Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lexa sat with her head in her hands on the soft, expensive leather sofa, the kind meant for glass-walled penthouses and magazine covers. It fit her life—the life of the most sought-after A-list actress in Hollywood—but in this moment, it felt impossibly far away from her. She still couldn’t understand how this had happened. Shock pressed down on her like ice water, but grief and a slow-burning shame coiled beneath it, making her chest feel raw.

Out in the hallway, past the open doorway, Anya paced across the polished oak floor in sharp, controlled strides. Her voice was tight as she spoke to one of the senior producers of The Last Stand—a massive, global action blockbuster with Lexa as the face of every poster, every billboard, every interview room. The press tour was meant to be the kind of headline-making rollout studios planned entire fiscal years around. The kind of tour only Lexa Woods could carry.

Lexa couldn’t hear the producer through the phone—only the clipped edges of Anya’s responses.

“I understand. Yes, I understand. Okay. I’ll handle it. I’ll take care of it. Yes. Okay.”

There was a long, still pause. Lexa watched Anya’s jaw tighten as she listened to whatever threat, or demand had just been handed down.

“It won’t be necessary,” Anya said finally, voice low and precise. “I’ll talk to her. Yes. I’ll handle it.”

She ended the call.

And the silence that followed sank deep into the room.

“What… did they say?” Lexa asked, her voice tight as Anya stepped into the room with that practiced, composed walk she always used in crisis. Anya was an excellent publicist—she was always the one who made it look like everything was under control. But Lexa could see it clearly now: this time, it wasn’t.

“They’re angry,” Anya said, steady, almost calm.

Lexa nodded once, jaw tight.

“They didn’t expect the star of their blockbuster to be filmed kissing a woman.”

Lexa dragged a shaking hand through her hair. “We weren’t even kissing on the video,” she said, voice dull.

“No, but it’s damn close, Lexa.” Anya’s tone was still even, but there was strain beneath it. “They’re selling a massive action film with a female lead to an audience built on young men. It is crucial that those men believe they have a chance with the beautiful action heroine. They can’t do that if she’s a lesbian. Your brand, your career, is the beautiful straight woman.”

Lexa swallowed hard, staring at the floor. “What do you want me to do? We’re already getting the video taken down. And we’re barely even kissing in it, so we can deny most of it. And it won’t happen again—Costia already broke up with me. What else am I supposed to do?”

Anya hesitated, and that was somehow worse than anything she had said so far.

“They want a PR relationship. At least for the press tour. And for a couple of months after, when the film hits streaming.”

Lexa’s head snapped up. “What? No. Anya, no. I’m not doing a PR relationship. Not again.”

“Lexa…” Anya’s voice was quiet, careful.

“No.” Lexa’s voice came out sharper, harder. “I’m not doing that again.”

Anya exhaled—slow, steady, choosing her words. “They’re threatening legal action. They’re claiming this violates your contract.”

Lexa stared at her, stunned. “How is that even possible?”

“I’ve already asked your legal team to review it,” Anya answered. “But they’re pointing to the clause about harmful public behavior.”

“That clause is about drunk driving, rehab scandals, cocaine in a bathroom—” Lexa stopped, breath unsteady.

“It refers to any public behavior that could damage the project to the point of significant financial loss,” Anya said softly. “Ultimately, it’s up to a judge whether this qualifies—but if we end up in court at all, your reputation takes the hit.”

Lexa didn’t respond. She just stared forward, empty, as the reality of it closed in around her.

“A PR relationship isn’t a good solution,” Anya continued, her voice almost gentle now. “It’s the only solution. It’s an ultimatum.”

Chapter Text

Lexa sat in her living room, staring at the photo of Costia glowing on her phone screen. Costia laughing, her hair caught by the wind, her hand reaching out toward Lexa behind the camera. It hurt to look at, but Lexa couldn’t make herself look away. The silence in the apartment felt too big, too sharp.

Anya appeared in the doorway, her voice low but steady. “They’re here.”

Lexa blinked, swallowed, and slowly locked her phone — Costia’s smile disappearing into black glass.

She didn’t say anything. She just nodded, pushed herself up from the couch, and followed Anya out of the room. Her steps felt heavier than they should have. Like she was walking toward something she couldn’t avoid — and couldn’t change.

The meeting room in Lexa’s penthouse had always been the place where they planned the next big move in her career. Award seasons. Franchise negotiations. Award campaigns. Future roles. It used to be full of people—publicists, stylists, studio representatives, lawyers. A machine constantly in motion. It used to be packed with people and noise and certainty.

Now it was quiet. Smaller. Controlled.

Only the essential few were there:

Two members of her legal team.
Gustus, head of her private security detail.
Anya’s assistant, silent with a notebook open.
And Anya herself.

As Lexa stepped inside, she noticed the NDAs already laid out in front of every seat — crisp paper, uncapped pens beside them. Like they had all been waiting for her.

Lexa sat at the head of the table, though she felt far from in control.

“So,” she said, her voice flat, brittle around the edges, “which incredibly handsome actor gets to pretend he’s my boyfriend this time?”

Anya looked up from the documents she had been reviewing. Her expression stayed composed — but Lexa could see the fatigue behind her eyes.

“Since the goal of this PR relationship isn’t to boost your career or expand your audience,” Anya began, tone clinical, professional, “we don’t need another A-list star this time. We just need a convincing narrative. So I’m suggesting we choose an up-and-coming actor. Someone you could plausibly have met through work or industry events.”

She slid a folder across the table to each person — headshots, résumés, public perception notes. A carefully curated illusion in the making.

Lexa accepted her folder, though it felt heavier than paper should. “So we’re helping a new actor’s career,” she said quietly, “by dating him. And in return, he helps me look… straight.”

“That’s the plan,” Anya confirmed. Her voice was soft, but there was no room for argument in it. “Now we just have to choose the right one.”

Lexa opened the folder, and the first thing her eyes landed on was a glossy headshot — sharp jawline, shadowed eyes, that familiar brooding expression.

“Option one: Roan Hiver,” Anya began, voice steady, professional. “Fairly established actor. He’s had a solid run the last few years, but he keeps getting typecast as a villain. This arrangement would give him the opportunity to be seen as a more desirable romantic lead.”

Around the table, there were slow, thoughtful nods.

Lexa didn’t even have to think. She exhaled, almost a scoff. “No. He gets typecast as a villain because that’s what he looks like. He’ll never read as anything else on camera, and definitely not next to me. Next.”

Anya’s jaw tightened, just slightly. A quiet click of her tongue — controlled, but not unnoticed. She flipped the page.

“Option two: Lincoln Oakley. Same social circles as you. Publicly, it’s easy to build a narrative that the two of you grew close over time. The transition to a relationship would look natural.”

Lexa let out a hollow laugh — one with no humor behind it. “And then when we break up, we get to go through the nightmare of explaining how we’re still friends and no one’s feelings were hurt. That’s going to be hell. Absolutely not.”

Anya didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. She simply moved to the next profile.

“Option three: Monty Green. Very new. Slightly younger, but—”

“No.” Lexa cut her off softly but firmly. “He’s gay.”

Anya’s head snapped up. “What?”

“He’s not out,” Lexa said gently, with a quiet certainty that came from actually paying attention to people. “But he’s gay. He’s not going to convince anyone in a PR romance with me. And I won’t drag him through that.”

Something in the room shifted — a flicker of tension, of something unspoken. Anya exhaled through her nose and flipped to the next page — sharper this time.

“Option four: Bellamy Blake,” she said. “Completely new actor. Just landed his first major role, premiering soon.”

Anya waited. She clearly expected Lexa to dismiss him too.

But Lexa didn’t.

She stared at the photograph in front of her — a simple portrait. His smile wasn’t trained for the camera yet, not manufactured. No Hollywood shine. Just… normal. A little vulnerable, even. The kind of face that didn’t know what fame could do to a person yet.

“No objections?” Anya asked carefully.

Lexa shook her head. “No. He looks… normal. And I don’t know him.”

“He is normal,” Anya said. “Family not in the industry. No legacy connections. He’s the kind of actor people find easy to root for.”

“So he’s about to be thrown into this circus for the first time,” Lexa murmured, guilt threading quietly into her voice. 

“Maybe,” Anya admitted. “But he could be very good for you. He brings you down to earth again. Makes you human again in the public’s eyes.”

Lexa looked down at the photo once more.
Bellamy Blake.
Uncomplicated.
Unprepared.
And maybe the only option that didn’t feel like an immediate disaster.

“Let’s reach out to his team and start negotiations,” Lexa said finally, her voice soft but decisive. “And then we’ll see if the right one is Bellamy Blake.”

Chapter Text

Clarke was standing in front of Octavia’s open closet, sifting through a chaotic pile of hangers, while Octavia lay sprawled across her bed with one arm thrown dramatically over her face — like the universe had personally wronged her.

“Ugh, I have nothing to wear,” Octavia groaned. “This premiere is my big chance to meet gorgeous, famous people and I have nothing.”

