Love is the quiet miracle of existence, a force both fragile and unyielding.
It is the hand that steadies you in the storm, the warmth that lingers when the world feels cold, and the promise that whispers: you are no longer alone.
To have it, truly have it, is to feel as though the universe itself has folded into your arms, as though nothing more is needed.
For when love arrives, it gives more than companionship—it gives purpose, belonging, and a sense of eternity.
To love and be loved is to hold everything one could ever desire.
*
The sun, fading into a soft coral glow, spilled through the half-open curtains of the beachside villa, bathing the room in a golden haze. Two men stood at the center of it all, clothed in matching white linen trousers, their bare chests pressed together as if even a breath of space between them might break the spell of this moment.
One was tall, with hair the color of dark honey, tousled from the ocean breeze, his skin sun-kissed and glowing. His eyes—deep, green, and unwavering—shone with both tenderness and triumph.
The other, slightly shorter, carried an elegance of his own. His black hair fell just above his eyes, framing a face so radiant with joy it seemed carved from sunlight itself. His lips curved in a smile, trembling as though still in disbelief that what they had fought for, dreamed of, and nearly lost…was finally theirs.
Their arms locked tighter around each other, their hearts racing as if still caught in the chase that had brought them here.
“I can’t believe it,” the dark-haired one whispered, his voice low, trembling, reverent. “We did it. After everything—the fights, the tears, the endless nights wondering if it was worth it—we made it. This moment belongs to us.”
The taller man rested his forehead against his lover’s.
“It was always worth it. Every scar, every battle, every sacrifice. Because it led me to this—to you, standing here, with me, as my husband.” His voice cracked at the last word, filled with awe and unshakable certainty. “We’re married now. Nothing can take this away from us. Nothing.”
The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with truth, until the shorter man let out a soft laugh choked with emotion, tears glimmering in his eyes.
“Husband,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was the sweetest wine. “I love you. I’ve loved you long before today, long before I even admitted it to myself. And I’ll love you for every tomorrow we’re given.”
“I love you too,” came the reply, fierce and unyielding, as though sealing a vow. “I loved you the first moment I saw you, and I’ll love you until the stars burn out.”
Then, as if summoned by destiny itself, the first notes of Michael Bolton’s Soul Provider floated into the room from the small speaker left on the nightstand. The music wrapped around them like an embrace, amplifying the raw tenderness in their hearts.
They kissed—softly at first, tentative, like a sacred prayer. Then deeper, urgent, as though making up for every second they had been denied. Fingers traced backs, clutched shoulders, held tighter still, as if they might disappear should they let go.
Between kisses, their whispers spilled out like confessions:
“You’re mine.”
“Always yours.”
“No one will ever break us again.”
“We fought too hard for this.”
“And we deserve it.”
The music swelled, the chorus rising like the ocean outside their window, and in that moment the world fell away. There was no past, no fear, no pain—only the taste of love, the rhythm of their breathing, and the knowledge that they had reached the forever they once thought impossible.
*
“How sweet!”
The cry ripped through the quiet little living room, full of tremor and sincerity. The couple on the TV screen kissed passionately as Michael Bolton’s voice soared in the background, their silhouettes framed by rolling credits.
On a ragged couch, hunched forward with hands clasped to his chest, sat a young man in his early twenties. His name was River. His dark brown hair, messy and shoulder-length, stuck out in strange angles as though it had fought a pillow and lost. Round spectacles slid down the bridge of his nose, magnifying his teary eyes that glistened like someone had poured the ocean into them. His lips quivered as he stared at the screen with such devotion you’d think he was watching history being made.
River wasn’t the type to care for appearances. He was the embodiment of nerdy chaos: faded pajama bottoms, an oversized t-shirt with a stretched collar, and socks that didn’t match—one striped, the other plain. His nose reddened as he fumbled for a crumpled tissue, loudly blowing into it before dramatically dabbing at his tears.
“Oh my God!” he cried out again, voice cracking like a bad violin. “That was so beautiful! Why can’t love like that happen in real life?” His sobs echoed like a broken accordion, so loud and pitiful it sounded almost comedic.
From the other room, a male voice suddenly thundered, irritated:
“RIVER! For God’s sake, it’s late! Go to sleep and stop making all that noise!”
River froze, his body stiff, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. Then, with the desperation of someone caught stealing cookies, he yelled back,
“S-Sorry!” His voice cracked again, and he sniffled, lowering his cries into tiny hiccuped whimpers.
