Demy's phone buzzed before the sun had fully climbed over the Athenian skyline.

Still tangled in sleep, she reached for it blindly, eyes struggling to focus as the screen lit up in the pre-dawn stillness.

Harry Styles: I love you. But you need to know—we're all over the internet. Be careful today.

Her heart kicked hard.

I love you.

It was no longer new between them—those three words. They'd already made a quiet home in her vocabulary, slipping into late-night phone calls, whispered between kisses, and texted across time zones. But still, it struck her differently this morning. Like a lighthouse beam cutting through an oncoming storm.

The warmth barely lasted a heartbeat before cold, creeping dread chased it away.

We're all over the internet.

The phrase flattened her, heavier than it had any right to be. Her stomach turned as she imagined headlines, screenshots, looping video clips. She tossed the covers off and sat upright, fingers frozen around the phone. She didn't need to open Twitter or scroll her feed. She knew. It had begun.

She moved like someone swimming through fog, pulling on her leggings and hoodie, stuffing her water bottle, in-ears, and a packet of tissues into her bag. Her Vespa keys clinked against her phone as she pocketed them. This was a morning for her a Vespa ride so she could escape easily. She'd always loved the calm of early morning Athens—quiet, golden, half-awake—but this morning, the silence felt unnatural. Like the breath before an earthquake.

She took the stairs down instead of the lift. Instinct.

But the second she pushed open the front door to her building, the tremor hit.

Flashbulbs exploded like firecrackers in her face.

"Demy! Did you spend the night with Harry?"
"Is this a PR stunt?"
"Smile, Demy—are you in love?"
"Are you dating him or just using him?"  

"Are you trying to make Akis jealous?"

The shouts came from every direction, a mess of Greek and English, aggressive and mocking, male and female voices overlapping into chaos. For one surreal moment, it felt like a game show buzzer going off inside her skull.

She blinked against the lights, ducked her head, and muttered, "Excuse me—sorry," as if politeness could buffer her from the spectacle. She bolted toward her Vespa. Her helmet was already clipped to the handlebars, and she snapped it on with shaking hands.

Then came the chase.

Two scooters with cameramen tailed her within seconds of pulling into the street. She wove through traffic, heart in her throat, trying to stay calm, but one of them cut across her front wheel, forcing her to swerve hard.

"Asshole!" she shouted, the word flying out before she could stop herself.

By the time she reached the rehearsal studio, her fingers had gone numb from gripping the handlebars too tightly. She didn't stop to think, just shoved her helmet under her arm and pushed through the back entrance, away from any reporters waiting near the front.

But the moment she stepped into the main rehearsal space, her breath caught again.

All eyes were on the TV.

A live panel from the Greek entertainment show Exclusives was broadcasting grainy photos of her and Harry at the awards ceremony. One clip had already looped three times—a fleeting shot of Harry touching the small of her back as he was leading her off the stage.

Onscreen, bold white text read:

GREEK STARLET SNARES GLOBAL SENSATION – DEMY & HARRY: STAGED OR SINCERE?

"Was it a chance meeting, or did she plan it?"
"She knew exactly what she was doing. She went after him."
"Look, she's talented, sure—but this? This is strategic."

The camera cut to a middle-aged man in an expensive blazer.

"She's pretty, but this is Harry Styles. She's not exactly an international name."

A woman beside him laughed.

"Until now."

"And great timing, right before the Eurovision song contest. Guess who the Harries are going to give their 12 points to?" 

Demy stood in the doorway, silent. Sweat clung to her back. Her mouth tasted of dust and fear. Her choreographer looked at her, guilty, as if he'd forgotten to mute the television in time.

Someone turned the volume down.

She forced herself to step forward. Her ponytail bounced with each step like it belonged to someone else.

"Well," she said, voice light, practiced, "at least they're spelling my name right."

A few people chuckled awkwardly. No one met her eyes.

She dropped her bag by the mirror, grabbed her water bottle, and stretched out her legs like it was just another Tuesday. But her limbs felt stiff and useless. Her mind was already a thousand miles away.

The first run-through of the choreography was a disaster.