Clarke didn’t even look up. “Don’t you think Bellamy is going to do more than one movie?”

“I mean… maybe he’ll get some smaller roles,” Octavia said, lifting her arm just enough to blink at the ceiling, “but what are the chances he gets another leading role where the studio invites every close family member? Not very high.”

Clarke hummed, pulling out a little black dress. “It’s still crazy that Bellamy landed a lead role at all. What about this one?”

Octavia glanced at the dress and sighed, deeply. “That’s for when I’m sad but trying to pretend I’m fine.”

Clarke stared at her. “What?”

“You know. Like ‘Little Black Dress’ by Sara Bareilles.”

“Oh. Of course,” Clarke said, rolling her eyes and tossing the dress onto the reject pile.

“I need to look sophisticated but not like I’m trying to be sophisticated,” Octavia went on, gesturing dramatically with both hands. “You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Clarke reached deeper into the closet. “What about this?”

She pulled out a formal gala dress.

“That’s from prom, Clarke. I cannot wear my prom dress to my brother’s film premiere,” Octavia said, appalled.

“Right,” Clarke murmured, tossing it aside and turning back to the clothes.

“Do you realize who goes to premieres like this? The biggest names. We’re talking Luna Hav, Lincoln Oakley, maybe even the Lexa Woods.”

“I doubt Lexa Woods is going to show up,” Clarke mumbled under her breath.

“Maybe not. But she could,” Octavia insisted, pointing as if that settled the matter.

Clarke laughed softly. “Where is Bellamy anyway? I thought he was supposed to be home, taking a break from the promotion schedule.”

“He is. Or—he was. His agent dragged him to some important meeting today,” Octavia said.

“Really? About what?” Clarke asked, glancing back.

“No idea,” Octavia sighed. 

“He’s just… busy all the time now.” Clarke said and hesitated — just long enough for Octavia to notice.

“What? Do you miss him?” Octavia asked, sitting up a little.

Clarke shrugged, eyes drifting back to the closet. “Maybe sometimes. I just… miss how it used to be. Our little group. You, me, Bellamy, Raven. It felt simple.”

Octavia’s expression softened. “Yeah. It did.”

Bellamy sat in the backseat of a taxi, shoulder pressed lightly against the cool window, Los Angeles blurring past in streaks of afternoon gold. He glanced toward Meagan, his agent, who sat beside him. Her jaw was tight in a way like there was something big, something she wasn’t saying.

“What kind of meeting is this exactly?” Bellamy asked, voice low, fingers tapping restlessly against his knee.

Meagan didn’t look at him. Instead, she flicked her eyes toward the driver, checking the mirror, making sure no one was listening. 

“It’s… a meeting,” she said, vague to the point of absurdity. “You’ll get the details when we’re inside. Industry confidentiality. You know how it is.”

He exhaled, long and slow. His breakthrough film hadn’t even premiered yet, and already it felt like the earth beneath his feet was shifting.

“Right,” he murmured, eyes returning to the window. The city passed by like a film reel—shimmering, unreachable, larger than life. “A meeting.”

He tried to ignore the knot growing in his stomach. But something about the way Meagan’s fingers gripped her tablet—tight, white-knuckled—told him this wasn’t just any meeting.

They arrived at a glass-and-steel office tower that didn’t look like anywhere Meagan usually had business. Bellamy noticed it instantly—the way she slowed, the way her eyes flicked across the lobby directory like she was reading a foreign language.

It took them a few wrong turns down identical hallways before they finally found the right door. The plaque was unmarked. No company logo. Just a room number in brushed metal.

Meagan smoothed her blazer, exhaled once—too sharp, too quick—and knocked.

Bellamy felt the strange stillness of it settle in his chest.

Something was waiting for him on the other side of that door.

And he had no idea what.

A woman sat alone at the conference table, posture straight, presence sharp.
“Come in, Bellamy Blake. I’m glad you had time to meet with me,” she said as she rose and extended her hand. Her voice was smooth, practiced. “My name is Anya Forrest, though I assume your agent has already told you that.”

Bellamy shook her hand before lowering himself into the chair across from her. Meagan sat beside him, visibly tense, shoulders drawn tight.
“No… she actually hasn’t told me anything yet,” Bellamy admitted.

Anya blinked once. “Nothing? You don’t know why you’re here?”

“No,” he said, and his voice sounded smaller than he meant it to.

Meagan cleared her throat. “I didn’t know what I was allowed to say. I signed an NDA, so I—”

“Right,” Anya cut in gently, though her surprise was obvious. “Of course. Better safe than sorry. Though I’m quite certain your legal team would have told you that you can explain the situation to your client, as long as he signs the standard NDA as well.”

“Oh. Yes. I haven’t exactly… had time to run this by a lawyer. I only have my brother-in-law, and he’s… uh—” Meagan began to ramble, her face turning a deeper shade of pink by the second.

Anya offered her a polite out.
“Actually—Meagan—I've just remembered we forgot to offer Bellamy coffee. There’s a kitchen down the hall. Would you mind grabbing him a cup?”

Meagan sprang up far too quickly. “Yes! Of course, yes.” And then she hurried out, leaving the room oddly quiet behind her.

Bellamy stared at the closed door, bewildered.
“How long have you had her as your agent?” Anya asked, eyes still on the door.

“Uh… not long. I signed with her after I got the role in the film.”

“After?” Anya, again, was surprised.

“Yes. I didn’t have anyone before, but I figured I should if I’m… you know… trying to make a career out of this.”

“Of course you should,” Anya said with a nod. “And she’s fine for her usual type of client. But she primarily represents background actors. Extras. People trying to break into the business. She does not know the rules of this game. The game A-listers play. And if you want to move up—really move up—you need someone who can help you play it correctly.”

Bellamy stared at her, unsure if he should be flattered or overwhelmed.
“I have one role. I’m nowhere near an A-lister.”

Anya smiled, small but sure.
“True. But with the right support, in a year? You could be a lot closer than you are right now. If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” he said quietly. “But… how?”

“That’s what this meeting is about,” Anya said. “You have potential. Real potential. So consider getting an agent who can take you somewhere.”

Bellamy nodded slowly, processing.

The door swung open again. Meagan reappeared, slightly out of breath, juggling three coffees like she’d sprinted the entire hallway.
“It was hard to find,” she said, flustered, placing the cups down. “Sorry for the delay.”

“No need to apologize,” Anya replied smoothly, offering a warm, composed smile.

The room settled again—only now, Bellamy felt the shift.

For the first time, he understood:

Something here was going to change his life.

“Alright,” Anya said, folding her hands neatly over the table. “Your agent is right. You need to sign an NDA before I can explain anything further.”
She pulled a document from her leather folder and slid it across to him.

“This is a standard nondisclosure agreement. It simply means that anything we discuss today cannot be repeated to anyone. Once you decide whether you want the actual offer, you’ll receive a formal contract, and that one you’ll go over with an attorney. If you don’t already have a lawyer, you will need to get one. Money spent on a good lawyer is never wasted.”

Bellamy swallowed, nodded, and glanced over the document. He didn’t really understand every line, but he recognized the format — standard industry boilerplate. He signed.

Anya smiled politely, but there was calculation behind her eyes.
“Good. Then let me start with something simple.”
She leaned back slightly. “Are you currently dating anyone? Your public presence suggests no, but I need to confirm.”

Bellamy blinked, caught off guard.
“No. No girlfriend. I mean— I go on dates sometimes, but nothing serious.”

“Good,” Anya said. “If you accept what I’m about to offer, you cannot date anyone privately. Not casually. Not secretly. Nothing.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, not cruel — simply the rule.

Bellamy glanced toward Meagan, unsure if this was still real life. Meagan just gave him a wide, encouraging, go-with-it smile.

Anya continued. “Do you know what a PR relationship is?”

Bellamy exhaled slowly. “Yeah. It’s when two people pretend to date in public for… some kind of benefit.”

“Correct.” Anya nodded. “Your benefit would be immediate access to the right events, the right interviews, the right press circles. Your name will become recognizable in rooms that currently don’t know you exist. Producers. Directors. Casting leads. If you want a real career—this is the fastest way to get one.”

She didn’t pause for dramatics, but the moment felt dramatic anyway.

“I am offering you a PR relationship with my client, Lexa Woods.”

Bellamy froze.

His mouth fell slightly open. The room seemed to tilt.

“…Whoa,” he breathed.

He didn’t even realize he’d said it aloud until Anya’s expression flickered — amusement, faint and controlled.

“Yes,” she said lightly. “That Lexa Woods.”

Chapter Text

The ground didn’t feel solid beneath Bellamy’s feet as he stepped out of the taxi and up the familiar front steps of his childhood home. He let himself in without thinking, the house smelling the same as always, laundry detergent and old wooden floors.

He didn’t stop. He just went straight up the stairs, down the hallway toward his room.

“Hey, Bell! How’d the meeting go?” Octavia called, popping her head out of her room.