“But it was so beautiful…” he whispered softly to himself, still blotting his eyes. “When am I ever gonna get a dose of my own love story, huh?” His gaze lingered on the now-black screen, haunted by the echoes of romance he had just witnessed.
For a few more seconds, he sat there, hugging a pillow to his chest as if it might deliver him that missing affection. Then, sighing dramatically, he shuffled to his small room and collapsed onto his bed with all the flair of a tragic hero. He had just finished binge-watching seven straight episodes of the soap opera, his heart swollen with the love story it had poured into him.
Finally, sleep began to tug at him. His eyelids grew heavy, his breaths slowed, and he surrendered to the softness of his pillow. He was drifting—floating—when it came.
A sound.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
River groaned, frowning.
“Ugh, stupid dream.”
But when he turned his head, reality struck like a slap. His alarm clock sat glowing mercilessly on the nightstand: 7:30 a.m.
His eyes widened.
“No… no, no, no! This can’t be true!” he croaked. He grabbed his pillow, pressed his face into it, and screamed with the kind of fury only a sleepless, heartbroken binge-watcher could muster.
“Just five more minutes,” he pleaded with himself, collapsing back into the sheets.
But five minutes later, when he cracked one eye open and glanced at the clock, the red digits screamed back at him: 8:07 a.m.
“NOOO!” he bellowed, springing out of bed like his mattress was on fire. He stumbled, snatched his towel, and in a frenzy, tied his hair bonnet crookedly on his head before bolting for the bathroom.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the city, the morning sun spilled into a different world entirely.
A luxurious apartment stretched like something out of a magazine—marble floors, glass walls, silk curtains. In the center of it, a queen-sized bed draped in satin sheets, and sprawled across it, the silhouette of a man.
The alarm clock by his bedside chimed softly. Without even opening his eyes, a long, strong arm reached out lazily and silenced it. He turned on his back, revealing his face: sharp jawline, smooth bronze skin, lips full and perfectly shaped. His dark lashes fluttered as he finally opened his eyes—deep, magnetic, and dreamy, the kind that could undo anyone with a glance.
He rose with unhurried grace, swinging his legs out of bed. Dressed only in a pair of fitted boxers, his body was sculpted, defined in all the right places. Yawning, he padded into the sprawling bathroom, stepped up to the toilet, and—still half-asleep—relieved himself with his eyes closed.
Back in River’s world, chaos reigned. He dashed into his bathroom, tripping over the doormat and nearly kissing the floor. Cursing under his breath, he stripped off his clothes in one violent swoop and jumped into the shower. The water cascaded down his thin frame as he scrubbed at himself furiously with the nearest cloth, yelping each time the soap stung his eyes.
“Why did I watch seven episodes?!” he scolded himself out loud, voice muffled under the spray. “Seven! I should’ve stopped at three!”
At the very same moment, in the luxurious apartment, the handsome stranger stepped into his marble-tiled shower, the rainfall fixture releasing a steady, warm stream. He leaned one muscular arm against the wall, head bowed, as the water poured over him, washing away the remnants of the wild night before—alcohol, laughter, whispered names, tangled sheets. A satisfied smirk curled his lips as he let the water massage his temples.
River, meanwhile, shot out of his shower dripping and frantic, tugging on the simplest outfit he could find: a pair of black jeans, some old t-shirt, and sneakers with frayed laces. In his hurry, he toppled onto the floor with a loud thud, groaning before scrambling back up. He passed a comb once—just once—through his messy hair, shoved his spectacles onto his face, and grabbed his bag.
The other man—serene and collected—walked back into his lavish bedroom, dressing slowly, deliberately. A crisp, casual-smart shirt hugged his frame, paired with sleek trousers. His hair was combed immaculately, his skin glowing, his confidence undeniable. He slid a Rolex onto his wrist, admired his reflection in the full-length mirror, and gave himself a small, satisfied nod.
River stormed out of his small house, waving frantically as he chased after a bus. He managed to leap inside, panting, hair still damp, his glasses fogging slightly. Yet, a relieved grin broke across his face—he had made it. He still had time.
The other man stepped into his sleek car, the engine purring to life as he pulled onto the road with effortless grace.
One bus rattling along with a nerdy dreamer clinging to hope.
One luxury car gliding smoothly with a man who had everything—or so it seemed.
Two worlds, hurtling unknowingly toward each other.
