Another day of craziness. Helena's fingers danced across her phone screen like a pianist playing a concerto in panic. She was pacing the length of Demy's kitchen, sharp-heeled shoes tapping out a rhythm of stress on the tiles. Two open laptops glowed on the kitchen island, displaying Google Alerts, international gossip blogs, and real-time social media feeds. The headlines were a swirl of chaos:

"Greek Starlet Seduces Styles?"
"Chef Ex Left Behind-Akis Speaks Out!"
"Is Eurovision Rigged with Romance?"

Demy stood at the counter nursing a cold coffee, her eyes hollow. Her body was in Athens, but her spirit was somewhere lost in a whirlwind of public judgment and digital noise.

Helena was simultaneously tapping on her screen, sipping espresso, and responding to phone calls with phrases like "No comment," "We're not giving a statement at this time," and-her personal favourite-"Absolutely not, are you insane?"

"I swear to God, if one more journalist asks if you slept with him before or after the awards-" she paused, exhaling hard through her nose, "I'm going to put out a statement that you're actually dating two members of One Direction just to shut them up."

Demy didn't smile. She hadn't for a while.

Then Helena finally stopped pacing and looked her straight in the eyes.

"Please tell me one more time he's worth it. I just need the reassurance."

Demy opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "He didn't ask for this either."

Helena scoffed. "Harry Styles has had years to build up immunity to this circus. You've had about-what?-a few days?"

There was a pause. Then a new headline popped up on one of the laptops, catching Helena's eye. She tilted the screen toward Demy.

"AKIS TELLS ALL: 'I WAS BLINDSIDED, I STILL LOVE HER'"

"Oh for f-" Helena shut the laptop with a clap. "And now this idiot is milking it."

Demy felt the twist in her stomach again.

"He's... everywhere. Giving interviews. Looking sad. Saying I broke his heart right before we were going to open a restaurant together." Her voice cracked. "We were barely even speaking when I left for Jamaica. What he put me through..."

Helena rolled her eyes. "What he is still putting you through. That's not stopping him. He's playing the part of 'betrayed Mediterranean lover' so well he's being scouted for a daytime cooking show. Can you believe that? Cooking heartbreak with Akis. Unbelievable."

Demy blinked. "Wait-he's pitching a show?"

"Already negotiating. He's even got a sizzle reel circulating. It's all heartbreak recipes, breakup advice over soufflé, crying into tzatziki. He's never been hotter-he's riding your scandal like a motorcycle through Syntagma Square."

Demy pressed the heel of her hand into her temple. "I'm so tired, Helena."

"I know," Helena said, softer now. "And we're gonna get through it. But right now, they smell blood. You have to hold steady."

Demy nodded.

But things didn't feel steady.

The next morning, Demy forced herself out of bed and into rehearsal clothes. Her muscles ached from fatigue, but she had to move, had to dance, had to push something forward even if everything else was falling apart.

She still had a Eurovision performance to prepare for.

During the ride to the studio, Demy called Harry. She didn't even think about it-her fingers just moved to his name instinctively, like muscle memory. The ringtone barely finished one full cycle before his face lit up her screen.

"Hey, sunshine," he said, his voice warm and bleary with sleep. He was curled up on a couch, hoodie up, hair a tangle of soft curls. L.A. morning light spilled in through the windows behind him, golden and lazy.

"Did I wake you?" she asked, even though the guilt in her voice was already there.

"Doesn't matter. Always good to see your face first."

She smiled, the first real one in what felt like days. "Liar."

"I mean it." He shifted the phone, propped it up somewhere, and leaned forward. "What time is it there?"

"Almost noon. I'm heading to that TV interview. You know, the one they swore would be 'positive press.'"

He grimaced. "That sounds fake."

"Oh, totally fake," she said. "But I've done worse. I once had to promote a single during a seafood festival in Naxos. The smell alone-trauma."

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You know, your life is so weird. And I love it."

They talked for a few more minutes-nothing and everything. The temperature in Athens, his flight to L.A. What songs she was rehearsing today. What he'd had for lunch ("Green smoothie that tasted like regret and kale"). She told him her Vespa was making a weird noise again, and he promised to learn enough Greek to talk to her mechanic the next time he visited.

There were pauses, too-quiet ones. Comfortable ones. The kind that feel like tiny pockets of peace when the world outside is too loud.

At one point, he looked at her seriously, as if he could see straight through the screen.

"You're glowing," he said.

She scoffed, adjusting the camera to a less flattering angle. "Shut up."

"No, really. It's probably the light, or your earrings. Or maybe you're just too stubborn to let them drag you down."

"Or maybe you're just really bad at compliments," she teased, but she was touched. Deep down, she needed to hear it.

He grinned. "Could be both."

The car slowed to a stop outside the studio. Her stomach knotted.

"I should go," she said.

"I know."

Neither of them moved to hang up yet.

"Listen," he said, his voice lower now, "you don't owe them anything. Just be yourself. That's always enough."

She nodded. "Thanks."

They paused again.

"I love you," she said first this time.

His smile widened, softer this time. "I love you more."

"Impossible."

"Prove it."

She blew him a kiss. He caught it like he always did, dramatically, clutching it to his chest like a stage actor.

"Go knock 'em dead," he said.

And then the screen went dark.

She sat still for just one second longer, holding onto the echo of his voice, before opening the car door and stepping out into the noise.

And then it was time for the interview.