“Fine,” Bellamy mumbled.

“Okay… what was it about?” she pressed, curious as always.

Bellamy shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “Just… industry stuff. Film things. You know.”

“No,” Octavia said flatly, disappointment flickering in her expression. “I really don’t.”
But she let him go.

Bellamy closed his bedroom door behind him and lay down on his bed. His head felt full, buzzing, like his thoughts were all stacked on top of each other.

Anya’s voice wouldn’t leave him.

Your benefit—immediate access to the right events, the right press circles.

Your name—recognizable to producers, directors, casting leads.

Fastest way to a real career—Lexa Woods.

The words echoed and echoed.

There was a soft knock.

“Bellamy?” Clarke’s voice.

She stepped inside, closing the door partway behind her. “Are you okay?” she asked gently, and sat down beside him. She rested her hand on his upper arm, feather-light at first. Then her fingers drifted down until her hand found his.

She hesitated.
But this was Bellamy.
She knew him.

She held his hand.

Bellamy looked up at her, at Clarke’s clear blue eyes and the softness of her hair catching the light. For a second, the familiarity of her comfort settled something in his chest. Her hand was warm in his.

You cannot date anyone.

It hit him like a physical shock.

He pulled his hand out of hers too fast—like he had touched something hot.

“I’m just tired,” he said, voice rough. “Promotion’s been… a lot.”
He rolled away from her, turning his back. “I just need to rest.”

Clarke stood slowly. Hurt flickered across her face before she could tuck it away.

“Oh. Okay. Then I’ll… let you sleep,” she murmured.

She stepped quietly out, closing the door behind her.

Bellamy lay still, staring at the wall, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

Anya stepped into Lexa's living room just as Lexa emerged from her home gym, a towel slung around her neck, her hair pulled back, skin still flushed from training. The space felt settled, almost serene. 

“How did the meeting go?” Lexa asked, voice even, as though they were discussing something as mundane as a schedule change.

Anya lowered herself into a chair, crossing one leg over the other. “He’s green,” she said. “But he’s a good pick. Genuine. Grounded.”

Lexa nodded once, expression unreadable. “Good.”

“Yeah,” Anya continued, “But he desperately needs a new agent, though. The poor woman was completely out of her depth. I might put together a list of better options for him.”

Lexa’s brows lifted. Just a fraction. “What about you?” she asked. “You could help him.”

A small, wry smile curved at Anya’s mouth—amused. “The thought did cross my mind, but he can’t afford me,” Anya finished, tone light but truthful.

Lexa gave a soft, humorless laugh. “No. Probably not.”

​​Silence settled again—comfortable, familiar, the kind of silence built from years of trust and long hours just like this.

“So,” Lexa said quietly, not asking for reassurance, just acknowledging the path ahead, “this is happening.”

“Yes,” Anya replied, steady as always. “This is happening.”

Bellamy had decided to work out, to burn off the restless energy that had been sitting under his skin. He was in his parents’ garage, the same one where he’d once taped posters of boxers and rock bands to the walls. The air smelled like dust, old wood, and motor oil. He’d hung the punching bag there back in high school. It was faded now, patched once at the side. Still solid.

His fists hit the canvas in steady rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud.
He missed his apartment in the city — or at least the independence of it. He did not miss his roommates. But coming home didn’t feel like a break, not really. Not when he was standing on the edge of something that could change everything.

A career change. A life change. A public change.

And he couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Not his parents. Not his friends. 

He already knew what he was going to do. That was the worst part: the decision was made, and still he couldn’t breathe.

If he didn’t take the chance, he’d regret it forever.

His phone buzzed on the small table by the workbench.

He stopped, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down his jaw, and reached for it. A new message. Unknown number, but he recognized the name at the bottom before he finished reading.

Hi Bellamy Blake, a preliminary contract is nearly finished, and I can send it to your agent in a few days so you can make your decision.

I’ve attached a list of reputable agents I’ve worked with before, who would be able to advise you regarding your current situation.

Just let me know once you’ve decided whether you’re switching, so I know where to send the contract.

Best,
Anya Forrest

He stared at the message for a long time, the silence in the garage stretching out around him.

A list of agents.

People who would actually know how to have his back.

He looked at the list and exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.

Yeah.
He really should switch.

Bellamy’s hand lowered, phone still loose between his fingers. He turned back to the punching bag, steadier now.

He knew what he was going to do.

Bellamy sat across from his new agent, Marcus Kane, in a tidy office lined with film posters and neatly stacked folders. Kane was calm, composed, the kind of man who read every line twice before speaking. He held the contract Anya had sent, scanning it with careful eyes.

“With this behind you, you could go very far,” Kane said under his breath. “You’re a lucky young man, Blake.”

Bellamy exhaled, tension tight across his shoulders.
“Yeah. I mean… it is the right decision, isn’t it?”

Kane looked up — steady, unreadable.

“That isn’t something I can decide for you,” he said. “This contract means lying to everyone you know. Family, friends — all of them. And there’s no end date to the lie. If you sign, it becomes part of your public history: you and Lexa Woods had a brief relationship at the start of your career. That will follow you. Always.”

Bellamy’s chest tightened. Hearing it spoken plainly made it feel suddenly real.

“Some people will say you only succeeded because of her,” Kane continued. “Some will insist you lived in her shadow. But the truth is — it will give you a push. A very strong one. And that is not guaranteed without this.”

He paused, folds the contract closed with two fingers.

“But I watched the early cut of your film before I agreed to represent you. You have talent. You could make it alone. It would simply take longer. And the path would be rougher.”

Bellamy nodded slowly — doubt crawled beneath his ribs now.

Kane watched him with the kind of care that didn’t feel sentimental, but true.

Then Kane asked, quietly:

“Have you met her yet?”

Bellamy blinked.
He had thought so much about headlines and events and lies — he had barely thought about her.

“No. Not yet,” he said.

Kane nodded and leaned back slightly.

“The offer came from her team,” he said. “Not from the studio. Not a network. Not a PR conglomerate. Her team initiated it. Which means she has a reason.”

Bellamy frowned.

“What kind of reason, we don’t know,” Kane said plainly. “But we can guess. Her career is at its peak — so it’s not about exposure. Could be reputation management. Could be a narrative shift. Could be repositioning her image for new roles. Could be softening her public persona.”

He paused — not dramatic, just thoughtful.

Bellamy’s heart felt unsteady — a strange mix of excitement and fear.

Kane leaned forward, voice steady, grounding:

“Understand this: no one in this arrangement is doing it for you. Not her team. Not her. These are business relationships, not friendships.”

A beat.

“But I am in your corner now. From this moment on, you have me. And I’ll make sure you’re not eaten alive.”

Silence settled — heavy, real.

Bellamy nodded, but his voice didn’t come.
He just sat there, the contract in front of him, realizing the truth:

He was about to step into an entirely different life.

And he would have to walk into it alone.

Chapter Text

Bellamy sat in the back of the car — one of those private black-car services you only ever see in celebrity gossip photos. Dark tinted windows. A privacy partition between him and the driver. The kind of vehicle that didn’t just drive you somewhere, but announced your arrival.

He tried not to stare at his own reflection in the glass, but he kept catching it anyway. He looked the same. Exactly the same. And still — everything felt different.

He had signed the contract last night.

His signature was still burned into his mind: sharp, permanent, irreversible.

Now, less than twenty-four hours later, he and Marcus Kane were already crossing into that part of downtown — the area with private elevators and concierge lobbies, where entire penthouse floors were owned by single names the world recognized on sight. Directors. Pop stars. The kind of actors who had perfume lines and Vogue covers.

Lexa Woods territory.

Kane sat beside him, legs crossed, calm as ever — like they were just headed to a casual business meeting and not the first step into a completely new reality.

“You’re quiet,” Kane observed, without judgment.

Bellamy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Yeah. Just… taking it in.”

Kane nodded, accepting that. He wasn’t a man who filled silence just to avoid it. It actually helped.

Bellamy looked toward the skyline — the sun bouncing off mirrored windows, sharp and bright. He had seen these buildings his whole life. After school. On TV. In interviews. On red carpets he had never expected to be anywhere near.

And now he was going inside one of them.

To meet her.

He still hadn’t figured out how to feel about that. Excited, yes — obviously. Terrified, absolutely. Curious, deeply.

Because now he was part of her story.

And he still didn’t know why she wanted him in it.

The car slowed as they approached a gated private entrance. A security guard checked a list — then waved them through without hesitation.

Bellamy’s stomach tightened.

This was real.

Kane’s hand rested briefly on Bellamy’s shoulder — steadying. Not warm. Just grounded.

“Whatever happens today,” Kane said quietly, “remember — you are not beneath her. You are not lucky to be chosen. You are bringing something to the table too. Don’t forget that.”

Bellamy nodded, swallowing hard.

He didn’t feel that yet. But maybe… maybe he could learn to.

The car came to a stop.

The door was opened for him.