***
The air in the studio was heavy with the mingling scent of cologne, sweat, and ambition. Two men sat behind a polished oak table, their eyes darting lazily between the models parading one after the other under the dimmed lights.
Zayn Monroe leaned back in his leather chair, legs crossed casually, his shirt collar slightly undone, Rolex glinting under the spotlight. His dark hair was combed neatly, every strand in place, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. There was an effortless authority about him, the kind of presence that made people look twice, but it was his eyes—dark, assessing, often cruelly playful—that revealed the man who enjoyed being in control.
Beside him sat Xavier Torres. Taller, broader, with an easy charm that balanced Zayn’s sharper edge. His sandy blond hair was styled with relaxed care, his blue eyes gleamed with amusement, and his smile seemed to put people at ease—even when he, too, was dissecting them like a product for the market.
Together, they were the force behind Monroe & Torres, the city’s once-thriving advertising and modeling agency. Now, however, their empire teetered at the edge of ruin, bills piling higher than offers. The next cover model of their magazine wasn’t just about aesthetics; it was survival.
Hours passed as model after model strutted in: sculpted bodies, bronzed skin, pouts rehearsed in mirrors for hours.
Zayn’s lips curled often.
“Turn around. Slower. God, you’ve got an ass that could sell wine to a priest.”
Xavier chuckled, eyes roaming another man’s torso.
“That chest. If you could bottle that, every gym membership in the city would go bankrupt.”
They flirted openly, sometimes cruelly, sometimes teasing, blurring the lines between business and indulgence. Fingers brushed against toned arms, lingering over abs as they pretended to check form, their voices heavy with suggestive undertones.
“You’re sexy enough to stop traffic,” Zayn drawled at one, his fingers grazing the man’s jaw.
Xavier smirked at another, leaning forward.
“I’d buy anything you’re selling. God, you’re trouble in the best way.”
On and on it went, hours of bodies and bravado, until the final audition ended. The last model left, leaving the room quieter, their energy ebbing.
Zayn stretched, running a hand through his dark hair.
“Some of those bodies… Christ. If we don’t save this company, at least we’ll have some sweet memories.”
Xavier laughed, shaking his head.
“Mixing business with pleasure—that’s you in a nutshell.”
They sat there, commenting idly on pecs, jawlines, how tight a waist looked in jeans. Both men leaned back in their chairs, exhaustion mingled with amusement.
Then the door creaked open.
A figure stepped inside—small, timid, almost fragile against the confident men who had just passed through. He looked young, probably early twenties, with messy shoulder-length hair tucked behind his ear and round glasses sliding down his nose. He clutched his bag tightly, his posture stiff with nerves.
River.
“H-Hello,” he stammered, voice trembling under the weight of two sharp gazes.
Xavier offered a polite nod, though curiosity flickered in his eyes.
“Hello there. What are you doing here?”
River swallowed hard, adjusting his glasses.
“I… I came for the auditions.”
For a beat, silence. Then Zayn chuckled. It wasn’t kind.
“Don’t make jokes like that,” he said smoothly, his dark eyes roaming River’s awkward frame. “Even if you were here for auditions, you wouldn’t get the job. You don’t look like a model.”
The words slashed through the room, cutting sharper than a blade.
River’s spine stiffened, a shiver racing down it. He clutched his bag tighter, his knuckles white.
“I—I know I don’t look the part,” he admitted softly. “But I believe I could do it. I… I’ve worked as a model before.”
Zayn exhaled heavily, almost bored, before flicking his wrist dismissively.
“We don’t have time for this. The auditions are over. Maybe you can try for janitorial staff—” he laughed, the sound low and cruel.
Xavier frowned, swatting his arm lightly.
“Zayn.”
“What?” Zayn smirked, lifting his hands as if innocent. “I’m being honest. Look at him. No agency would hire him. Sometimes telling the truth helps people. At least he’ll know his lane.” He leaned forward, his voice like venom wrapped in silk. “The streets weren’t meant for everyone. That’s why sidewalks exist.”
The blow landed. Hard.
River’s chest constricted, a searing ache spreading through him. His throat burned, but he refused to let them see him break. Silently, he turned, gripping his bag like a lifeline. His steps carried him toward the door—until something surged inside him.
He stopped.
Breathing deeply, his hands trembled as he turned back. He marched up to the table, slamming his palms down against the polished wood. The sound cracked through the air, startling both men.
Zayn’s brows arched, surprised.
