha didn’t even look up. “Touch me uninvited during a public event and I’ll break your wrist. That’s Rule One.”

“That’s so specific,” Rio said, sipping. “And so violent. You flirt like a lawyer.”

Agatha glanced at her, unimpressed. “Rule Two: no unscripted interviews. If we’re doing this, we control the story. No off-the-cuff confessions, no late-night podcast anecdotes.”

“Even if they’re flattering?”

“Especially if they’re flattering.”

Rio tilted her head, mock-hurt. “I’m starting to think you don’t trust me.”

Agatha folded her arms. “I don’t.”

A beat. Rio grinned wider. “That’s hot.”

“Rule Three,” Agatha snapped, ignoring her. “No staying overnight. No one wants photos of you leaving my house in the morning like we actually slept together.”

Rio leaned forward a little. “What if we actually do?”

Agatha’s laugh was one sharp exhale. “Dream on, Vidal.”

“Already did.”

That earned a glance, just a flick of Agatha’s eyes, but Rio caught it.

The air stretched thin for a second. Then Agatha reached down, pulled a notepad from under a script on the table, and handed it over.

“Our cover story,” she said. “How we met, how long we’ve been dating, who made the first move.”

Rio flipped through the pages, amused. “You wrote a script for our fake romance?”

Agatha leaned back, perfectly poised. “If I’m going to lie, I’m going to do it better than you’ve ever told the truth.”

Rio raised a brow. “Then we better rehearse.”

Agatha paused. “You’re taking this awfully well.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Rio said, setting the notepad down. “I get to play fake girlfriend to Hollywood’s frostiest queen. This is the role of a lifetime.”

“Careful,” Agatha said, tone cool. “You might start believing it.”

Rio’s smile flickered, just briefly. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Agatha stood. “We’re done here.”

Rio didn’t move. “You sure? I thought we were just warming up.”

Agatha crossed to the door. “Leave.”

But her fingers lingered just a little too long on the doorknob. And Rio noticed, so she didn’t move.

Agatha stood by the door with her hand on the handle. Her posture said we’re done. Her silence didn’t.

Behind her, Rio hadn’t moved.

“Is this where you pretend you don’t care again?” Rio asked.

Agatha didn’t turn around. “Don’t flatter yourself, Vidal.”

A beat.

Rio exhaled slowly. The teasing edge dropped from her voice, almost imperceptibly. “You look tired.”

That made Agatha pause.

“Didn’t sleep much last night?” Rio added.

“I had a hangover and three people telling me to sell my fake personal life to the media. Forgive me if I wasn’t in the mood for restful dreams.”

Rio stood, slower than usual, careful. Her tone wasn’t playful anymore. “I didn’t ask to corner you like this, you know.”

Agatha finally turned to face her, arms still folded. “No? You seemed pretty comfortable throwing yourself into it.”

“Because if I didn’t,” Rio said, “you’d have been left to play on your own. They would’ve eaten you alive, Agatha. I’ve done this circuit. I know the drill.”

Agatha scoffed softly. “Please. I’ve been at this longer than you have.”

“I didn’t mean the industry.”

Rio’s gaze held hers now, steadier, more open than she had any right to be. “I meant this game. The story. The pretending.”

Agatha’s throat worked around something sharp and unsaid. Her arms dropped to her sides.

Rio stepped closer, stopping just shy of her space. Not pushing. Just… offering.

“Are you okay?” she asked, quieter now. “Not the PR version. Just... you.”

The question landed in the silence like a dropped glass, quick, but unmistakable.

Agatha blinked, surprised at the sudden sting behind her eyes. That was stupid. She looked away, jaw tense.

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask if you were convincing. I asked if you were okay.”

Agatha didn’t answer. She didn’t have one that wouldn’t sound like surrender.

So instead, she opened the door.

And this time, when Rio left, she didn’t smile.

The door clicked shut behind Rio. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was sharp. Too aware of itself.

Agatha didn’t move at first. She stood there, hand still on the doorknob like she might call Rio back. She didn’t.

Instead, she let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold and went back into the living room, the weight of the day landing in her spine like a second coat.

The coffee table was still littered with notes, her “cover story,” carefully outlined. Neat handwriting, bullet points, false milestones of a relationship that had never happened.

She stared at them for a long time. Then swept them into a folder and snapped it shut.

The espresso was cold. She drank it anyway.

Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it. Another buzz. This time, a calendar reminder: “Event: Eidolon Premiere – 6:00 PM Tomorrow – Chateau Harlan. Red carpet 6:15 sharp.”

She dropped the phone onto the couch beside her and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingertips pressed against her temples.

Her hangover had dulled, but the pressure behind her eyes hadn’t.

Tomorrow, it all began.

Cameras. Interviews. Smiles that didn't reach her eyes. And Rio, close enough to touch, to smell, to almost believe.

She hated how easy it was to imagine slipping into that role.

Agatha straightened up. Pulled her hair into a loose knot and stood up.

Control. That’s what tomorrow needs. She could do that. She had before.

She climbed the stairs slowly. When she reached her bedroom, she opened her closet and stared at the rows of designer gowns like weapons in an armory.

Her hand hovered over a silver one, shimmer-thin and razor-sharp.

She pulled it out and laid it across the bed.

Tomorrow, they’d see a woman who was untouchable, unmoved, perfect.

Even if it killed her.

The flashes hit the second the door cracked open.

Rio stepped out first, tall and effortless in a sharp, tailored midnight-blue tux with satin lapels. Not too feminine, not too masculine, just Rio. Cameras roared her name like a wave.

She didn’t flinch. Just turned, offering a hand.

Agatha took it.

Her gown was silver. Not soft silver, this was a liquid blade. The kind of dress that caught the light and cut it back. Her hair was swept into an elegant twist, her lips were wine dark, and her gaze, when it hit the cameras, was pure challenge.

Together, they looked devastating. Not cute. Not flirty. Iconic.

The crowd outside the velvet rope surged. Paparazzi screamed their names in tandem like a headline that was already written: “HARKNESS & VIDAL STUN AT ‘EIDOLON’ PREMIERE.”

Agatha’s hand rested lightly in the crook of Rio’s arm. The contact was just enough. Practiced intimacy.

“You good?” Rio murmured, eyes ahead, camera smile razor-bright.

“Thrilled,” Agatha replied under her breath. “Nothing like being devoured alive in Valentino.”

They stepped into the battlefield.

Every angle had been discussed, every beat rehearsed. Stop at the third mark. Smile. Pose. Rio turns in toward her, Agatha lifts her chin slightly. Chemistry. Elegance. Calculated proximity.

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either.

“How long have you two been official?” One photographer shouted.

“Are we finally seeing Hollywood’s new power couple?” Another added.