A security guard led them down a quiet corridor to a private elevator. The kind of elevator that didn’t stop on every floor — it went straight to the top. Bellamy followed, Marcus Kane beside him, both of them silent, the hum of the elevator the only sound.

When the doors opened, they stepped into a private penthouse. Bellamy had assumed they would meet Lexa in some official office she rented for such purposes — something professional. Instead, it was unmistakably personal.

The guard guided them down another short corridor, wordlessly, and then opened the door to a sleek meeting room. Lexa Woods was seated at the table. Beside her sat Anya and three other people — her team, it seemed. Only two chairs were empty, set side by side. One directly in front of Lexa.

Bellamy walked forward and sat without a word, his nerves coiled tight but his body trying to appear calm. She didn’t look up from her phone. Not yet. He had free rein to study her.

She was more than beautiful.

The kind of beauty that didn’t just catch the eye — it demanded attention. The kind that made people hesitate, even for a moment, before speaking. Her posture was effortless, commanding, yet she seemed entirely absorbed in whatever she was reading on her phone. Bellamy felt his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with seeing someone so utterly in control.

He settled into the chair, letting his eyes roam subtly over her features, committing the moment to memory, knowing this was the start of something that could change everything.

And still, she hadn’t looked at him yet.

“Welcome, Bellamy Blake and Marcus Kane. Thank you for joining us. Lexa, we’re ready to start,” Anya said, and at last, Lexa set her phone down. She gave Anya her attention but still didn’t look at Bellamy.

“I’ll quickly introduce everyone present today so you know who’s who,” Anya continued, motioning as she went. “This is Gustus, head of Lexa’s security team. He ensures that any plans we make today are secure. Here we have Niylah, Lexa’s stylist — during our collaboration, she’ll also be your stylist unless you have your own, Mr. Blake. And finally, Echo Winter. Echo is a writer and will make sure that our romantic narrative is delivered convincingly.”

Bellamy couldn’t help but glance at Echo. A writer. They had hired a writer to help manage this. Incredible.

“We’ve decided to keep this relationship very private, which means no one — not even people in your closest circles — will know the truth. Only those of us in this room are aware. We chose this because you are both independent, single adults who live alone,” Anya explained.

“I… have roommates,” Bellamy said without thinking.

For the first time, Lexa looked away from Anya and directly at him. Immediately, he wished she hadn’t. That was dumb.

“Because you are independent, single adults,” Anya corrected with a small smile. Bellamy’s face heated. He would give anything for Lexa to look away now. Now please. But she didn’t. She looked at him as if he were some alien creature from another planet.

“We’ll start with a first meeting. I’m thinking at your premiere in a few days. The press can get good photos and establish a believable starting point for the relationship. What are your plans that evening, Bellamy?” Anya asked.

“Uh… I’ll be going with my mom and sister. And then there’s an after-party I might go to — probably with my sister, maybe invite a few friends,” Bellamy answered, hesitant, his words stumbling.

“Perfect. Then the relationship can start there. I imagine Lexa will make the first move, greeting the new star, and then we take it from there. It might also be a good idea for you to attend the after-party, Lexa. Gives you both more time to develop a realistic connection. It’s important, though, that you actually have some private moments together, since Bellamy’s friends and family will be present and need to buy into the story,” Anya said calmly.

She turned to Echo. “What do you think, Echo?”

“I think it sounds like a good starting point. Gives me something to work with. I know Lexa already, but I’ll also want to interview Bellamy so I can capture his character accurately,” Echo replied with a smile.

Bellamy felt like he was in very deep water.

Bellamy was losing focus. They had been going over the premiere down to the smallest detail, and the excitement he’d once felt was slowly evaporating. They’d been discussing their first public encounter for almost two hours and he was so far past done.

When Echo, for the third time, suggested they stage a paparazzi moment in an alley, Gustus finally snapped.
“You can’t have a spontaneous alley meeting and still maintain proper security,” he said flatly.

Bellamy dragged a hand down his face. Jesus Christ.

“Maybe we should take a break and come back to wardrobe after?” Lexa suggested.

Bellamy looked up at her. Lexa met his eyes — and there was sympathy there. Real sympathy.

“Right. Half an hour break,” Anya announced, already pushing her chair back. The room began to empty.

Lexa, however, didn’t move right away. She stayed seated for another moment, still watching him. Then she stood.

“Come on, Bellamy,” she said quietly, her voice a soft offer rather than an order. “Let’s go find a snack.”

And he followed.

Lexa led him into her kitchen.
“Are you okay? You looked like you were about to bolt in there,” she said, pulling open cabinets and setting snacks on the counter.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s all just… new,” Bellamy muttered.

“Right. We wouldn’t want to scare you off.” Her voice was light, but her shoulders dropped with something real. “They all forget that while they’re choreographing the perfect first moment, the real first meeting is happening now.”

She turned to face him. For the first time, they were standing directly across from each other — no table, no other people. Just her. And she was… luminous.

“This is our first meeting,” Lexa said, holding his gaze. “I don’t know you. And you don’t know me. We’re strangers.”

Bellamy’s mouth went dry.

“The question is,” she continued, softer now, “do we want to become friends through all of this… or keep it that way? As strangers.”

Then she turned away again — leaving the words like a small, precise punch below his ribs.

Bellamy gathered a handful of snacks quickly, though he wasn’t really hungry, just needed something to do with his hands. By the time he turned, Lexa was already gone, her footsteps quiet down the hall. For a second he stalled in the kitchen—because this was her home, not a set, not a neutral office, but her real space. You didn’t just move freely in a space like that. But standing there doing nothing felt worse, so he followed.

The living room was bright, all clean lines and soft colors, lived-in but curated. Lexa sat curled in the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under her, scrolling through something on a tablet. She looked up when she sensed him, offered a small, genuine smile—nothing performative—and set the tablet aside.

“Tell me about the people you’re bringing to the premiere,” she said, like she was asking about the weather, not about the foundational pillars of his life.

“Um. My mom,” Bellamy started, shifting his weight, suddenly aware of every inch of himself. “She—she raised me and my sister alone. She’s… Strong. The strongest person I know.” His voice softened without permission.
“And my sister. Octavia. We’re really close. Best friend. Same friend group, same everything.”

He glanced at Lexa then—too quickly—and immediately looked away, heat crawling up his neck. He’d been trying so hard not to stare, not to make it obvious how surreal this was.

“Okay,” Lexa said, tone flat but not unkind. “You have to stop doing that.”

He blinked. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m a celebrity.”

“You are a celebrity,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Yes,” she agreed, almost amused, “but not to you.”

She held his eyes then—really held them. And it hit him that she was trying. Actually trying. Meeting him where he was in this.

“In a few weeks, you’re my boyfriend,” she said simply. “In a few days, the paparazzi will have photos of us kissing.”

He inhaled wrong at the word kissing and choked—loudly. Lexa didn’t look alarmed, just got up to lightly thump his back once like this was extremely normal.
From somewhere down the hall Anya called, deadpan:
“Lexa, do not kill the boy. I don’t have time to replace him.”

Lexa sighed, yelling back. “I’m not killing him.”
Then, to Bellamy: “You okay?”

He nodded, coughing once more. “Yeah. Just—wow. That’s….”

“It’s just part of the job,” Lexa said, sitting back down, like this was nothing.

“A job everyone thinks is real,” Bellamy pointed out, voice quiet now.

Lexa shrugged lightly, as if she'd worn this conversation thread bare years ago.
“You’re not my first PR relationship.”

“I’m not?” His voice came out higher than intended.

Lexa gave him a look that said please. Then listed a few names—actors, singers, the types who appeared in late-night monologues and Instagram scandals. Names he recognized instantly from headlines his sister used to dissect like scripture.

“I’m—this is going to sound weird—but that’s… all of your relationships,” he said, cautious, like he was stepping onto ice.

Lexa paused—not offended, not defensive—just… looked a little surprised

“My sister is a fan,” he explained, softer. “She keeps track of your whole career.”

That made Lexa huff a breath—not a laugh, but the ghost of one.
“Oh, fantastic. A fan in the family.”
Then, quieter, with no performance in it at all:
“And no. Those weren’t all my relationships. Those were just the public ones.”

She didn’t look away. She didn’t blink.

“I keep the real ones private.”

Something in the air shifted—not tension, but truth.

Bellamy didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.

The world had watched Lexa Woods fall in love a few different times.

And none of it had been real.

Chapter Text

They were still in the meeting room when the late evening sun slipped low enough to turn the windows gold. Shadows stretched long across the table; the energy in the room had thinned into that tired, end-of-day quiet. Papers had been gathered, coffee cups half-empty, and even Gustus looked like he was ready to be somewhere else.

“It’s getting late,” Anya said, glancing at Echo instead of the clock. “Do you have what you need to put together a script of the first meeting before the premiere? Just to make sure we all see the same story.”

“Almost,” Echo replied, leaning back in her chair. She looked as if her brain was still turning, still collecting threads. “I’d still like to talk to Bellamy one-on-one. Get his voice right. But…”

She left it there, the but heavy in the room.