Demy stood just offstage, her mic being adjusted by a bored technician, the scent of studio hairspray and fresh paint oddly sharp in the cool air. The lights on set were too bright, washed in pastel pinks and cool blues meant to soften the harshness of live television. Everything looked immaculate-like nothing bad could possibly happen in a space so carefully lit. But Demy knew better.

The set was designed to be sleek and modern, Instagram-perfect. A low white table sat between two minimalist chairs. On it, a single cup of untouched tea steamed gently, more prop than comfort. A bowl of pastel-coloured macarons she wouldn't touch completed the aesthetic. There were cameras positioned at every angle, a red recording light glowing like a warning.

She adjusted the hem of her blouse and smoothed her palms over her thighs, taking a deep breath as the host waved her in with a polished smile.

"Welcome, Demy! It's so wonderful to have you here with us today."

"Thank you for having me," she replied, finding her place in the chair. She crossed her legs carefully, kept her hands in her lap. Posture: poised. Smile: relaxed. Heart: pounding.

They started with Eurovision questions, just as promised. How she felt about representing Greece again. What her new song meant to her. How the choreography was coming along. She answered smoothly-this was her zone. She talked about the staging concept, the inspiration behind the lyrics, the long hours in rehearsal with her team.

And then, without warning, as if a switch had flipped-

"Now, Demy," the host said, his voice dipping into something more syrupy. "We have to ask what everyone's wondering..."

Her breath hitched.

"Are you using your relationship with Harry Styles to boost your international visibility?"

The words landed like a slap. For a second, she didn't even register them. It was too blunt, too absurd.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I mean-surely the timing is suspicious, don't you think? You start dating one of the world's most famous pop stars just weeks before the biggest performance of your life?"

A faint chuckle from someone in the audience sent a wave of heat crawling up her neck.

"I didn't start dating him because of Eurovision," Demy said, forcing calm into her voice. "It had nothing to do with that. We met way before that. It was... organic."

"But you must see how it looks," the host pressed, the fake smile still pasted on. "Some people are calling it a brilliant publicity move. Others say you may have-how shall we put this-engineered the moment. Orchestrated your encounter backstage. You know, made sure you'd be seen."

She swallowed hard. Her vision was narrowing at the edges.

"I didn't orchestrate anything," she said. But her voice cracked just slightly on the last word.

The host leaned forward. "And yet-you haven't denied that you were the one who approached him first?"

"I-" she faltered, searching for something-dignity, maybe. "This is supposed to be about music. About my work. Not... Harry."

"But isn't he the music these days?" the host said, as if delivering a closing argument in court. "You must understand, people are curious. The relationship has overshadowed your entry. Eurovision fans feel manipulated. They wonder if this is all... calculated."

Her throat closed up.

It felt like being slowly disassembled under the glare of studio lights. Like someone was peeling back her skin, piece by piece, while she was expected to smile through it. A part of her had known this was coming. But not like this. Not with such precision. Such cruelty veiled in civility.

She got through the rest of the segment somehow-smiling where expected, nodding, thanking the host-but it was all muscle memory. Her mind had left the building.

Backstage, she slumped into a chair, surrounded by white noise. Her publicist whispered something about spin and damage control, someone handed her a bottle of water, and the makeup artist hovered with concealer just in case the cameras caught too much.

None of it registered.

The shame was a physical thing, tightening around her chest.

Then her phone buzzed in her lap.

Harry.

Her fingers moved without thinking.

"Hey," he said gently, his face filling the screen. His curls were messy. He looked like he'd run out of a meeting to call her. "I saw it. I had someone translate every word spoken. That was cruel. I am so, so sorry."

Her lips were trembling before she even got a word out. "Don't. Please just forget it."

"Sweetheart , I can't forget it," he said. Calm, but firm.

"No-Harry, please- What do you mean?"

He was silent for a long second. His eyes didn't leave hers.

Then, softly: "I have to break a second promise I made to you."

The first had been not falling in love with her. How could he not? She was aethereal, captivating, talented, kind.

Her heart dropped. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, please don't."

"I didn't keep the first one either."

She was breathing too fast now. "Harry-"

She couldn't speak.

"I love you," he said. "We'll talk soon."

A tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped it away angrily.

And then the line went dead.

She stared at the dark screen, heart pounding, wishing she could crawl inside it, crawl across the ocean and just be next to him. Say nothing. Just hold his hand. Or maybe cry into his shoulder until the buzzing stopped. Until it all stopped.

But for now, all she could do was sit in the stillness and wait for the storm to shift again.

Hours later, the news broke.

"Harry Styles Issues Public Statement in Support of Demy: 'She Never Asked for Fame-Only My Peace'"

It was everywhere.

"When I met Demy, I was going through a difficult time creatively. I couldn't finish a song. She didn't know that. She didn't want to be credited. She just... helped. She reminded me that I could still write about joy.

I owe her for that, not the other way around.

If she was after fame, she wouldn't have told me to leave her out of the album.

I won't let people talk about her like she's an accessory in my life.

She is the whole damn chorus."

-Harry Styles

The internet exploded.

And this time, not with hate.

There were still critics, of course. But the tone had shifted. Fans shared clips of Demy's performance again. Of the interview where she looked like she might cry but didn't. Of Harry's statement. Of Akis' cooking show pitch, which now seemed increasingly pathetic in contrast.

In the sea of noise, a new current was building-one of admiration.

And maybe of respect.