River’s voice shook, but it carried fire.
“Do you know how rude you are? How inconsiderate?” His chest heaved. “What—because I’m not good-looking like the others? Because I’m not appealing to you sexually?”
“Listen—” Zayn began, but River cut him off, voice rising.
“I was a fan,” he spat. His eyes burned behind the glasses, his messy hair falling into his face. “I admired your work. I thought you were brilliant. But after this?” His voice cracked, pain lacing every word. “You’re nothing but a dick. And let me give you some advice: don’t judge a book by its cover. Because sometimes the story inside is more powerful than the pretty face you’re drooling over.”
His breaths came hard, ragged. He shook his head, muttering,
“God, I can’t believe I said that…” Then he snatched his bag and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.
The silence left in his wake was deafening.
Zayn blinked, stunned, then exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.
“What the hell was that?”
Xavier turned, narrowing his eyes.
“That was you being harsh. Too harsh. Sure, he wasn’t appealing like the others—but there are better ways to tell someone they don’t fit. You cut him down.”
Zayn raised his hands like surrender, his smirk faint but defensive.
“I said what I said. And I’m glad he got it. Better now than wasting his time.”
He leaned back, shrugging, pretending the moment didn’t cling to him. But before Xavier could argue further, Zayn’s phone buzzed on the table.
He picked it up, glanced at the screen—and froze.
All color drained from his face. His lips parted, but no sound came. His hand trembled slightly as his eyes scanned the message again.
“Zayn?” Xavier asked, leaning forward. “What is it?”
No reply.
Zayn finally lifted his head, his voice hollow.
“My brother…” His throat tightened, words escaping like ash. “He’s getting married.”
***
River’s footsteps echoed softly down the dimly lit hallway of the management building, the polished tiles beneath his shoes gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His phone was pressed tightly to his ear, his younger sister’s voice filling the silence of the corridor. She spoke quickly, her tone tinged with worry.
“River, the bills are piling up again. The rent’s almost due, and Dad’s medication—” she hesitated, her voice breaking slightly, “we’re almost out.”
River slowed, dragging his hand through his thick dark hair, frustration pressing heavily at his temples. His chest tightened with the weight of her words. He exhaled sharply, forcing calm into his tone even though inside he was unraveling.
“I know, Ellie. I know,” he muttered, his voice low. “I’m doing my best, alright? Things are just… too hard right now. But listen—” he stopped at the corner of the hallway, lowering his voice as a pair of lecturers passed, “I’ll find something. Anything. I promise you, I will.”
There was a pause on the other end, her silence filled with unshed tears.
“Do we have any food left at home?” he asked softly, almost dreading the answer.
“Barely,” she admitted, her honesty cutting through him like glass. “Just some rice. And bread from yesterday.”
River closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose as though that could hold back the sting of helplessness.
“Okay,” he said finally, forcing resolve into his voice. “I’ll call you later. Just… hang in there, Ellie.”
He cut the call before his own emotions betrayed him. The phone lowered from his ear, but he didn’t move. He stood frozen in the hallway, his head bowed, the crushing weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders. At just twenty-one, he felt twice his age.
His father’s face flickered in his mind—lined with pain, weakened by years of toil in the mines before his body betrayed him. Seven years since the heart condition began, seven years of decline. Now, surgery was no longer optional. It was survival. And River—brilliant, hardworking, top of his law class—felt powerless. If not for the scholarship, he would never have even made it this far. Without it, he was nothing but a boy with dreams too heavy for the empty pockets he carried.
Drawing in a deep breath, he straightened himself. He couldn’t afford to fall apart here. Not now. Not when every second counted. He smoothed his shirt, knocked lightly on the office door, and almost instantly heard the deep voice inside:
“Come in.”
He plastered on a polite smile, his signature mask, and pushed the door open. The room smelled faintly of paper and coffee. Behind a wide oak desk sat a man in his early fifties, spectacles perched on his nose as he stared intently at the glow of his computer screen. His hair was graying at the temples, his expression serious but not unkind.
“Good afternoon, sir,” River greeted, his voice steady.
The man glanced up and nodded.
“Afternoon. Have a seat, Mr. Alfonso.”
River sank into the chair opposite, clutching his file a little too tightly in his hands.
“Thank you.”
The administrator leaned back, folding his hands together, patient.
“What brings you here?”
River cleared his throat, rehearsed words tumbling from his lips.