“What about now?” Kane suggested, and it was too cheerful, too quick—an agent doing his job. “You need dinner anyway. You could grab a meal together somewhere.”

Bellamy’s pulse slowed in his ears; exhaustion pressed down the back of his neck. His head felt full—too full—crowded with the day, the planning, Lexa’s eyes in the kitchen, the way his life was already no longer just his.

He wanted to go home. He wanted quiet. He wanted to sit in a dark room and not be perceived.

But everyone was looking at him. And saying no felt like declaring weakness.

“Yeah,” he said, even though he didn’t mean it. He forced a small smile. “Yeah. I need to eat anyway.”

“Great,” Echo said, though her smile didn’t land perfectly—it wavered, as if she could see the tiredness in him, and didn't quite know what to do with it.

Kane gave Bellamy a supportive pat to the shoulder. “Good. This will be good for the narrative.”

Narrative.

Not his life.
Not his feelings.

The story.

Bellamy nodded, because what else was there to do, and the room slowly broke apart around him—people standing, gathering bags, murmuring their goodbyes.

Only Bellamy stayed still for a moment longer, hands in his pockets, looking at the fading light on the floor and trying to quiet the part of him that wondered just how much of himself he would have to give away to make this work.

They drove in near silence, city lights flickering across the windshield like passing thoughts neither of them said aloud. Bellamy leaned his forehead against the cool glass, eyes distant, while Echo’s fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. The restaurant they chose was small — warm lighting, soft background chatter, the kind of place where conversations didn’t need to be forced.

Bellamy ordered the most basic thing on the menu — pasta with nothing fancy — and stared at the table until the plates arrived. Echo didn’t push, didn’t fill the space with unnecessary talk. She watched him the way a writer watches a scene: quietly, cataloguing, waiting.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked finally, voice gentle but precise, like she already knew he was thinking about something.

“Nothing. Not really,” Bellamy murmured, picking up his fork. He took a bite, swallowing like his mouth was dry. “Just… something Lexa said. It’s not important.”

“It’s occupying you,” Echo said simply.

He hesitated. “Just…. It’s not a big deal.”

“Let me guess—the previous PR relationships?.” Echo asked.

“You know about them?” he asked.

“I wrote them. Not all of them. But the last few.” She sipped her water. “It’s my job to understand what makes a pairing work on camera.”

Bellamy shook his head slowly, confusion knitting his brow. “I just don’t understand how someone can do that. Again and again. Pretend to fall for someone and not actually feel something.”

“What exactly are you saying?” Echo asked, leaning in slightly.

“Just …how you can look someone in the eyes, kiss them, share attention, intimacy — and not… let it become real.”

Echo’s expression softened with something like warning. “You’re not falling for her, are you? Because that never ends well.”

Bellamy actually laughed — a quiet, tired laugh but real. “No. No, relax. I’m not falling for her. I just… I can understand doing it once. I can understand keeping things professional. I just don’t understand how you do it again, and again, and again… without something eventually clicking. Without one of those people mattering.”

Echo sat back. “Lexa knows how to compartmentalize. She can separate the performance from the truth.”

“The false from the real,” Bellamy murmured.

“Yes,” Echo said. “Exactly.”

“And the real? You know anything about those?” he asked.

Echo looked down, thoughtful. “I know she’s had real relationships. But I don’t know who. Or when.”

“So it’s a secret. Even among her own team,” Bellamy said.

Echo smiled, not unkindly. “We all have rooms in our lives that we keep locked. I have my guesses, but those secrets are hers to keep.”

Bellamy let that sit in his chest. Heavy. Oddly tender.

“But Bellamy,” Echo continued softly, “you need to think about this like a role. A story we’re telling. This isn’t your relationship. It’s… like a mockumentary. You know the difference between playing love and feeling love. Just think back to your past relationships. Remember what it feels like when it’s real. This isn’t it”

Bellamy swallowed. “I’ve never actually been in a relationship.”

Echo blinked. “Never?”

He shook his head.

“But you’ve cared about someone.”

Clarke’s face flashed in his mind — sunlight hair, light blue eyes, her laugh. His chest pulled tight before he could stop it.

Echo saw everything in the half-second it crossed his face. Her voice softened.

“Tell me about her.”

“Who?” 

“The girl you just thought of.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Bellamy said quickly. “We were never… anything..”

“Start simple then. What does she look like?” Echo asked.

“Oh, she’s beautiful,” Bellamy said before he could contain it — the kind of truth that comes out untouched. “Really beautiful. Blonde…””

“Big boobs?” Echo deadpanned, one eyebrow raised.

Bellamy choked on his food laughing. “Yeah — but that’s not— she’s— it’s not like that.”

“Mm, sure,” Echo teased, grinning.

“No really. She’s sweet. Smart. I’ve known her forever. We’re just… friends.”

“Friends? Still friends?”

“Yeah. She’s my sister’s best friend.” 

He hesitated.

 “I don’t know if she feels anything for me. I don’t even know if I feel anything for her. I just… think about it sometimes.”

Echo nodded thoughtfully.

“A complication. Is she coming to the afterparty?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll know soon enough.” Echo leaned back. 

“Why?” Bellamy asked.

“Because soon, you’ll be publicly dating the most desired woman in America. If she has feelings for you — she’ll feel it.”

Bellamy stared at his fork. “I don’t want to make her jealous.”

“If she isn’t jealous,” Echo said softly, “then you’ll also know. And in that case… there will be someone else for you. There always is.”

Bellamy looked at her — really looked. “You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Echo said, “You’re one of the good ones.”

He blinked. “What makes you say that?”

“Because we’ve been talking about feelings and authenticity for an hour, and you haven’t mentioned fame, or money, or what any of this could do for you yet.”

She smiled.

“You surround yourself with women you respect — your mom, your sister, your friend. You’re thoughtful. You’re grounded. You’re a gentleman. That’s how I’m going to write you.”

“Please do,” Bellamy said, smiling for real now. “Maybe I’ll learn something.”

“Don’t worry, you already know it and you will get through this,” Echo said, her tone quiet but sure. “without losing yourself.”

Bellamy looked at her for a moment.

“How did you know?”

“Because I’m good at reading people. And you look like someone who would care about that.”

She picked up her fork again, nodding toward him.

“So. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about yourself”

And he did.

Chapter Text

Clarke was sprawled across Octavia’s bed, one knee bent, her hair fanned out on the pillow as she flipped absently through a magazine. Page after page of celebrities — red carpets, interviews, paparazzi shots, scandals. Beautiful faces that didn’t seem quite real. She looked at them without really seeing them.

The bedroom door flew open. Raven stumbled in like controlled chaos, half out of her jacket, hair wild.
“Raven! I thought you couldn’t get time off this weekend?” Clarke said, sitting up a little.

“I can’t. Or—well—I shouldn’t.” Raven collapsed onto the bed dramatically. “But it is not every day I get invited to a big premiere afterparty. I refuse to stay home and fix machines for grumpy men. They’ll live. Tonight is our night.”

Clarke laughed, shaking her head, but her smile was warm. Raven had always been like a spark — one flick and the whole room lit up.

The bathroom door opened, and Octavia stepped out slowly, like she was entering a spotlight. She wore a new dress — blue, simple, but cut in a way that made her impossible not to look at.

“Okay,” she said, eyes wide. “But… I’m actually invited to the premiere. As a guest. Of the main actor. And I have no idea if this dress is good enough.” She turned in a full circle, nerves and hope tangled together in her expression.

“You’re hot,” Raven said immediately.

“Yeah,” Clarke added, softer, sincere. “You look beautiful.”

Octavia narrowed her eyes a little, as if she wasn’t sure she believed it yet.
“Okay, but… am I beautiful like me beautiful, or beautiful like Lexa Woods beautiful?”

Clarke and Raven looked at each other — and Clarke broke first, laughing, shaking her head.

“O, I love you, but… none of us are ever going to be Lexa Woods beautiful. That’s just not… in the cards written for our mortal bodies,” Clarke said, waving a hand in hopeless dramatic flair.

Octavia tried to hold back a smile, but it pushed through anyway.
“But I’m close in this dress… right?”

Clarke stood up, took Octavia’s hands, and squeezed.
“Yes,” she said, and this time there was no joking in her voice.
“You’re close.”

Octavia and her mother, Aurora, stood by the front door of their small house, dressed in their very best. The air had that early-evening hush — like the world was holding its breath. Aurora smoothed the front of her dress for the tenth time, and Octavia bounced lightly on her heels, trying not to look nervous.

A sleek black car with tinted windows rolled up to the curb. The passenger door opened — and Bellamy stepped out.

He looked… different.

His hair was styled perfectly, pushed back in a way that made him look older, sharper. The suit he wore fit him like it had been made for him specifically — which, of course, it had. There was something almost movie-like about him in that moment.

