Acting The Part

Chapter 18: Caleb

Three weeks passed in a blur, like I'd been living someone else's life. And in a way, I guess I had been.

It was all part of the plan—Caleb and Megan, the perfect couple, parading around like we were madly in love. And we were doing a damn good job of it.

Too good, honestly.

Every day was another carefully orchestrated scene. We hit every trendy restaurant, walked through every paparazzi-filled street, and visited every high-profile event we could get our hands on. It was like clockwork.

We'd show up, act all sweet and affectionate, and then let the media eat it up. It was easy at first—just pretend. But the more time we spent together, the more I started to wonder if I was pretending at all.

The first week started off simple enough. We had lunch at a café in the middle of downtown, a place I knew was crawling with photographers. The second we sat down, I could see the flash of cameras in the distance, the subtle click of shutters as they tried to capture us without being obvious about it.

Megan was sitting across from me, laughing at something I said, her eyes sparkling in the midday sun. She looked... happy. And that killed me.

It couldn't be real.

I reached across the table, brushing a stray hair from her face, and she smiled at me like I was the only guy in the world. God, she was good. She was a better actress than I gave her credit for.

But something about the way she looked at me made my chest tighten. I had to remind myself that this was just part of the game. A contract.

"Smile, Caleb," she whispered, leaning in closer. "They're watching."

I forced a grin, my thumb brushing against her cheek in what I hoped looked like a natural, loving gesture. "I'm always smiling when I'm with you," I said, playing along.

Her eyes flickered with something I couldn't quite place, and for a split second, I wondered if maybe she wasn't pretending either. But then she laughed and leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of her iced tea like she hadn't just thrown my mind into chaos.

The rest of that day went by in a haze of hand-holding and stolen kisses for the cameras. By the time we got back to my place, I was exhausted.

But it wasn't the public attention that drained me—it was the constant battle in my head. The back-and-forth of pretending not to feel something I wasn't supposed to feel.

The second week was even worse. We had a full schedule of events lined up—charity galas, red carpets, and even a couple of movie premieres. It was non-stop. The whole world was watching, and we were giving them exactly what they wanted.

We'd show up arm in arm, her head resting on my shoulder, my hand casually resting on the small of her back. And every time I touched her, it felt too good.

One night, we attended a black-tie event at some high-end hotel. Megan was wearing this red dress that hugged every curve, and for the life of me, I couldn't stop staring at her. It reminded me of when we first met.

She looked like she belonged on the cover of some fashion magazine, not hanging on the arm of a guy like me. But there she was, smiling and laughing like this was the best night of her life.

We posed for pictures, her body pressed against mine in a way that made it hard to think straight. I could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric of her dress, the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Every moment felt like a test of my self-control, and I was failing miserably.