“Agatha, did Rio really make you laugh on set or was that method acting?” A third one screamed.

Agatha’s smile sharpened. She leaned closer to Rio and said softly, “Ready for your Oscar in performance art yet?”

Rio didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you’re presenting it in that dress.”

That one got captured: Agatha laughing, head tilted back, Rio looking at her like nothing else existed. It would be on every entertainment blog by morning.

Publicists beamed from the sidelines.

Behind the performance, Agatha felt her ribs tighten. This wasn’t acting, not entirely. That’s what made it dangerous.

As they stepped inside, leaving the shouting behind, the din muffled by thick doors and polished grandeur, Agatha exhaled slowly. Composure reset.

The moment the heavy doors closed behind them, the volume dropped. What replaced it was no quieter, just more refined. Music curled through the air like perfume, and every surface gleamed with curated expense. Crystal, velvet, soft lighting meant to flatter.

Agatha knew this game well. She played it better than most.

She felt Rio’s gaze flick to her again, curious, quieter now. But neither of them said anything.

Not yet.

Her heels clicked against the marble with purpose as they entered the reception hall. She nodded at a few producers, dipped her chin toward a director she didn’t particularly like, and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing tray without pausing her stride.

Rio kept pace at her side, less polished, but no less magnetic. She was already drawing stares, some admiring, some calculating. A few questioning. Everyone knew who she used to be. The question was what she'd become.

“Try not to punch anyone,” Agatha murmured, sipping. “Especially not with your charm.”

“I only swing when provoked,” Rio answered dryly. “But I’m flattered by your concern.”

Before Agatha could reply, a sleek man in an even sleeker suit intercepted them, Howard Stark, her director. Smiling too widely.

“Agatha. You look,well. Devastating.”

“Howard,” she said, smile thin. “You do know how to greet a woman.”

“And this must be Rio Vidal,” he added, eyes flicking over her tux with a degree of surprise he failed to hide. “The woman of the hour. You made quite the entrance.”

Rio shook his hand with the kind of grip that was polite but not soft. “I’ve been practicing walking in front of flashing lights. How am I doing?”

Howard laughed, clearly unsure whether she was joking. “You’ll learn. Stick close to Agatha.”

“Oh,” Rio said, deadpan. “I plan to.”

Agatha sipped her champagne to hide a smirk.

The next half hour unfolded like clockwork. Interviews. Smiling for photos with producers. The staged conversation with the screenwriter. Compliments floated through the room like champagne, effervescent and mostly empty. Rio shadowed her but never clung, just close enough to suggest intimacy, never enough to confirm it.

And that was the problem. People were watching.

Agatha could feel the eyes pressed against her skin, invisible but unmistakable. 

At one point, near the grand piano, a Variety reporter slid beside her with a notepad already half-filled. “Ms. Harkness, congratulations on Eidolon, the early reviews are stellar. Can I ask, was the chemistry between you and Rio already present before tonight, or did something change?”

Agatha didn’t hesitate. “Chemistry’s a funny word, isn’t it? It implies you’re not doing anything at all.”

The reporter blinked, clearly trying to decide if that was confirmation or deflection.

Rio leaned in, smiling lazily. “I didn’t take chemistry. I was more of a physics girl.”

The remark was welcomed by laughter and scribbles on the pad.

The reporter thanked them and moved on. The second she was out of earshot, Agatha muttered, “You’re enjoying this.”

“Only when you’re uncomfortable,” Rio murmured back. “Which is, surprisingly often.”

Agatha glanced away, trying not to smile. “Stop making me laugh. It’s bad for the narrative.”

“You’ll live.”

And yet. The longer the night dragged on, the heavier the performance became.

A few rooms away, the actual screening had already begun. She was expected to join before the third act. Sit in the center row, watch herself cry in 4K, pretend it still moved her.

She didn’t want to go in yet.

Instead, she stepped away from the crowd for a moment, toward a side alcove lined with books no one would ever open. Rio followed, quietly, like she didn’t even think about it.

Alone for a moment. Almost.

Agatha turned to her, voice lower now. “Is it weird that I forgot I was good at this part?”

“Which part?”

“The illusion. The theater of it. The way we all sell each other stories and drink about it later.”

Rio looked at her for a long moment. “No,” she said finally. “What’s weird is how good it looks on you. Even when it’s not real.”

Agatha met her eyes. Something slow and tight pulled between them. Real, or rehearsed, she didn’t know anymore.

She cleared her throat, just once. “Let’s get back. People will wonder where we went.”

Rio didn’t move immediately. She stood there for a beat longer, watching Agatha, a faint smile curving her lips, half-teasing, half something else. “Let them,” she said softly, almost as if it was an invitation.

Agatha’s eyes flickered toward the door, where the muted sounds of the screening pressed at her. She took a deep breath, then another, steadying herself for what was next.

They couldn’t hide forever.

With a final glance at Rio, Agatha pushed herself back toward the crowd, ready to step back into the performance, if only for a little longer.

The weight of the evening pressed down on her again, but this time, it didn’t feel so suffocating. Rio was there, just a breath behind her, and for reasons Agatha couldn’t name, that made all the difference. 

The screening room was grand, bathed in soft golden lighting that made the sleek, darkened walls feel more intimate than they were. Rows of plush seating stretched before a massive screen, where Agatha’s face, haunting, pained, beautiful, was already broadcasted in high-definition.

The buzz was louder here. The audience murmured in excitement, glasses clinking, the smell of expensive perfume mixed with buttered popcorn. The hum of anticipation felt like an electric charge in the air.

Agatha’s heels clicked on the floor as she entered, the last person to arrive, arriving late on purpose. The room quieted for a moment, then erupted into applause.

The applause wasn’t for her arrival. No, they were already clapping for the film. But the sound didn’t feel any less directed at her. The star. The face.

She stood at the entrance for a beat longer than she intended, eyes scanning the sea of faces, searching for the comfortable distance she’d always kept between herself and the chaos of Hollywood. There was none.

This was it. The moment they would see her raw on screen.

Agatha forced a smile and walked toward the empty seat at the center. Her team had arranged it all for her. And yet, she could already feel the weight of the room pressing in from all sides, the artificial warmth of every gaze making her skin prickle.

She sat, her back straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the screen even though she had seen the film a hundred times in the editing room. She didn’t want to watch it tonight.

She didn’t want to feel it tonight.

A polite murmur of appreciation from a few rows back as the credits began to roll. The applause was expected, a courteous acknowledgment of the people involved in bringing it to life.

But the moment the lights flickered back on, Agatha felt the rush of eyes on her, as if everyone was waiting for her reaction. Her skin burned under the weight of their expectations, but she didn’t let it show. Not entirely.

She clapped, a reflex, mechanical.