“Sir, I came to clear something up. I received a text on my student portal. It said I needed to clear about forty percent of my tuition fee… otherwise I’ll be deregistered.” His voice wavered slightly on the last word.
The man nodded, confirming.
“Yes. That’s school protocol.”
River leaned forward, confusion mingling with desperation.
“I understand that, sir. But I’m on a full scholarship—one hundred percent. Don’t my sponsors cover that? There must be some mistake.”
The man’s gaze sharpened. He studied River quietly for a long moment before asking,
“You didn’t receive any email?”
River frowned, his heart lurching.
“What email?”
The man hesitated, then sighed heavily, removing his glasses as though the weight of the words required his full sincerity.
“Mr. Alfonso… I’m sorry to tell you this, but the company sponsoring you is experiencing some severe financial problems. They’ve stopped funding scholarships for the time being.”
The words slammed into River’s chest like a physical blow. His heartbeat stuttered, then thundered in his ears. His mouth went dry, his thoughts scattering into chaos. He blinked, but the man’s lips moved soundlessly now, the explanation dissolving into static.
Stopped… funding?
The phrase repeated over and over in his skull, each echo sharper than the last. He couldn’t breathe. His future—his lifeline—was unraveling right in front of him. If the scholarship was gone, then everything was gone. His studies, his father’s hope, his family’s chance at stability—all gone.
His mind spun out of control, conjuring dark scenarios. He’d be deregistered. He’d return home a failure. His father, waiting for treatment, would only grow weaker. His sister, carrying the weight of despair, would break under it. And River? What was left for him?
The man’s voice cut faintly back through the fog.
“Mr. Alfonso?”
River blinked, coming back to himself with a jolt. His eyes burned. His chest ached.
“S-Sir,” his voice cracked, trembling. “What… what am I going to do? I don’t have a dime to my name. Exams are in a month.”
The administrator’s face softened. His tone carried the weight of empathy, but also the blunt edge of reality.
“River, I understand what you’re feeling. I really do. It isn’t fair. But the university can only do so much. If you want to sit for exams, you’ll need to pay that forty percent. Otherwise…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m truly sorry.”
River swallowed hard, the lump in his throat nearly choking him. His lips trembled, but he forced out the words.
“Thank you… sir.”
He rose, every movement stiff and mechanical, and made his way out of the office.
The hallway outside seemed colder now, the fluorescent lights harsher. His legs carried him forward, though he barely felt them. With each step, his mind screamed for escape, for this moment to be nothing more than a cruel dream. He wanted to wake up, to find the scholarship still intact, his family fed, his father’s medicine cabinet full. But reality wrapped around him like iron chains, unrelenting.
As he walked, his hand brushed against the wall for balance. His heart was still in his throat, pounding with fear, dread, and anger. All around him, the world moved on as if nothing had changed. But for River Alfonso, everything had.
This wasn’t just a setback. This was the kind of nightmare that swallowed lives whole. And he had no idea how to fight his way out.
***
The bar was warm and dimly lit, the low hum of chatter weaving with the soft clink of glasses. Zayn sat slouched against the counter, swirling his drink lazily, a faint flush on his cheeks. He wasn’t drunk, not yet, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue and weighted his body just enough to make him restless.
Across from him, Xavier leaned forward, watching him carefully.
“You should take it easy with that,” he said, nodding toward Zayn’s glass.
Zayn let out a laugh—one too sharp, too bitter to be carefree.
“Take it easy? When my entire life’s hanging on the line?” He tossed back another sip as if to prove his point.
“Stop acting dramatic,” Xavier replied, though his tone softened, a flicker of concern showing in his eyes.
Zayn chuckled again, this time darker, pressing his palm against the glass.
“Dramatic? You don’t get it, Xav. All my life, I thought I’d be rich. Not just comfortable—rich. I thought I’d die with more money than I’d ever know what to do with.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “I told you I had a falling out with my father… but that wasn’t even half of it.”
Xavier straightened, sensing the shift in his friend’s tone.
Zayn’s voice lowered, weighted by years of silence.
“When he found out I was gay, he tried everything to ‘fix’ me. He told me it was just a phase. Sent me to therapists. Tried to keep me away from my friends. But when he realized he couldn’t change me, he… snapped. He said gay people were nothing but degenerates who slept around, embarrassing their families and tarnishing their legacies.” Zayn’s lips twisted as though the words still stung, even now. “And then he looked me in the eye and told me he wouldn’t allow me to be his son until I gave up on this ‘nonsense.’”