Aurora’s eyes welled up instantly.
“Wow,” she whispered, hand coming up to her chest. “You look handsome, my son.”

She slipped into the car first, touching his cheek as she passed, pride soft and warm in her expression.

Octavia grinned wide as she stepped forward.
“Yeah,” she said, elbowing him lightly. “You clean up nicely.”

Bellamy laughed under his breath — but the tightness in the sound gave him away. His smile was real, but his shoulders were tense. His pulse was loud enough he was sure they could hear it. The night was big. Everything was big now.

“Ready?” Octavia asked, voice gentler this time.

Bellamy nodded — even if he wasn’t sure he was.

And the door shut behind them.
The car pulled away.
The world, very quietly, had begun to change.

It was louder than Octavia expected.

The paparazzi were shouting — calling out names, questions, demands — their flashes bursting like lightning in every direction. Actors and directors moved down the red carpet with perfect smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes, pausing and turning to be photographed from every angle. Interviewers leaned forward with microphones, ready to catch any slip of gossip.

Bellamy took a slow, steady breath before stepping onto the carpet.
Octavia and Aurora were immediately guided away by a staff member, escorted off to a quieter side entrance reserved for guests and family.

The reception hall inside was wide and bright, all marble floors and golden lighting. Waiters drifted through the room with silver trays of champagne.

Octavia accepted a glass and handed another to her mother.
They stood near one of the tall windows, waiting for Bellamy to finish his walk and rejoin them.

Octavia looked around — and her breath caught.

The room was full of faces she recognized from movie posters, late-night interviews, streaming service thumbnails. People she had only ever seen on screens were suddenly three-dimensional, laughing, adjusting their suits, greeting each other like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Wow,” Octavia murmured, almost to herself.

Aurora squeezed her hand gently, sharing the same quiet awe.

“I’m just going to run to the restroom. Wait for me here,” Aurora whispered to Octavia, squeezing her arm before slipping through the crowd.

Octavia nodded and watched her disappear into the flow of glittering gowns and black suits.
And then she was alone.

She lifted the champagne flute to her lips. The noise of the room pressed in — laughter, camera shutters, the distant hum of reporters still working outside. She tried to look casual, relaxed, like she belonged here.

But she didn’t.

She was just… Octavia Blake from down the street. Someone who bought dresses on sale and worked overtime to make rent. And now she was standing in a ballroom full of people who had their clothes custom sewn for their bones.

She tracked the room slowly, pretending she was just observing., not staring.

She saw a famous model leaning against the bar like it was her natural habitat.
She saw two actors flirting too directly for it to be just professional.
She saw a director she recognized from one of Bellamy’s favorite films.

And then—

Octavia’s breath hitched.

Lexa Woods had entered the room.

Her presence was like gravity shifting.
People turned — just slightly — like plants instinctively reaching toward the sun.

Her dress was soft, fitted perfectly, draping like it was made only for her. Her hair was loose for once, soft waves falling over her shoulders, and her makeup was quiet, intentional, devastating.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to.

Even from across the room, Octavia felt her pulse spike.

Oh, she thought.

So that’s what Clarke meant.

Nobody was Lexa Woods beautiful.
Nobody.

“Hey—there you are. I couldn’t find you. Where’s Mom?” Bellamy asked as he stepped up beside Octavia. His voice was low, still carrying the nervous energy of someone trying to appear calm.

“Bathroom,” Octavia answered, forcing herself not to glance back toward where Lexa Woods had been. She took a small sip of champagne instead, like that could ground her.

“How was it? The press?” Octavia asked, smiling at her brother.

“Intense,” Bellamy exhaled, but his smile was honest this time. “But it’s done.”

Octavia nodded and took another sip. She was about to ask something else when—

“Bellamy Blake.”

Lexa Woods.

She was right there.

Octavia choked mid-sip, champagne burning the wrong way down her throat. She tried to cough quietly, which only made it worse.

Lexa didn’t even seem to notice Octavia struggling for air. Her attention was entirely on Bellamy — warm, bright, and unguarded in a way Octavia had never seen her be in interviews.

“I’m so glad I found you,” Lexa said, her smile soft, deliberately personal. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing this film. I’ve heard such good things already.”

Her hand came up, fingertips brushing Bellamy’s arm — gentle, proprietary.

Bellamy returned the smile, steady but a little breathless. “You’ll have to tell me what you think after.”

“Oh, I’ll be brutally honest.” The corner of her mouth curved, her gaze flicking — unmistakably — to his lips before returning to his eyes.

Octavia blinked. That was flirting. Extremely competent, cinematic flirting.

“I would appreciate that,” Bellamy said softly.

They were still holding eye contact. It felt like the room narrowed around them.

Lexa’s smile deepened, and she finally acknowledged Octavia — one single, quick, assessing glance — before she stepped back.

“I’ll find you after,” she promised, her voice almost playful, and then she drifted effortlessly back into the crowd.

There was a heartbeat of stunned silence.

Then Octavia hissed, “DUDE. She was flirting with you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bellamy muttered, but there was no denying the tiny, dazed smile pulling at his mouth.

“Be serious. Have you ever met her before?” Octavia demanded.

“Never,” he said simply.

Octavia stared at him. Then back toward Lexa. Then back at him.

“Wow,” she whispered. “She was absolutely flirting with you.”

Before Bellamy could respond, Aurora reappeared, smoothing her dress, and an usher began directing guests toward the theater. The crowd shifted, slow and glamorous.

They followed.

Lights dimmed.

The film was about to start.

It was good. Better than Octavia had even let herself hope for. Still—there was something surreal about seeing her brother that big on the screen, his face reflected across hundreds of people, the room reacting to him. The audience laughed where they were supposed to, gasped at the right dramatic beats, and when the credits rolled there was a warm wave of applause.

Octavia’s chest felt strangely full. Proud. A little overwhelmed.

Outside the theater, the car Bellamy had arranged pulled up to drop Clarke and Raven off—and to take Aurora back home. Aurora pulled Bellamy into a hug, her hands cupping his jaw like he was still sixteen.

“Take care of yourselves tonight, okay?” she murmured, emotional in the way that only mothers at milestones could be. Then, quieter, into his ear: “I am so proud of you. And no drugs.”

“Mom,” Bellamy groaned, rolling his eyes—because if there was anyone in the world who didn’t need that warning, it was him.

The entire world could be on fire and Bellamy would still be the responsible one.

Aurora climbed into the car, the door shut, and the taillights disappeared into the city traffic.

The night suddenly felt young again—open and glittering.

Octavia, Bellamy, Clarke, and Raven turned together toward the direction of the afterparty, the bass from the venue faintly thudding somewhere down the street.

“Ready?” Clarke asked, adjusting the strap of her dress.

Octavia smiled, linking her arm with hers.

“Oh, we are so ready.”

And they headed into the night.

Chapter Text

Lexa’s car was parked a few blocks away from the afterparty entrance—close enough to arrive quickly, far enough to avoid being photographed too early. It was already going to make headlines tomorrow that she had shown up at all, to a relatively small premiere for her standards. She couldn’t look too eager.

She sat in the backseat, one leg crossed over the other, the script for the next part of the night open in her lap. She hadn’t had time to read it earlier. The interior light overhead cast a soft glow that made the pages look heavier than they were.

Beside her, Anya typed furiously on her laptop, like she always did.

“Ugh,” Lexa muttered, rubbing her forehead. “I’m the aggressor this time.”

“What?” Anya glanced up just long enough to register Lexa’s expression before her eyes flicked to the page.

“Echo wrote me as the one chasing him,” Lexa said, annoyed.

Anya raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s new.”

Lexa tilted the pages so Anya could skim the paragraph. Anya’s lips curved, slow and knowing.

“Well, you must really like him,” she teased, going right back to her typing.

“Yeah. Or she does,” Lexa said under her breath—so quiet Anya wasn’t supposed to hear. She read on, jaw tightening a little. “And she got her alleyway paparazzi moment, I see.”

“She did,” Anya confirmed. “Gustus managed to fix the security issue. Echo wanted to sneak a kiss in too but I vetoed it.” Anya said casually. 

Lexa dropped the script slightly to look at her. “A kiss on the same day I meet him? Thank you for vetoing that.”

“No problem. But—” Anya smirked without looking up. “—for the story, it does track. Considering how gone you are for him from the jump.”

Lexa scoffed—too quick, too light. “Still. I’m not going to look desperate. And I’m definitely not going to look cheap.”

Anya didn’t argue. She didn’t need to.

She simply checked the time, tapped twice on the privacy glass, and the car began to roll forward.

Showtime.

The car rolled up to the curb, slowing to a smooth stop. The door opened and Lexa stepped out, expression perfectly neutral—the trained face that said I am here, but I owe you nothing.

The paparazzi weren’t prepared. A ripple of surprise moved through them before the shouts began.

“Lexa! Lexa! Over here!”
“Who are you here to see?”
“Lexa Woods! Are you dating someone?”