And then she glanced to her side, catching the calm, steady gaze of Rio, sitting just two rows behind her. Despite the chatter, despite the excitement, Rio was watching her, like she knew.

Agatha didn’t break. She kept her eyes on the stage, but the faintest edge of discomfort softened her features for just a second.

Rio saw it.

She leaned forward, just a little, watching Agatha closely. It was the first time she’d seen her so exposed in public, so untethered. Agatha’s carefully constructed composure was slipping, just barely, and Rio could feel it.

Agatha barely registered the applause when it came again, louder now that the film had officially ended. The room cheered, clapped in appreciation for the performance, for the film, for everything.

And then came the questions, an assistant kindly offering her a microphone.

A reporter stood from the front row. “Agatha, you’ve been praised for your breathtaking performance in Eidolon. What was it like to portray such a layered, emotionally raw character?”

Agatha’s smile was tight but practiced, the kind of smile that suggested she was at ease, even when her heart was beating faster than she wanted it to. “It was a gift. A challenge, of course. But one I was grateful to take on. Working with such a talented cast was a true honor.”

The questions continued, each more predictable than the last. Agatha answered them with the precision of someone who had said these words before. Polished, rehearsed, controlled.

But the whole time, she felt Rio’s eyes on her. She could feel them, steady and quiet, cutting through the noise like a lighthouse in a storm. Rio wasn’t just watching. She was listening. Watching for every tiny crack, every unspoken thought.

Agatha didn’t dare glance back, not yet.

But Rio wasn’t about to leave it there. After the next round of questions, she stood up, her easy movement attracting attention.

“Agatha,” Rio said, her voice effortlessly carrying across the room, “I hope you’re enjoying the attention, because it looks like you're being mobbed.”

The room laughed, a ripple of soft amusement, but there was something genuine in Rio’s voice. She wasn’t just playing up the moment. It was a subtle shift, genuine concern hidden in humor.

Agatha allowed herself to laugh too, but it was short, tight, almost a huff. She stood and turned, catching Rio’s eyes across the room. The energy between them crackled briefly, more tension than amusement.

“You know I hate the attention,” Agatha replied, voice low, a little too pointed. “I prefer it when the cameras are off.”

“And yet,” Rio teased, stepping toward her, “you always manage to look so damn good when they’re on.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, but this time, there was no rehearsed answer. No clever retort. Just a tired smile, the exhaustion from the day taking its toll. "You're impossible," she muttered.

Before she could say anything else, someone else approached, another reporter wanting to squeeze in a few last questions. The room buzzed with polite chatter. Agatha braced herself, straightening her posture, slipping back into her role.

But Rio... Rio stayed right there, watching her. Observing her in a way no one else could.

As the next round of questions began, Agatha forced herself to listen. Rio was still there, like a shadow behind her. But for the first time, the woman beside her didn’t feel like a calculated move in a game. She felt like something real.

And maybe, just maybe, Agatha didn’t mind that so much.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. More smiles, more flashes, more scripted answers to questions she’d heard a hundred times. Through it all, Rio stayed close. Not too close. Just enough.

Eventually, the crowd began to thin. The premiere shifted into afterglow, champagne flutes half-empty, laughter too loud, compliments stretched a beat too long. The part where everyone pretended not to be exhausted.

That was her cue to leave.

The car pulled up to the side entrance of the theater, sleek and silent, the driver stepping out before they even reached the door. Agatha barely heard the end of the final thank you, the interviewer’s voice already fading behind her like background static. She was done. At least for tonight.

Rio opened the door for her without a word. Agatha slipped inside, the hem of her dress brushing against the leather seats. A moment later, Rio followed, settling beside her with the kind of relaxed ease Agatha had never been able to fake.

The silence inside the car was cool, a reprieve from the heat of the lights and endless pleasantries. The door shut. The city blurred past. Neither of them spoke.

Agatha leaned her head back and closed her eyes for a second. Just a second. “Well,” she said finally, voice hoarse with fatigue, “that was a circus.”

Rio glanced at her. “A glamorous circus. With better wine.”

Agatha snorted, half-laughing. “Barely.”

A few more blocks passed in silence. Outside, flashes still blinked from the sidewalk, fans and photographers chasing someone else now. The spotlight had moved on.

Agatha turned to look at Rio. “Thanks for… staying. Through all that.”

Rio shrugged. “Wasn’t a hardship.”

Agatha’s lips quirked. “Still. You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Rio said, soft and easy. “That’s why it matters.”

The car slowed to a stop in front of Agatha’s house. She didn’t move right away. Neither did Rio.

There was something hanging in the space between them. A little tension none of them was able to quite place.

Finally, Agatha reached for the door handle. “Goodnight, Rio.”

“Agatha.”

She paused.

“Get some sleep,” Rio said, her voice lower now, warmer. “You’ve got to look convincingly in love with me tomorrow.”

Agatha huffed, but her smile was genuine. “Terrifying.”

“Only if you overthink it.”

“I always do.”

She stepped out into the night without another word, the door shutting behind her. The car didn’t pull away immediately.

Rio watched her walk up the steps, watched the key slide into the lock with a slight tremble of tired fingers. Watched her disappear inside.

Then, and only then, the car pulled off into the city, leaving the glow of the spotlights behind them.

The rented house was all glass and quiet wealth, perched high enough above the city that you could almost pretend the chaos below didn’t exist. Morning light poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, golden and soft, the kind stylists dream of and PR teams pretend is effortless.

Agatha was already in hair and makeup when Rio arrived, late, as always, unapologetic as ever. She wore a half-buttoned shirt and the kind of smile that looked good on magazine covers and like bad ideas.

“Morning, darling,” Rio drawled as she passed, her fingers trailing lightly across Agatha’s shoulder like it was muscle memory.

Agatha didn’t look up from her mirror. “You’re forty-five minutes late.”

“You look like I’m right on time.”

The stylists didn’t blink. They’d been warned.

The shoot began with safe poses, sitting side by side, leaning against a wall, smirking like they were in on some delicious secret. They were both good at this. Too good. Agatha’s stillness. Rio’s lean. The kind of visual tension editors fought over.

Then came the suits.

Cream on Agatha. Charcoal on Rio. Custom tailored, sharp enough to cut glass. The photographer’s voice shifted from polite to breathless. “Now let’s try something more intimate. Just… stand a little closer. Yes, like that.”

Agatha felt the fabric of Rio’s jacket brush hers. A shoulder pressed against her back. Close enough to count eyelashes.

“Great. Now look at her—no, don’t pose. Just… look.”

Rio did. Slow. Intent. Her gaze held Agatha like gravity, like something steadying and dangerous all at once.

Agatha almost forgot to breathe.

The camera clicked, but neither of them flinched.