Xavier’s throat tightened, his chest aching for his friend, but Zayn wasn’t done.
“My mother tried to reason with him. Begged him to forgive me. And you know what he said? He gave me a condition—an ultimatum. He said that if by the time my brother got married, I could prove him wrong… prove that I could be happy in a serious relationship with another man, then he’d forgive me. He’d let me inherit part of his wealth. But until then…” Zayn’s voice faltered. He swallowed and rubbed at his face. “He cut me off. The only thing I had left was the inheritance from my grandfather. It’s been four years, Xavier. Four years of silence. And now my brother’s wedding is here, and my father’s handing everything—everything I thought would one day be mine—over to him.”
For a moment, the only sound between them was the clinking of glasses down the bar. Xavier shifted closer, placing a hand on Zayn’s shoulder.
“Zayn,” he said quietly, his voice thick with sympathy, “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Zayn dragged both hands down his face, his laugh breaking into something closer to a sigh.
“I need that money, Xav. I need it to start over. But I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t even have… anyone. It’s too late.”
“It sucks,” Xavier admitted with a sigh. “I get it. It really does.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. They sat like that for what felt like an eternity—Zayn with his glass half raised, Xavier staring down at the counter, both lost in the storm of Zayn’s past and the bleakness of his future.
Then, suddenly, Xavier’s head snapped up, a glimmer sparking in his eyes. A slow grin spread across his face. He nudged Zayn’s arm with playful force.
“Wait a minute. I’ve got an idea.”
Zayn arched a brow, skeptical.
“What now? Don’t tell me you’re about to fix my tragic life with one of your schemes.”
Xavier’s grin widened.
“Hear me out. Your father said he wanted proof you could settle down. Be happy in a relationship. Prove him wrong about all the crap he said. Right?”
Zayn narrowed his eyes.
“Yeah. And?”
“And what if,” Xavier leaned closer, lowering his voice as though the thought itself was scandalous, “we gave him that proof? What if we found someone to pose as your long-term boyfriend? Or fiancé, even. Someone perfect. Someone who’d make your father believe every word.”
Zayn blinked at him, stunned.
“You’re saying I should… hire a fake boyfriend?”
“Exactly,” Xavier said, almost smug. “Think about it. It could work. He doesn’t need to know the truth. He just needs to believe it.”
Zayn leaned back in his chair, running his thumb along the rim of his glass. He thought about it—really thought about it—and then, slowly, he nodded.
“That… actually isn’t a bad idea.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Xavier shot back proudly. “And we’re in luck. We own a modeling agency, remember? We’ve got access to people who look the part. We can advertise discreetly, pick out the perfect candidate, and train him to act like he’s been in love with you for years.”
Zayn smirked faintly but shook his head.
“You make it sound easy. But my father isn’t just any man. He notices everything. Whoever we choose can’t just look the part. He needs to be the part. Well-behaved, down-to-earth, someone with actual manners. Otherwise, my father will see right through it.”
Xavier exhaled through his nose, nodding thoughtfully.
“You’re right. It won’t be easy. But we’ll make it happen. We have to.”
They both fell silent again, but this time the silence wasn’t suffocating—it was alive, humming with the weight of possibility.
Zayn tilted his head back, letting out a long sigh.
“If this works… maybe I still have a shot.”
“It’ll work,” Xavier said firmly, giving him a reassuring clap on the shoulder. He pushed back his stool and stood. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back—I need the bathroom.”
Zayn watched him disappear into the crowd, his glass still in his hand, his heart torn between doubt and the faintest glimmer of hope.
***
The hallway outside the men’s room was dim and smelled faintly of old wood and spilled liquor. River leaned against the wall, phone pressed to his ear, his voice soft but edged with desperation.
“Please,” he whispered, trying to keep his tone steady, though his throat felt tight. “I don’t care if it’s a loan, anything at all. I’m… I’m really in trouble. The rent is due, and my dad’s medicine—he can’t go a day without it. And now the scholarship’s gone, I don’t even know how I’m going to pay my tuition. Exams are next month…”
He listened, holding his breath, as the person on the other end responded. For a moment, he allowed himself a flicker of hope, his hand gripping his bag strap tightly. But then came the silence, followed by words that made his shoulders slump.
“Oh,” he muttered, voice small, nearly broken. “I see. Is that so?”
A beat of silence. His heart dropped like a stone in his chest.