Flashes burst like lightning, hot and relentless. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pose. She simply walked, heels clicking softly on the pavement, head held steady. She’d been doing this too long to give them anything they could twist.

Inside, the noise changed. Less chaotic, but no less intense. Heads turned. Conversations stopped and restarted in hurried whispers. People looked at her as though she was a comet no one expected to see twice.

Lexa didn’t look at any of them.

Her stride was controlled, almost slow. Deliberate. The kind of entrance that said: I came because I chose to. Not because I was summoned.

She only lifted her gaze once she’d moved a few meters in. The music pulsed low beneath the hum of conversation. Warm light flickered across crystal, sequins, polished shoes.

Her eyes scanned the room. Quick. Certain.

She was looking for two things.

Familiar faces she could safely acknowledge.

And him.

Bellamy Blake.

Her gaze found him, and she timed her smile perfectly—warm enough to feel natural, restrained enough to be intriguing. Every movement—every glance—was part of the narrative. She would make him look like the lucky lead in this story. She would make them believe.

She adjusted her posture as she approached, letting her presence fill the space without rushing. This was choreography, a performance. Tonight, everything she did would be seen, analyzed, and used. She couldn’t slip, not even for a second.

She was nearly at him when her eyes flicked over the people around him—his sister, whom she’d seen earlier, and the two friends he had mentioned at the meeting. Her gaze landed on the blonde woman with blue eyes at his side. 

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed around her. Everything else—the lights, the crowd—faded. Her pulse pounded in her ears, heat crawling through her chest, her hands tightening slightly. She felt a rush of something she hadn’t expected, something sharp and immediate.

Bellamy’s smile reached her, but she barely registered it. She forced herself to focus, to step closer, to remember why she was here. PR. Professional. A story to sell.

“Bellamy,” she said, slightly breathless, keeping her voice calm even as her heart hammered.

Bellamy lifted a surprised eyebrow for a split second but then smiled, smooth and casual. “Good to see you again, Lexa. I wasn’t sure you’d keep your promise.”

Lexa smiled faintly, brushing off the lingering shock. “It was a good movie,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she caught Bellamy’s dark brown eyes, even as the memory of those blue eyes continued to haunt her. She forced herself to stay focused.

Bellamy’s grin widened. “I thought you were going to be brutally honest.”

Lexa took a measured breath, still aware of the crowd, the performance expected of her. “Maybe this… this is me being honest,” she said, her words aimed at Bellamy.

Bellamy’s grin softened. “Then may I have this dance?”

“Absolutely,” Lexa whispered, letting herself be led onto the dance floor, the PR performance in full effect. But inside, she felt an unexpected, undeniable pull, a thrill that had nothing to do with their staged story.

Bellamy glanced back at his friends with an easy smile, oblivious to Lexa’s drifting thoughts. Lexa stole a quick glance at the blonde watching them go, and the woman’s rattled expression hit Lexa like a punch to the chest—the woman looked as if someone had just slapped her.

Shit.

Bellamy led Lexa across the dance floor, his movements confident and precise. Lexa’s mind, however, was anything but steady. She tried to focus on him, on the performance, but something had shifted.

“You okay?” Bellamy leaned close, his lips near her ear, warm against her skin.

Lexa swallowed, forcing her voice even. “Yeah… just impressed that you can actually dance,” she whispered back, though her pulse betrayed her, drumming in her chest like a warning.

“Really? Are you sure? You feel… different,” Bellamy said softly, tilting his head as if he could read her.

Lexa caught his gaze, keeping it steady. “Yes… but it has nothing to do with you,” she whispered. She broke free from his stare, and her eyes flicked across the room.

A flash of blonde hair, her chest tightened, her hands tingled, and the careful composure she’d built for this PR dance wavered dangerously.

Bellamy noticed the shift, a small furrow in her brow. “Lexa?” he asked, voice gentle, and she blinked, forcing herself back.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, catching his smile and returning it with controlled warmth. “Really.”

He nodded, letting the music guide them, moving closer again, but Lexa’s mind wasn’t on the narrative anymore.

“It’s time we disappear for a bit,” Lexa murmured against his cheek, her voice low, almost breathless, masking the chaotic thoughts in her head.

Bellamy’s hand found hers, guiding her toward a quieter side room, careful, discreet—or as discreet as anyone could be with so many eyes already on them. Lexa followed, her heartbeat echoing in her ears, her mind racing. She had a story to sell… 

Bellamy followed the script, whispering sweet nothings into her ear as he led her out into the alley. Lexa knew Anya’s photographer was waiting in the shadows; she had to stay in character. She had to be in love with him right now.

She looked up at him, seeing only Bellamy. His arms wrapped around her as they stood face to face in the dim light, his voice a soft reassurance: “It’s okay, I’m here.”

Lexa was supposed to fall for him in this moment. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could play the role. She opened them again and, in her mind, imagined him as the blonde woman. His brown eyes became hers blue. 

It hit her—Echo had been right. If the blonde were really here, she would kiss her without hesitation. And suddenly, the act became real in her mind, impossible to resist.

Lexa didn’t hesitate. Her knees felt weak as she leaned forward shyly, pressing her lips to Bellamy’s. He stiffened for the briefest moment, caught off guard—this wasn’t in the plan—but then he kissed her back. The cool night air mixed with the warmth of his body, and every nerve in her body seemed to hum with electricity.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a movement in the shadows—the faint flash of a camera—but she didn’t pull away. Her hands threaded through his hair, fingers tangling as if she could anchor herself to him, and she kissed him with a mix of restraint and urgency, as though this might be her only chance.

Every second felt suspended. The rush of adrenaline, the scent of him, the pressure of his chest against hers—it was overwhelming. She imagined the blonde, imagined the way she would feel in this very moment. And Lexa realized with startling clarity: if this were her chance—her real chance—she would never hold back.

And so she didn’t.

Chapter Text

Bellamy lay sprawled across his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. Sunlight poured through the thin curtains, warm and golden, but he felt heavy, pleasantly exhausted. For once, he didn’t have to be anywhere or smile for anyone. A rare blessing.

The peace did not last.

The door slammed open so hard it rattled the picture frames on the wall.

“WHAT! THE! FUCK!” Octavia’s voice exploded through the room.

Bellamy jerked upright, heart hammering. Before he could even see her clearly, something flew through the air and smacked him square in the face.

“OW—O, what the hell?!” He grabbed at the magazine now sliding off his chest, rubbing the spot on his cheek where the glossy edge had stung.

Octavia stood in the doorway like a storm that had learned to walk. “What. The. Fuck. Happened last night?”

Bellamy blinked. “What? Nothing?”

“Nothing?!” She stalked forward in three furious strides and snatched the magazine. “Nothing? You call this nothing?!”

She shoved the cover inches from his face.

There they were.

Him and Lexa.

In a dim alley, lit perfectly by a streetlamp. Her fingers buried in his hair. His arms around her waist. Bodies pressed close. The kiss looked desperate, romantic, inevitable.

“Oh,” Bellamy breathed.

He knew this was what they were aiming for. He understood the assignment. But seeing it captured—permanent, public—felt different. Real.

“Well?” Octavia demanded.

Bellamy stalled, then shrugged, trying to look casual. “I think… maybe she likes me?”

Octavia froze like she’d just short-circuited. “What?”

“I don’t know!” he said, holding his hands up. “We were dancing and talking and people were staring, so we went outside and she just… kissed me.”

He saw realization flicker in her eyes—right—he needed to sell this story to everyone. Including his sister. So he softened his expression, let his shoulders hunch. Shy. Sweet.

Octavia gasped. “Oh my god. You like her.”

Bellamy looked down, pretending embarrassment. “She was nice. It was… a good night.”

“No, no, no, no—absolutely not.” Octavia paced, hands in her hair. “You cannot like her.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because—” She gestured wildly. “Because she’s Lexa Woods. And you’re… you. She’s going to break your heart, Bell.”

“Why?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Because she’s Lexa Woods!” Octavia cried. “She could have anyone she wants, so why would she—”

“Why would she choose me?” Bellamy finished dryly. “Thank you, Octavia. Love the support.”

“I’m trying to protect you!” Octavia insisted. “She’s going to crush you like—like—like a leaf under a boot!”

Bellamy opened his mouth to argue, but she was already on the move again, heading for the door.

“I’m going to check on Clarke,” she said. “She left really suddenly last night. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

Bellamy frowned. “Why did she leave early?”

Octavia paused with her hand on the doorframe. “I don’t know. She got really quiet after Lexa swooped in and—” She mimed claws snatching prey. “Maybe she was starstruck.”

She took a step out, then glanced back with the casual cruelty only siblings achieve without meaning to:

“Or she likes you.”

The words dropped like a stone—heavy, cold—right into his chest.

Bellamy’s head snapped up. “What—?”

But Octavia was already gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

Silence fell again.

Only now, he was very, very awake.

Lexa sat curled into the corner of her sofa, eating her breakfast slowly. The apartment was quiet, sunlight soft across the hardwood floor. She had very intentionally not checked her phone, not opened any news alerts, not looked at what the world had made of last night.