Rio didn’t smirk this time. She didn’t tease or tip her head like she usually did when the tension got too thick to ignore.

She just looked.

Like she saw through the lens, through the lights, through Agatha.

Agatha turned her head slightly. Not enough to meet it fully, but enough to feel the weight of Rio’s attention pull at her jawline, her spine.

“What?” she asked, voice barely audible.

Rio’s mouth curved, but not into a smile. Something quieter. Warmer. “Nothing,” she said. “Just... listening.”

“To what?”

“Whatever it is you’re not saying.”

Agatha looked away then. She had to. The camera clicked again.

The photographer made a satisfied noise. “Perfect. Don’t move.”

But they already had.

A half-step back. A breath too deep. The air shifted. So did something else. Something unnamed.

The stylist called for a reset. Someone offered water. The moment cracked like ice in a glass.

Rio stepped away first, letting her fingers brush lightly against Agatha’s wrist, just once, just enough.

Neither of them spoke.

Then the kitchen.

It was staged to feel effortless, sunlight pouring through a frosted window, casting quiet geometry across pale countertops. Light wood. White tile. A few scattered props: an open cookbook, a half-sliced pear, a coffee mug with a strategically faded lipstick print.

Agatha stood with one hip resting against the counter, a mug in hand, posture loose in a way that felt rehearsed but looked natural. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves cuffed just enough to suggest comfort, not carelessness. The kind of detail only a stylist could perfect.

Still, the moment felt real. Quiet. Almost personal.

She dipped her chin slightly, breathing in steam from the mug, letting her eyes fall half-lidded.

Then, without cue or warning, Rio stepped into the frame.

Not loudly. Not performing. She moved like someone who had done this a thousand times before, entered a kitchen like it belonged to her, like the woman standing inside it did too.

She came up behind Agatha with a presence that didn’t demand attention so much as draw it.

There were no directions given. No poses called. And Rio didn’t ask.

She simply slid her hands into place, lightly at Agatha’s hips. Not pressing. Not gripping. Just resting there, as if to say: Here I am. Here you are.

Agatha didn’t move. Didn’t need to.

She felt the warmth of Rio’s body align with hers, familiar and dangerous all at once. The brush of breath against her temple. The steady anchor of those hands.

“Hope I’m not stepping on your moment,” Rio murmured, voice low, like the camera wasn’t even there.

“You always are,” Agatha replied, just as quiet, not trusting herself to look over her shoulder.

The air felt suspended, the whole room silent like they had leaned in.

The photographer didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

The camera clicked.

Once. Twice. Over and over.

They didn’t speak again. They didn’t need to.

Rio’s thumb traced the edge of Agatha’s blazer absentmindedly, grounding and easy. Like she’d done it before. Like she’d wanted to.

When they finally stepped apart, it felt like the scene should be cut to black. But instead, the sunlight kept pouring in.

And the space between them didn’t quite reset. 

The SUV pulled away from the studio in a hush, the city moved outside the windows in flashes. Billboards, traffic lights, streaks of sun across steel and concrete. But inside, the car was still.

Quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just… still.

Agatha sat back against the leather seat, hands resting in her lap, her phone untouched beside her. Beside her, Rio scrolled absently, thumb moving with the slow rhythm of someone not really absorbing anything.

Their knees touched. Not bumping. Just leaning, pressed together like gravity had made a choice.

Neither of them shifted.

The silence stretched, soft around the edges.

Agatha exhaled through her nose, slow and even. “That didn’t feel fake.”

Her voice was quieter than she meant it to be.

Rio didn’t look up from her phone. “It never really does, does it?”

That landed heavier than it should have.

Agatha didn’t answer. Just blinked once, twice, then turned to the window. Watched a bus roll past. A mural blur into nothing.

She told herself it was the lighting. The moment. The echo of the camera flashes still clinging to her skin like glitter.

She didn’t let herself ask what it would mean if it wasn’t.

The car kept moving. Neither of them moved away. 

Agatha woke to the faint, insistent buzz of her phone somewhere near the edge of the nightstand. It was still dark enough in her bedroom to pretend the world could wait. She almost let it. Almost.

Instead, she rolled over, slow and heavy, the covers dragging behind her like a second skin. Her phone lit up before she even touched it, notifications stacked like bricks, vibrating with that quiet kind of urgency only the internet could manufacture. She squinted against the screen’s glow.

VOGUE.COM – Exclusive:
“Agatha Harkness and Rio Vidal Are More Than Co-Stars: Inside Their Electric Off-Camera Chemistry”

The image hit her first, bright, sun-washed, too intimate to be faked. She blinked once, twice.

There it was: the kitchen shot.

Her leaning against the counter, hair loose, mug in hand, chin tilted just so. Rio behind her, arms resting at her hips, gaze quiet and close like it belonged there. Their bodies fit together like memory. Like a habit. Like home.

Agatha stared.

There was a softness in her own eyes she didn’t remember giving the camera. Something unguarded. Vulnerable. Something that shouldn’t have made it past her usual armor. But it had. And now it lived online, undeniable, immortal, dissected by strangers in real time.

Twitter had already detonated.

#Agathario was trending internationally. Clips from past interviews were being stitched together, shared glances, offhand jokes, a stray compliment slowed down and looped with violin covers in the background.

There were fan edits, threads titled “how they look at each other, a thread”, people drawing diagrams of body language like this was forensic evidence of something holy. One caption caught her attention: “This isn’t chemistry. This is history.”

She stared at the screen until the image blurred.

A part of her, deep, cynical, long-trained, wanted to scoff. To remind herself that it was all curated. Staged. Strategically lit with precision. Just another chapter in the fiction they'd agreed to sell.

But another part… the quieter one… couldn’t look away.

Because there it was.

Her hand curled loosely around the coffee mug, body relaxed into the warmth behind her. Rio’s expression is not flirtatious, not theatrical, just present. Steady. Like she'd been there before. Like she'd never left.

And Agatha—Agatha looked like someone loved.

She hadn’t meant to.

Her phone buzzed again. A text this time. Rio.

Rio Vidal: I didn’t know we looked like that.

The words sat on her screen, too careful to be casual. She waited, her thumb hovering over the keyboard, already feeling that twinge in her chest. Not panic. Not yet. Just… ache. Something blooming slow and wide.

Another buzz.

Rio Vidal: You made it easy.

Agatha exhaled sharply, and it surprised her, how much pressure she’d been holding in her chest without realizing it. She didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t.

She set the phone down on the comforter beside her, screen still lit.

The photo stared back at her. So did the idea of herself in it. A version of her that looked open. Soft. Someone who might be held. Wanted. Maybe even trusted.

It scared her.

Not because it was a lie. But because she wasn’t sure if it was.

That image wasn’t selling anything she hadn’t already started to feel.

