Chapter 5: The Announcement Breaks the Internet
The silence after Matt’s call was a vacuum. Dee stared at her reflection in the salon mirror—the slight tremble in her hands, the uncertain set of her mouth. She had to move. Action was the only thing that would override the panic simmering in her chest.
She opened Instagram, her fingers hovering over the story icon. This was the point of no return. A broadcast. An invitation.
She typed slowly, deleting three drafts before settling on the tone: playful, dismissive, in control. Everything she wasn’t feeling.
tomorrow at 5 mr blue eyes granted your wish, he is coming.
She added a gif of a pair of scissors snipping. Hesitated for one more second. Then she posted it.
For a full minute, nothing. The studio was preternaturally still. She watched her own story tile sit there, a little bomb waiting to detonate.
Then her phone buzzed. Once. Then again. And then it simply didn’t stop.
The notification chime became a constant, frantic rhythm. The little red heart icon on her activity tab exploded into the thousands. Likes. Comments. Saves. Shares. Her DMs, already a cluttered jungle, turned into a screaming, neon-lit stadium.
OMGGGGG HE SAID YES?
IS THIS A DATE??
I TOLD YOU HE LOVES HER
$20 says he touches her waist during the live
He’s doing this to shut down the rumors, you idiots. It’s PR.
PR doesn’t look like THAT. Look at her eyes in that Paul Wesley video. That woman is GONE. And not for Wesley
Dee pls wear the green top it brings out your eyes!!
What are we calling this ship? Deett? Mattee?
She placed the phone face down on the vanity, but it buzzed against the marble, a trapped insect. The physical sensation of it traveled up her arm. She could feel the speculation, the hunger, the collective breath being held, as if it were a low voltage current running through the floorboards.
She stood up and walked to the window, trying to anchor herself in the ordinary sight of traffic, of people carrying groceries, of a life untouched by this. But her own reflection in the glass was superimposed over the street, her face pale, eyes wide.
The door to the studio opened and Liza walked in, this time holding her own phone aloft like a trophy. “And we’re off,” she said, her voice tight with victory. “Trending on Twitter. Three TikTok reaction clips have already hit a million views each. The algorithm is kissing us on the mouth.”
“It feels like a riot,” Dee said, not turning around.
“It’s engagement. Pure, uncut engagement. This is what we wanted.”
“You wanted it.”
Liza came to stand beside her, their reflections a study in contrast: Liza’s sharp, triumphant grin, Dee’s hollow stare. “Look, the terror is normal. It’s stage fright. But remember the script. You’re just friends. You’re casual. You’re proving the world wrong by doing the exact thing they’re obsessed with. It’s brilliant because it’s so simple.”
“What if we can’t do it?” The question slipped out, small and raw.
“Do what?”
“Pretend.” Dee finally looked at her. “What if we get on there and it’s… obvious?”
Liza’s expression softened into something approaching pity. “Honey, you’ve been pretending for years. You’re a professional. He’s an Oscar nominee. This is just a different camera.” She squeezed Dee’s shoulder, a brief, hard press. “Now, plan. Outfit? Hair? What’s the vibe? ‘Comfortable chic’ is my vote. You’re at work, but you’re gorgeous. He’s casual, but he’s Matt Bomer. We need to thread the needle.”
The next few hours blurred into a series of practical decisions that felt absurdly mundane given the circumstances. They picked out a soft, cream-colored knit sweater and dark jeans for her. “No green,” Dee insisted, thinking of the DM. They debated the background, adjusting the ring light, testing the camera on her phone. Liza ordered salads that neither of them ate.
All the while, the phone buzzed. An endless, external heartbeat.
As dusk painted the sky in violet streaks, Liza finally left, citing a conference call with a skincare brand. “Rest your voice. Hydrate. Don’t read the comments.”
The moment the door closed, Dee read the comments.
She scrolled through the tidal wave of text, a masochistic dive into the collective psyche. The support was overwhelming, smothering. The skepticism was sharp, cutting. The fantasies spelled out in detail by strangers were the worst—narratives of stolen kisses and confessed loves that felt like violations, because they tapped directly into her own secret, shameful dreams.
Her thumb froze on a comment from a user named @cinemascope: He’s not just doing this for her. He’s doing this to her. Watch the way he orbits her. That’s not friendship. That’s captivity.
A cold shiver, unclean and thrilling, went through her. She threw the phone onto the couch as if it had burned her.
The studio was dark now, lit only by the faint glow of streetlights outside. The scent of lavender from the diffuser was too sweet, cloying. She could still smell the ghost of his cologne on the velvet chair.
She walked over to it and sat down slowly, in the same spot he always occupied. She ran her hands over the worn arms, trying to see the room from his perspective. The mirrors, the tools, her. Always her, moving around him.
What was he doing right now? Was he anxious? Was he calm? Was he rehearsing his lines for their performance of friendship, just like she was?
The quiet answer came to her, unwelcome and clear: he was probably fine. This was just another day, another weird blip in the life of a famous man. She was the one whose entire world had tipped on its axis. She was the one who had everything to lose.
She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them in the dark studio. The countdown on her phone glowed from the couch: 20 hours, 14 minutes, 07 seconds.
The live stream wasn’t tomorrow. It had already begun. Every silent moment between now and 5 PM was just another scene, and she was already on stage, alone under the lights, waiting for her co-star to step into the frame and decide both their fates.