“Thank you anyway,” he said, forcing politeness even though his insides felt like they were being crushed. He ended the call slowly, his thumb heavy against the screen, as if cutting the connection cut away the last piece of rope he’d been clinging to.
The phone slid into his pocket, and River leaned back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. He took a deep breath, then another, trying to keep the tears from spilling. His chest rose and fell too quickly, like his lungs had shrunk. He had come here because his friends insisted he needed a break, that maybe a night out would cheer him up. But it wasn’t working. If anything, the music, the laughter, the buzz of life all around him only made him feel more isolated.
Just when he thought the weight pressing down on him was going to suffocate him, a pat landed on his shoulder. He jumped violently, his whole body flinching. His eyes flew open, and he spun around.
And froze.
There, standing just a few feet away, was a face he instantly recognized—one of the men from earlier. One of the men who had sat in judgment, laughing while tearing his dignity to shreds.
Xavier.
River’s stomach twisted, his jaw clenching as his expression hardened.
Xavier raised his hands quickly, palms up in surrender.
“Easy,” he said, his tone calm, almost apologetic. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just… I couldn’t help overhearing your phone call.”
River’s frown deepened. He crossed his arms tightly, hugging himself as though to shield against more blows.
“What is this supposed to be?” he asked, his voice laced with annoyance. “Isn’t it enough that I got insulted this morning? Now you’re following me around, what, to add more insults?” He let out a bitter laugh. “What do you want from me—humiliation on repeat?”
Xavier took a cautious step closer, lowering his voice.
“No. That’s not it. Whatever happened earlier… it was a misunderstanding.”
River scoffed, his laughter harsh and sharp.
“A misunderstanding? Please. Your friend was pretty damn specific with his words. Don’t tell me I misheard him.” His eyes burned, not from anger alone but from exhaustion, from everything that had been piling on. He shook his head, stepping back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have far more important things to worry about than reliving that nightmare.”
He turned, ready to leave, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.
“Wait,” Xavier said suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise of the bar. “What if… what if I could help sort your financial problems?”
River stopped in his tracks. His body went rigid, the words lodging themselves into his mind before he could even process them. Slowly, he turned around, his eyes wide, searching Xavier’s face.
“What did you just say?” His voice cracked slightly, betraying both disbelief and a flicker of hope he couldn’t quite suppress.
Xavier’s expression was unreadable, though his tone carried a mix of hesitation and certainty.
“I said I can help you. With your money troubles. Your school. Your rent. Your dad.” He paused, then added carefully, “But… it’s not going to be something you’ll like. At least, not at first.”
River stood there, frozen, his mind spinning. A dozen possibilities flashed through his head—none of them making sense. His stomach knotted, his pulse quickening with both suspicion and desperate curiosity.
“What do you mean?” he asked finally, his voice quiet, almost wary.
Xavier studied him in silence for a moment, as though weighing how much to reveal right then and there.
“It’s… complicated. But I promise, it could solve everything for you. Every single thing.”
River swallowed hard, his throat dry. His hands trembled as he gripped the strap of his bag tighter, as if it were the only thing keeping him steady.
Part of him wanted to run—walk away from whatever this stranger was suggesting. Another part, the louder, more desperate part, couldn’t ignore the glimmer of possibility in Xavier’s words.
Standing there in the dim hallway, River wondered if fate had just delivered him a lifeline… or a trap.
***
The night air outside the bar was thick with the smell of beer, cigarettes, and the faint salty drift from the ocean not too far away. In the dim glow of the parking lot lights, three figures stood facing one another, tension crackling like static.
“What?!” Zayn’s voice exploded, carrying across the lot and making a few heads turn in curiosity before returning to their own drunken chatter. His sharp eyes darted from River to Xavier, disbelief written all over his handsome face. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not doing this.”
He jabbed a finger toward River, who blinked behind his glasses, startled but bristling.
“We already had a plan, remember? An audition. A real one. We’d pick someone suitable, polished. Not…” his hand flicked at River dismissively, “…this.”
River let out a bitter, humorless laugh, adjusting the strap of his bag like he needed something to occupy his hands.
“Well, that’s one thing we can actually agree on,” he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “There is no way in hell I’m going to pretend to be some spoiled brat’s boyfriend. Spend time with him? Please.”
Zayn’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He stepped forward, raising a finger in warning.
“Watch your tongue, four-eyes.”