And worse, she’d felt it before the photo. Before the campaign. Before the first staged whisper on the carpet. Somewhere between their shared espresso and the way Rio always left the room half a second slower than she had to.

Agatha lay back against the pillows, one arm flung over her eyes.

The world could scream about them all it wanted.

She needed a moment to mourn the fact that she didn’t know if she wanted to keep pretending it was all a performance.

And somewhere under the ache, quieter, but louder in its own way, was the terrifying truth:

She didn’t want to.

She had to.

The suite was too beautiful to be temporary, glass walls, city lights like scattered stars, sleek furniture designed more for statement than comfort. But it was still just another stop on the press circuit. Another night of pretending.

Agatha had kicked off her heels the moment they walked in. Her gown was folded neatly across the back of a chair, traded for sweatpants and a worn shirt with a faded neckline. Her makeup was gone. What remained was tiredness, and the kind of rawness that only came at the end of a long day spent being watched.

Rio had changed too, black joggers and a loose tee, sleeves pushed up. She’d made a mess of the coffee table already: script pages, half a cheese plate, two glasses of wine, hers almost empty, Agatha’s untouched.

The TV was on low, muted. Background noise. They weren’t really watching.

Agatha was curled into the corner of the couch, her legs stretched out in front of her, loose manuscript pages across her lap. Rio sat on the rug, back against the coffee table, one knee up, wine glass balanced easily in her hand. Her voice was slow and even as she read Agatha’s lines aloud, low enough to sound like something unraveling in the quiet.

“You can’t keep pretending nothing’s changed.”

She didn’t exaggerate the delivery. Didn’t perform it. Just spoke it. Plain. Honest.

Agatha’s eyes weren’t on the page anymore.

She was watching Rio.

The slope of her shoulders, the tension in her throat as she swallowed another sip of wine. Her mouth around the words. Too careful. Too familiar. Like she knew exactly what they could mean in the wrong room.

Rio looked up, catching her.

“What?” she asked, a half-smile on her lips.

“Nothing,” Agatha said quickly, flicking her gaze back to the script. “Just thinking.”

“Mmm,” Rio hummed, unconvinced.

A beat passed. Then two. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It never really was anymore.

Agatha’s feet shifted, half absently. Without looking, Rio reached down and caught them. Adjusted them into her lap like it was second nature, like it had always belonged there. No hesitation. Just touch, casual enough to pass, deliberate enough not to be. 

Neither of them commented on it.

The scene on the page ended, but Rio didn’t move. She kept the pages in her hand, but her fingers had stopped turning them. Her free hand rested lightly against Agatha’s ankle now, thumb grazing her skin in a motion so absent it could almost be ignored.

Almost.

Agatha’s heart thudded once, hard. Then steadied.

“You’re good at that,” she said finally.

“At reading?”

“At… slipping under people’s skin.”

Rio smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Only yours.”

The moment stretched again, taut and glittering.

Outside, traffic buzzed. A siren wailed in the distance. The wine already forgotten.

Agatha didn’t pull her feet away. And Rio didn’t stop touching her.

They were still pretending, technically. The world thought it was logistics. A joint suite for travel ease. Two beds, one schedule, nothing more.

But the script had already started to fall apart.

Line by line.

Look by look.

And no one had called cut.

Eventually, the lines blurred on the page. The script slid off Agatha’s lap, forgotten, and the wine sat half-finished between them, their conversation tapering into something weightless.

Rio stretched first. A low sound in her throat, followed by the crack of her shoulders. “We should sleep,” she said, though her voice didn’t carry any real intent.

Agatha hummed, eyes still on the ceiling. She wasn’t tired, not really. Just... full. Buzzed in a way that had nothing to do with the wine.

They stood at the same time, brushing against each other in the narrow space between couch and coffee table. Not touching, but close enough to feel the heat rise between them. Neither said anything about it.

The suite’s bedroom was dim and quiet. Two beds, crisply made and much too far apart.

Agatha disappeared into the bathroom first, and when she returned, hair pinned back, Rio was already beneath the covers, one arm folded behind her head, scrolling through something on her phone. She looked up when Agatha crossed the room.

“Night,” Rio said softly.

Agatha hesitated by the edge of her bed. Then nodded. “Night.”

She slid under the covers, rolled onto her side and faced the wall.

The lights went out.

Silence settled, thick and humming.

Minutes passed.

Neither of them slept.

Agatha’s eyes stayed open, fixed on nothing. Her body still carried the shape of the evening, Rio’s voice reading her lines, the press of her feet in Rio’s lap, the look they hadn’t spoken about but couldn’t shake.

She wondered if Rio was still awake. Wondered if her breathing was as uneven. If her thoughts were tangled in the same knot.

Across the room, Rio exhaled. Not loudly. But not quiet enough to ignore.

Agatha closed her eyes tightly, like it might shut out the gravity between them.

It didn’t. 

The panel was halfway through.

The stage lights cast everything in soft gold, the kind meant to flatter rather than expose. Laughter echoed as one of the moderators wrapped up a question about stunts and costume design, pivoting with a grin.

“And of course,” she said, leaning forward like she was letting the crowd in on a secret, “we can’t not talk about chemistry. I mean… come on. Those scenes between Rio and Agatha practically lit the screen on fire.”

A ripple of whoops from the audience. Phones raised. Flashing.

Agatha offered a practiced smile. She leaned into her microphone, already assembling the words, something disarming but clever, something that acknowledged it without giving anything away.

“Well,” she began, crisp and measured, “I think good chemistry on screen comes from—”

But her voice caught, just for a second.

Rio wasn’t looking at the audience. Or the moderator. Or even the camera.

She was looking at her.

Head tilted slightly, eyes steady and soft. No amusement. No smirk. Just attention, undivided and unguarded.

Agatha blinked.

The words faltered in her mouth, a pause so brief it could’ve been mistaken for breath, but she knew it wasn’t. She slightly adjusted, just enough.

“—from trust,” she continued, voice a little quieter now. “And… timing. And being present with each other, no matter how many takes it takes.”

She glanced sideways. Didn’t mean to.

Rio hadn’t looked away.

The moderator nodded, oblivious. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. The fans can’t get enough.”

Laughter again. More flashes.

Agatha gave another smile. This one was a little less precise.

Inside, her heart tapped against her ribs, not hard, but pointed. Like a reminder.

The panel moved on. The conversation turned elsewhere.

But Rio’s gaze lingered.

And Agatha… let it. 

The applause hadn’t stopped for five full minutes.

They stood under the sweeping arches of the Sala Grande, surrounded by the roar of a crowd that had just watched Eidolon for the first time. The lights were up, the credits still scrolling behind them, but the audience didn’t care. They were on their feet, clapping, cheering, whistling.