Demy missed half her cues, stumbled through her footwork, and forgot the new lift sequence entirely. Her voice, normally solid even in warm-ups, wavered during the pre-chorus. After the third false start, she finally threw her hands up, exasperated.

"I'm so sorry," she said, breathing hard. "I thought I could push through, but I'm completely off today. I just—can we stop for now?"

Her choreographer gave her a sympathetic look. "We'll pick it up tomorrow. Get some rest. And... maybe stay off the internet?"

Demy nodded, grateful and humiliated at once. She forced a tight smile, grabbed her bag, and headed out through the back exit, avoiding the main doors where more paparazzi might be waiting.

Once outside and alone, she pulled out her phone.

11 missed calls.
17 new texts.

Her stomach dropped.

Her mum. Her sister. Gemma. Her publicist. Several unknown numbers.

She exhaled, thumbs flying across the screen.

To Mum: I'm okay. I promise. Love you.
To Romy: I'm safe. It's just a mess right now. I'll call tonight.
To Gemma Styles: I'm okay. Thank you for checking in. Can we talk soon?

She paused at the unknown numbers. Some were Greek, some international. Journalists, no doubt. She blocked two and ignored the rest.

Then she tapped the contact labeled Helena – PR and brought the phone to her ear.

"Helena? It's bad. We need to meet—today. My place?"

A pause, then Helena's crisp voice: "Already on my way. I figured we'd need a war room."

Demy let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "Thanks."

"Hang in there, Demy. We've handled worse for people with less talent. You're not alone in this."

She hung up and finally looked up at the Athenian sky. It was a brilliant blue, too bright for how she felt.

Time to go home. Time to figure out who she was going to be now that the whole world was watching.

The apartment was quiet when Demy stepped inside—too quiet. Such an antithesis from the chaos outside. This kind of quiet felt almost staged, like a set piece after the actors had gone home. She locked the door behind her, peeled off her hoodie, and tossed her keys on the counter.

Before she could think too hard, she turned on the TV.

She flipped past morning shows and weather reports until Exclusives International came up again, now broadcasting from London.

There he was.

Harry.

Coming out of a café, dressed down in jeans, sunglasses, and a denim jacket, flanked by his team. Paparazzi swarmed him too—dozens of them—but he handled it like choreography. He moved fluidly, like he'd done it a hundred times before. Which, of course, he had.

A flash. A shouted question.
"Harry, are you dating the Greek singer?"
He paused, tilted his head, smiled the way only he could. Not answering, just... charming his way through it. Deflecting with grace.

They laughed. Laughed.

Someone asked if she was his new muse, and he just shook his head like a bashful schoolboy, then gave a wink to the camera. Not confirming. Not denying.

And just like that, the wolves were fed.

Demy stood there, watching with a strange ache in her chest—not jealousy, but something closer to helplessness. He made it look easy. She wondered if it was easy for him, or just part of the job now. Maybe she'd never know. Not really.

The buzzer rang.

She blinked and turned off the screen.

Helena swept in five seconds later like a woman stepping into a war room. No hello. No hug. Just a black trench coat, two laptops, a tote bag, and an expression like she'd just been personally insulted by the media gods.

"Do not panic," Helena said immediately, heading to the dining table and spreading out the gear. "Panicking is for unpaid interns and influencers with bad lighting. You're neither."

She moved with purpose, setting up one laptop to stream social media feeds, the other already open to email. Her phone was tucked between her ear and shoulder, her hands free to stir instant coffee into two mismatched mugs she found without looking.

"No comment."
Click.
"We'll circle back to you after the official statement."
Click.
"Absolutely not. That photo's from last year. Don't even think about running it."

Demy hovered by the counter, not sure where to stand, what to say. Her limbs were heavy now that she'd stopped moving. The adrenaline had burned off, leaving something thinner behind. Guilt? No. She hadn't done anything wrong.

But still. The weight.

Helena finally turned to her, phone lowered, eyes sharp behind her glasses.

"Please tell me he's worth it," she said, voice lower now. Less clipped. More human. "Because we are looking at a lot of work here."

Demy opened her mouth. Closed it.

Then nodded.

"He is," she said softly.

Helena sighed like a woman preparing for battle. She handed her a mug and sat down.

"Good. Then let's get to work."