River stiffened but didn’t look away. Zayn, though, turned back to Xavier, exasperated.
“It’s not happening. I won’t do it. My parents will see right through this nonsense. He’s not my type, Xavier, and we both know it.”
Xavier crossed his arms and exhaled slowly, his patience clearly thinning.
“That’s exactly the problem, Zayn—your type. You’ve always gone for the boujee ones, the perfectly groomed, the fashionable, the ones who fit the magazine covers. And where has that gotten you? Hm? Heartbreak. Headlines. Your father calling you a disgrace. You said you wanted to prove him wrong, show him you can make something real. That’s not going to happen with another glitter-dipped model who can’t tell a lie from a promise.”
Zayn scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically.
“And you think he is the answer?” He jabbed a finger at River again, who flinched but held his ground.
“Yes,” Xavier said firmly. “He’s humble. He’s grounded. He’s got the kind of presence your father would never expect. He won’t look like a façade, because he isn’t one. That’s exactly why he could work.”
River barked out a short laugh, bitterness etched in every syllable.
“Wow. You really know how to flatter someone, don’t you?” He shook his head, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His voice cracked a little, though he tried to mask it with disdain. “You know something? You put yourself on a pedestal so high, it’s a wonder you can even breathe up there. You act like the rest of us are beneath you, like we’re disposable. But newsflash—you’re the one begging for help. If you had options, you wouldn’t be standing here asking me, of all people, to play pretend with you.”
He shifted his gaze to Xavier, his jaw tightening.
“And yes, I’m desperate. But not desperate enough to get humiliated by your entitled little prince.”
Zayn sneered.
“Good. Then we agree. This isn’t happening.” He turned on his heel, ready to leave. “Let’s go, Xavier.”
River adjusted his bag and began walking in the opposite direction, heart pounding, shame clawing up his chest even though his words had been defiant.
“Enough!” Xavier’s voice cracked like thunder, snapping both men still in their tracks. He stepped forward, eyes blazing, the weight of authority pulling them back into place like children scolded for fighting in a playground.
“You two are acting like kids,” he snapped, his hand gesturing sharply between them. “Don’t you see what’s happening here? Zayn, you need someone who can ground you, who doesn’t care about flashing lights and magazine covers. Someone your father could actually believe. And River—” he turned, pinning the boy with a piercing look, “you need this. You think I didn’t hear your call? Rent overdue, no food in the house, your father’s medication running out, your scholarship gone. You’re drowning, and this could save you.”
River’s face paled, his lips parting slightly as if Xavier had just ripped the truth straight from his chest.
“Listen to me,” Xavier went on, softer now, coaxing. “Do this, and all of it goes away. You’ll have your tuition covered, your rent, your father’s treatment… everything. And when this is over, you’ll walk away with two hundred thousand dollars.”
The world stopped.
River’s breath caught in his throat, his knees nearly buckling. His mind flooded with the image of his sister smiling with relief, his father finally getting the surgery he needed, bills disappearing from the kitchen counter, food back in the fridge. Two hundred thousand dollars.
“I…” he stammered, his glasses slipping as he rubbed his forehead. His heart thundered in his chest. “I… I don’t know. That’s… that’s too much.”
“It’s exactly what you need,” Xavier said firmly.
River looked at Zayn, whose expression was still curled in disdain, as if the very idea of standing beside him was offensive. Something inside River snapped. He straightened his spine, adjusted his glasses, and with a shaky but determined breath, said:
“Fine. I’ll do it. But I have one condition.”
Both men stared at him.
“I want five thousand upfront,” River said, his voice surprisingly steady. “Before I set foot anywhere near your family, before I play this ridiculous role… I need security. Otherwise, I’m not doing it.”
For a second, there was silence. Then Xavier let out a laugh, shaking his head with a grin.
“Deal,” he said, slapping his friend lightly on the shoulder.
River, despite himself, felt a smile tug at his lips. The first real smile he’d managed in days. He glanced at Zayn, who groaned loudly, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck.
“Fine,” Zayn muttered, throwing his hands up in defeat. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he shot River a look. “It’s on, then. Get ready, baby.”
River froze, his smile faltering, heat rushing to his cheeks. Zayn smirked at his reaction, while Xavier chuckled low under his breath.
The parking lot felt charged with something unspoken, something dangerous, something about to unravel.
And somewhere deep in River’s gut, a question gnawed at him: What exactly had he just gotten himself into?
To be continued...
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