Agatha stood beside Rio, their hands brushing but not quite touching.

She wasn’t used to standing ovations. Not like this. Not the kind that felt like they were for her, not the film, not the work, not the veneer. She kept her face composed, jaw relaxed, smile neutral. Polished. But inside, her nerves were raw wire. The movie had landed. Hard. She could feel it.

Next to her, Rio radiated calm, her expression open and easy. She wasn’t clapping along like some of the others on stage, she was just standing there, hands folded in front of her, accepting the moment without needing to shape it.

A chant broke out somewhere in the center of the audience.

Soft at first. Then louder. Playful. Rhythmic.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Agatha stiffened. It was the kind of crowd moment that started online and bled into real life. The kind of thing fans shouted at conventions or wrote in all-caps under edited pictures.

Rio leaned slightly toward her, just enough that her lips were almost at Agatha’s ear. Her voice was low, laced with something warm and unhurried.

“We could shut them up.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. Her brain scrambled for a response, witty, dismissive, cool, but none of them landed. Instead, she turned, already half-facing Rio, like gravity had made the choice for her.

Rio’s eyes searched hers, waiting.

And then, without another word, she leaned in.

The crowd erupted before their lips even touched.

But the sound faded.

Because the second Agatha closed the distance, something changed.

It was supposed to be for the cameras. For the noise. A cheeky, practiced brush of lips and exit stage left.

It wasn’t.

Rio’s hand lifted, cupped the side of Agatha’s jaw with careful precision, thumb resting just below her ear. No force. No performance. Just… presence.

And the kiss itself was soft. Intentional.

It didn’t crash. It settled, a press of mouth to mouth that was steady and quiet and most importantly real in a way Agatha hadn’t prepared for.

She felt herself responding before she had time to think. Her body tilted forward, lips parting just slightly, not for show, but for closeness.

The heat that passed between them wasn’t fireworks. It wasn't a performance.

It was something older. Familiar. The kind of heat that doesn’t spark, it glows.

They pulled apart slowly, not with the abruptness of a staged gesture, but like it hurt a little to stop.

Rio smiled faintly, still close. Her thumb brushed the edge of Agatha’s jaw.

Agatha didn’t say anything. She couldn’t.

The crowd, of course, lost its mind.

Hours later, the afterparty hummed with music and the flashes of cameras. Everyone wanted a comment, a quote, a wink. People swarmed. Publicists maneuvered. Hashtags ballooned.

#Agathario was trending in thirty-seven countries.

Agatha didn’t stay long. She said the right goodbyes, shook the right hands, smiled for one last photo, then slipped away.

Her suite overlooked the Grand Canal. Gold light shimmered across the water, the city still echoing with the energy of the night.

She kicked off her heels, unzipped the gown, and let it puddle on the floor like something shed.

The silence wrapped around her like bandages, tight, pressing, hard to breathe through. 

She poured herself a glass of water from the mini bar. Sat on the edge of the bed to let herself feel it.

The kiss.

Rio.

The way it hadn’t been fake.

Her phone buzzed. She ignored it. Then another. And then a knock at the door.

She didn’t move for a moment. Then—

“Yeah?” she called, voice more raw than intended.

“It’s me,” came Rio’s voice, soft through the door. “Just me.”

Agatha stood to put on her silk robe before she crossed the room and opened the door.

Rio didn’t push her way in. She waited.

Agatha stepped aside.

The door shut behind them with a soft, final click.

For a long moment, they didn’t speak. Just stood there in the half-light.

“You didn’t have to sell it that hard,” Agatha said finally. Her voice was quiet. Not accusing. Just… thin around the edges.

Rio tilted her head. “I wasn’t selling anything.”

The words were simple, but they landed like an open hand against skin.

Agatha blinked at her. “Then what were you doing?”

Rio exhaled. Not exasperated. Just real.

“Letting myself feel something,” she said. “And hoping you might feel it too.”

Agatha swallowed. Her throat was dry. “That’s not the deal.”

Rio stepped closer. Not touching. Just nearer.

“I know,” she said. “But you kissed me back.”

Agatha’s jaw tightened. “Because there were hundreds of people watching.”

“You didn’t kiss me like that for an audience.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was full. Like something could spill from it at any moment.

Agatha looked away. “We shouldn’t… blur it.”

“Too late,” Rio said, soft. Not cruel. Just honest. “We’ve been blurring it since the first day in makeup trailers.”

Agatha’s eyes flicked back to hers, searching for something solid to hold onto.

“What do you want me to say?”

Rio’s answer came without hesitation.

“Tell me if it was real for you too. Even if it scared you.”

The words cracked something open in her chest.

Agatha didn’t answer. Not yet. She stepped past Rio, paced to the window, and looked out at Venice glowing under starlight.

Her fingers curled around the curtain edge, needing something to hold. Her voice, when it came, was measured. Controlled. A different kind of armor.

“Isn’t it better,” she said carefully, “if we don’t name it?”

Rio stayed still. Watching. “Why?”

“Because naming it makes it harder to walk away from when this ends.” She glanced back, not meeting Rio’s eyes. “And it will end. We both know that.”

The silence that followed was quieter than the city below them. It wasn’t a pause, it was a shift. A line drawn, whether Agatha meant to or not.

Rio’s shoulders moved with a slow breath. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Agatha forced a small smile, brittle around the edges. “You didn’t really ask one.”

Rio let out a soft laugh, but there was no amusement in it. Just ache. She nodded once, neither acceptance or surrender, or maybe a bit of both, it was hard to tell.

“Okay,” she said. No push. No fight. Just that same quiet steadiness she always carried.

She walked to the door, pausing before she opened it.

“Te veo,” she added, without turning back.

Then she was gone.

The room felt colder when it shut behind her.

Agatha didn’t move. She stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where Rio had been. Her reflection caught in the glass was barely visible. Dimmed. Distant.

A version of herself she didn’t recognize anymore.

She wished she had said yes.

But she didn’t.

And in the morning, she would act like none of it had ever happened.

The distance didn’t come all at once. It crept in, soft and strategic, like Agatha was preparing for a war no one else had declared.

She stopped replying to Rio’s late-night texts, not with cruelty, but with quiet. With that kind of silence that could be excused as busyness, exhaustion, bad signal. The kind that left nothing to fight against.

When their publicist suggested joint interviews, Agatha declined.

When a fan asked at a con if they’d be attending the next premiere together, she offered a polite smile and said her schedule was uncertain.

She was seen alone at two back-to-back events.

A magazine shoot was canceled. “Scheduling conflicts.”

She skipped the wrap party for the re-shoots. Didn’t even send a message.

And when Lilia cornered her after a script read, eyes narrowed in that way that meant she knew too much, she asked the question she’d been avoiding for weeks:

“You’re not actually falling for her, are you?”

Agatha let out a breath that tried to sound like a laugh. “Of course not.”

She nodded. Didn’t push. But she could feel the doubt in her silence as she turned away.

That night, her phone lit up again.

Rio Vidal: You okay?

Rio Vidal: You don’t have to talk. Just say if you’re alright.

She didn’t answer.

The next day, Rio posted a photo from Venice. Not the kiss, but the two of them walking down the red carpet. Side by side. Their hands just barely brushing. Agatha had forgotten the photo even existed.

The caption was simple: “What a night.” Nothing else.

The comments spiraled instantly. Hundreds. Thousands. Everyone wanted to know what was happening between them. The kiss. The silence that followed. The way Rio hadn’t shown up alone since. The way Agatha had.

And then came the gala.

They hadn’t spoken in days, but they were both on the guest list. Agatha arrived late. Eyes forward, dress immaculate, smile sharp. Rio had already been there for an hour.

The press swarmed the moment she walked in, flashes popping like firecrackers. Someone shouted from the edge of the barricade:

“Are you and Rio serious?”

Agatha didn’t hear Rio’s reply, only felt the shift in the room, the pivot of every gaze.

Later, she found her backstage, heels off, leaning against a catering table with a half-empty glass in hand.

“You said something to the press,” Agatha said. It wasn’t a question.

Rio looked up. “Yeah. I said, ‘Ask her.’”

Agatha’s jaw clenched. “Why would you do that?”

Rio blinked slowly, like she was seeing something unravel in real time. “Because I’m tired of pretending this only exists when someone else is holding a camera.”

Agatha looked away, arms folded so tightly across her chest they ached. “We agreed what this was.”

“No,” Rio said, stepping forward. “We agreed what we’d tell them. You and I? That’s never been clear, has it?”

Agatha opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Rio’s voice dropped. “Tell me it meant nothing to you. Say it.”

Agatha looked at her then, and something in her eyes wavered, but the words still came.

“It was never real.”

It hit the space between them like a slap. But Rio didn’t flinch. Not this time.

She just nodded. Quietly. “No,” she said. “It just mattered too much for you to admit it.”

Agatha’s throat worked, but no words came.

And Rio walked past her.

The crowd outside roared for someone else. A different pair. A new headline.

Agatha stayed in the shadow of the curtain. Silent.

And alone.

Time didn’t stop after the gala. It just moved differently.

Agatha filled hers with noise. Filming. Press. Endless rewrites. Things she could control, or at least pretend to. She answered every call except the ones that mattered. Declined interviews that mentioned Rio. Turned down panels. Claimed scheduling issues. Her team parroted the script with efficiency.

She told herself it was distance. Necessary. Professional.

But silence stretched into absence. And absence felt a lot like punishment.

Meanwhile, Rio didn’t chase. She showed up when work required it, flawless, unreadable. Still gave good press, still smiled, still laughed when the cameras rolled. But something in her presence had shifted. A new stillness. One that didn’t reach out anymore.

They weren’t speaking. Not really. Not beyond what was necessary. Not beyond the script.

And god, Agatha felt it.

The space between them was loud now. Heavy with things unsaid. Every room they shared crackled with unfinished sentences. One breath too long. One glance too sharp. There were no new texts. No half-teasing jokes at 1 a.m. No hands on her back in greenrooms. No soft looks across interviews.

But Agatha still caught herself watching.

Watching Rio when she wasn’t looking. Listening harder when Rio answered questions, trying to read what wasn’t being said. Searching for softness and finding professionalism instead.

The balance had shifted.

She’d built walls to stay in control, and in doing so, she’d lost the one person who saw her without them.

And Rio… Rio had handed her something honest. Raw. Had let herself mean it. And Agatha hadn’t just dropped it, no, she had stepped back like it burned her.

Now, all that remained was tension and silence. And somewhere behind it all, something real they’d both tried to sell but hadn’t managed to fake.

The fallout wasn’t loud. It wasn’t messy. It was worse.

It was quiet.

And it hurt.

The room was dark, except for the pale light of Agatha's phone screen, a bluish glow casting long shadows across the sheets tangled around her legs. She lays on her side, unmoving, as clips auto-played through her social feed, old interviews, behind the scenes montages, fan edits overlaid with piano covers.

Every few seconds, her own face flickered into view. A practiced smile. A knowing smirk. Her voice, polished and clever. The camera loved her. It always had. But it wasn’t her the fans had fallen for. Not really. It was them.

Agatha and Rio.

In some press clips, they laughed like they hadn’t rehearsed it. In Q&As, Rio leaned toward her just slightly, unconsciously. In slow-motion red carpet videos, they stood just a breath too close. Not enough to be scandalous. Just enough to be remembered.

She didn’t remember half of it.

But watching it now, stripped of the noise and context, she could see it. The pattern. The thread. The way her eyes softened around Rio. The way Rio looked at her when she wasn’t looking. None of it was a performance. Not really. The chemistry they’d sold had been borrowed from something deeper, something neither of them had dared name.

She hadn’t meant to spend all night watching. But now it was nearly dawn, the sky just beginning to bruise with early light, and the video loop was still running.

Another clip loaded. A panel from a few months ago. Rio was mid-answer, talking about character development and the power of nuance, and Agatha was just watching her. Mouth slightly parted, brow furrowed in thought. Unaware of the camera. Unaware of anything except the woman next to her.

Pause.

Agatha stared at her frozen expression on screen. She didn’t recognize the version of herself there. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was the problem. That woman had let herself want something. And now?

Now she was alone in a cold bed with nothing but videos.

She unlocked her phone and scrolled up through old texts.

Rio Vidal: Let me know when you stop feeling like pretending.

That had been weeks ago. She hadn’t answered.

She thought she was protecting herself. Maybe protecting them both. She thought space would dull it. Silence would cauterize the wound.

But here it was. Still raw.

She looked at the time.

4:47 AM.

It was ridiculous. Reckless. A terrible idea.

She grabbed a hoodie from the back of her chair and shoved her feet into sneakers, keys clenched tight in her fist, full of resolve. She didn’t bother with makeup. Didn’t draft a speech. She just drove.

Rio’s apartment building was still wrapped in an early morning hush when she arrived. The kind of stillness that made everything feel fragile. Like anything spoken here might carry more weight than it should.

Agatha stood in front of the door longer than she’d meant to, hand raised but not knocking.

She didn’t even know what she wanted.

Closure?

Forgiveness?

Just to see her?

The door opened before she knocked.

Rio, barefoot, hoodie tugged over her tank top, blinked at her with surprise that faded too fast into something neutral.

“Hey,” Rio said. No edge. Just soft confusion. “Are you okay?”

Agatha didn’t answer right away. She stepped back, suddenly afraid that she just made everything worse. But Rio didn’t close the door.

“Can I come in?”

Rio nodded and stepped aside. “Yeah. Of course.”

The apartment was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of a lamp in the kitchen. It smelled like coffee and cedar wood. The way Rio always did.

Agatha stood just inside the doorway, her hands in her hoodie pockets, unsure where to look.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said finally.

Rio didn’t sit. She leaned back against the counter, arms crossed loosely.

“Did something happen?”

Agatha laughed, sharp and dry. “Yeah. A while ago. And I pretended it didn’t.”

Silence.

Then:

“You mean the kiss?”

Agatha looked at her. Really looked.

“No,” she said. “I mean everything. The shoot. The late nights. You, learning my lines just because you liked the way I read yours. The way you always looked at me like you were seeing something I didn’t know I was showing.”

Rio exhaled slowly.

Agatha took a step forward.

“I came here because I can’t keep pretending it didn’t mean anything. Because I miss you. I miss... the version of myself that existed when I was with you. Less guarded. Less cold.”

Rio didn’t interrupt. Her eyes stayed steady, unreadable.

“And I know I fucked it up,” Agatha continued, her voice beginning to fray. “I know I said it was just a performance, and I let my fear get loud enough to drown everything else. But that kiss? That was real. It scared me, and I ran, and I made you feel like none of it mattered.”

Rio’s brow furrowed, but her voice stayed calm.

“Why now?”

Agatha swallowed hard. “Because I watched the way I looked at you when I wasn’t pretending. And I realized I don’t want to be without that version of myself. I don’t want to be without you.”

A pause. A long one.

Then Rio stepped forward, slow, careful.

“You don’t have to prove anything tonight,” she said. “But I needed to hear that. And I need to know this isn’t just guilt talking.”

Agatha shook her head. “It’s not. It’s clarity.”

They didn’t kiss.

Not right away.

They sat on the couch, close but not touching. Talked about the last few weeks. The silence. The ache. The weight of wanting more than the narrative allowed.

And then, slowly, as the sun bled into the sky and the city stirred awake, Rio reached over and took her hand.

Agatha turned to her, and the kiss that followed wasn’t for anyone else. No cameras. No crowd.

Just them.

And this time, there was nothing to sell.

Only something to finally hold on.

Golden light hit the carpet like a spotlight from heaven.

It spilled across velvet ropes and designer gowns, caught in the glitter of borrowed diamonds and the practiced smiles of industry darlings. Camera flashes popped like gunfire. The noise was a wall, cheers, questions, the low, pulsing murmur of celebrity spectacle at full pitch.

Agatha stood at the edge of it.

For a second, she didn’t move. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just… awareness. That this was the moment people would replay in loops and gifs. The moment that would rewrite every red carpet before it.

Then she felt Rio’s fingers slide into hers. Grounding. Certain. Real.

She looked up at her. And Rio was already looking back.

There was no performance left between them.

No carefully timed glances. No sly smiles meant for the tabloids. Just the steady, quiet intimacy of two people who had finally stopped pretending there was nothing to claim.

They stepped forward together. Not side-by-side. Not staggered like costars arriving from different cars. Hand-in-hand, like it had always been that simple. Like it should have been.

The carpet buzzed with awareness. First confusion. Then recognition. Then that wave of awe, the kind that always came with authenticity no one could fake.

“Is that—?”

“Oh my god—”

“They’re holding hands—”

They didn’t pose right away. They didn’t need to.

Agatha glanced at Rio, eyes soft with the kind of affection that once used to scare her. Rio gave her the smallest nod. Not for the cameras. For her.

And just like that, Agatha leaned in and pressed a kiss, slow, certain, unmistakable, to Rio’s cheek.

Click. Click. Click.

A thousand shutters captured it. Every frame the same: Agatha smiling gently as she pulled back. Rio looking down at their hands like they were the safest place on earth.

There was no whisper campaign left to fuel. No speculation to stir. They weren’t offering mystery anymore. Just the truth.

They stopped for one round of questions, only one. Their publicist hovered close, tense at first, until she realized there was nothing left to guard. The story was walking itself.

A journalist, somewhere near the front of the crowd, leaned forward and raised her microphone.

“So,” she asked, voice clear, “was it real all along?”

Agatha opened her mouth, then paused.

This time, she didn’t reach for the perfect line. She didn’t calculate the headline it might create or the spin someone would slap onto it. She didn’t deflect.

She turned to Rio.

Rio smiled. Not wide. Not showy. Just enough to say, We’re here. You can say it now.

She brought their joined hands up slightly, not raising them, not showing off. Just anchoring.

“We just stopped acting somewhere along the road,” she said.

And that was it.

That was the quote.

It traveled faster than the image. Faster than the speculation. It detonated online with the weight of a truth people had already felt in their bones but needed permission to believe.

Agatha didn’t look at the reporters.

She looked at Rio.

And for once, she didn’t wonder what came next.

Whatever it was, they’d get there together.

The city blurred outside the window, gold and black. Glitter still clung to Agatha’s collarbone like punctuation marks from a night that had rewritten everything.

The car was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t ask to be filled. Just breathed.

Her heels were somewhere near the floor, abandoned the second the door shut behind them. The train of her gown was tucked over her legs like a second skin. Between her and Rio sat a half-empty bottle of champagne, cradled in a towel, condensation beading like it had secrets of its own.

Agatha let her head fall gently to Rio’s shoulder.

Not staged. Not for show. Just muscle memory now.

Rio didn’t flinch. She shifted slightly, so Agatha fit better, and then let her cheek rest against the top of Agatha’s head.

They didn’t speak for a while.

The driver hummed along to some soft jazz on the radio. The city slid by.

Finally, Rio said, low and half-laughing, “Think they’ll still care in a month?”

Agatha didn’t lift her head. Her voice came muffled, relaxed. “I don’t care.”

Rio smiled without looking down. Let the words sit between them like heat.

Another pause.

Then, softer this time, less amused, more careful, Rio asked: “What about next time?”

Agatha’s breath caught a little. Not from nerves. Just from how real the question was. How much weight it carried beneath the easy tone.

She turned her face slightly, enough to glance up at Rio under the low glow of the passing streetlights.

“Next time,” she said, “I’ll kiss you before they ask.”

Rio’s gaze flicked to hers. Just for a second.

Then she reached for Agatha’s hand and linked their fingers together, slow and sure.

“Good,” she said, and it wasn’t thoughtless. It was everything.

Outside, the world kept spinning. Tweets kept flying. Headlines refreshed. Speculation ballooned and collapsed under its own weight.

But in the backseat of the quiet car, the story was already over.

They weren’t trying to be a moment anymore.

They were just them.

And that was more than enough.