She would see it eventually. She always did.

Anya walked in, coffee in hand. “Good morning, Lexa. So… did it go well last night?”

Lexa didn’t look up right away. She finished chewing, swallowed, and only then lifted her gaze. Her expression was steady. “I assume you’re here to tell me.”

Anya huffed a laugh through her nose, more tired than amused. “Well, let’s just say I was… surprised by the photos. Considering we agreed that the two of you wouldn’t kiss yet.” She paused, head tilted. “What happened?”

Lexa shrugged, calm to the point of defensiveness. “It felt right.”

Anya blinked. “It felt right to kiss him?”

Another shrug. “Yeah. I realized Echo was right.”

That made Anya go still. She studied Lexa for a long moment, eyes narrowing with the kind of perceptiveness Lexa sometimes wished she didn’t have to deal with. “Okay,” Anya said slowly. “Lexa. What actually happened last night?”

Lexa held her stare, jaw tightening. “I told you what happened.”

Anya didn’t say anything. She just kept looking—patient, pointed, unblinking. And Lexa was strong in every room but this one.

Finally, Lexa exhaled sharply and set her bowl down a little too hard.

“Okay—his friend was hot. Happy?”

Anya’s eyebrows flew up. “What?”

Lexa pushed off the couch and walked across the room, needing the movement, needing space. “Bellamy had his friends with him. And one of them—” she shook her head once, sharply, as if trying to clear it— “she was… very. Very. Hot.”

Anya stayed silent, following with her eyes.

“So when I was out there in the alley with him,” Lexa continued, shoulders tense, “I imagined he was her. And if it was her, I would’ve….” 

“Kissed her,” Anya finished gently.

Lexa stopped in place. Her throat worked as she swallowed. She gave one short, helpless shrug. “Echo was right. If I actually had feelings for him, I would have taken the chance. So… I kissed him like I would have kissed—”

“Her,” Anya finished for her again.

Lexa nodded once. Small and real.

“I think it’s better for the narrative anyway,” Lexa added, voice lighter, dismissive. Practiced.

Anya let out a slow breath. “Well… it’s definitely the narrative now.” A tiny laugh.

“Yeah,” Lexa said.

Except it came out quiet. And not happy.

Anya heard it immediately.

“Lexa,” she said softly. “Are you okay? I know last time was not … good … and I know things with Costia ending very abruptly and then all of this right after—if you need to talk, or if you just need space—”

“I’m fine,” Lexa cut in. Too quickly. Too polished. “Really. I didn’t think about her at all last night. I’m ready to move on.”

Anya’s expression shifted—concern tightening into something sharper. Protective. Worried.

Lexa hurried to add, “With my life. With my career. I don’t need to date. I’m—” she forced a small smile, one she didn’t feel— “I’m fine.”

Anya didn’t look convinced.

But she nodded.

Because sometimes it was easier to let Lexa have her armor.

Lexa sat in the backseat of the car, her knee bouncing despite the stillness she was trying to hold. The city drifted past outside the tinted windows in soft evening colors — warm streetlamps, neon signs flickering awake, people heading out to live their lives. It all felt far away from her.

The dress she wore was elegant in that effortless way that took three fittings and a stylist’s quiet stress. Her makeup was flawless, her hair pinned into something soft and intentional. She knew exactly how she looked. She was camera-ready. Gossip-ready.

But she wasn’t ready.

The script lay open across her lap, creased now from how tightly she’d been holding it. She had received it that morning. She should have read it then. Maybe she had known she didn’t want to.

Her eyes skimmed it again, irritation flaring warm under her ribs.

Because of that kiss — the spur-of-the-moment, too-intense kiss — the story had changed. Suddenly she and Bellamy were the couple that couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Tonight she was supposed to kiss him the second she saw him. Walk into the restaurant pressed close at his side. Laugh and touch and lean into him like they were already fused together. Kiss him during dinner.

And then leave together.
And take him home.
And let the cameras imply the rest.

On the first date.

Lexa exhaled sharply through her nose and flung the script across the seat beside her. She stared ahead, jaw clenched.

She wasn’t in the mood for this.

Lexa sat up straighter, schooling her breath back into something controlled. She slipped her expression into something calm. Composed. Easy.

“Ten minutes out,” the driver murmured.

Lexa nodded without looking up. “Thank you.”

Because yes — she would do it.
She always did.
She knew how to fall in love on camera.

The car slowed to a stop outside the small, elegant restaurant. Before she could fully brace herself, the door swung open. Lexa’s stomach dropped—already?—and for a moment she just froze, letting the crisp evening air wash over her. She wasn’t ready. 

Bellamy stood by the entrance, casual in jeans and a t-shirt. A t-shirt. And one with a bold, obnoxious logo plastered across the chest. Really? Lexa’s chest tightened. The paparazzi were already snapping, lenses flashing like tiny, angry suns. Her teeth clenched. This was supposed to be a first-date moment, and he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. 

Lexa forced a smile, the perfect “playful, charming couple” façade, and half-ran toward him. “Bellamy!”

He grinned, his laugh warm, spilling into the night like sunlight breaking through clouds. He opened his arms, and she stumbled into them, letting herself be caught. She pressed her lips to his in a kiss—the one the cameras were hungry for—but instantly, something off about him jabbed at her nerves. His stubble scraped her lips. Stubble. Rough and scratchy. He hadn’t shaved. Great. Her stomach twisted with frustration. 

She pulled back, forcing a neutral expression. “Let’s… get inside,” she said, keeping her tone light for the cameras. He smiled, oblivious to her irritation, linking arms with her as they walked in. 

They held onto each other as they were guided to the reserved table. It was a small corner booth with a cushioned bench that forced them to sit close together. Private, tucked away in a corner, yet perfectly positioned near the window so the cameras could still catch their moments. Lexa took the seat first, careful to compose herself, and Bellamy slid in after her.

He pressed close, his broad frame encasing her, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. Lexa drew a slow, controlled breath, forcing herself to stay calm. His hand rested lightly on her thigh, and he leaned a little closer. The menus sat untouched on the table, forgotten. She was wedged between the wall and him, feeling both exposed and trapped.

She tried to summon a professional smile, looking up at him, but he leaned in for a kiss on the lips. A flash from outside caught the exact moment. Shit. Panic started crawling up her spine. He whispered, “You’re beautiful,” his lips brushing her ear. Every instinct screamed at her. She could feel the cameras, the flashes, the pressure of the role she was supposed to play—yet this closeness, this warmth, it was too much.

She closed her eyes, attempting to shut it all out, to regain control, but the sensation of him pressed near her, the weight of expectation, made it impossible. Her chest tightened. “I…” She laid a hand lightly on his arm, trying to create some space. Her voice came out shaky. “I… uh…”

Bellamy tilted his head, concern flickering in his expression. “What is it?”

“I… I need…” she stammered, panic rising fast, legs tingling like they might buckle any second. “I… need to go to the bathroom.”

He pulled back just enough to give her space, smiling reassuringly. Lexa rose on shaky legs, her heart hammering, and bolted toward the restroom. Her breaths came fast and shallow, each step a struggle to maintain composure. Once behind the locked door, she leaned against the wall, pressing her hands to her face. Her panic throbbed like a living thing—her pulse racing, her body trembling. She was supposed to sell this story, look perfect, be the composed PR figure—but all she could feel was the chaotic panic rising, threatening to spill over. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Lexa whispered under her breath, pressing her palms hard against her eyes as she leaned back against the cold bathroom wall. The floor seemed to tilt under her. Her fingertips buzzed with pins and needles, her breath scraping thin and too fast through her chest. It had been months since she’d had a panic attack. She hadn’t had one since him…

“Relax. Relax. Relax,” she murmured, her voice cracking as she slid down the wall until she was sitting on the tile floor. Tears gathered before she could stop them — hot, humiliating, unstoppable. She felt ridiculous. Weak. Like a version of herself she swore she’d killed.

She had promised herself — never again.
Never another PR relationship.
Never another fake love story.
Never another performance of intimacy.

Her phone buzzed violently in her hand, jolting her. A message from Anya lit the screen:

“My photographer says you left the table. Are you okay?”

The bright letters blurred through tears. Lexa looked up at the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror. The woman staring back at her was flushed, blotchy, mascara smudged—she looked like something cornered and drowning.

She looked like a wet, terrified rat.

She typed back, her fingers trembling. “No, I can’t do this.”

The reply came immediately:

“I’m sending Bellamy out to you.”

Lexa’s stomach dropped. That was the last thing she needed. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. Another buzz:

“Are you presentable enough to leave the restaurant?”

She forced herself to look at her reflection again.
She typed:

“No.”

“I’m coming”, Anya replied.

And then—

A knock. Sharp. Too soon.

“Lexa? It’s Bellamy.” His voice was muffled through the door. Steady. Concerned. Oblivious.

Lexa forced her legs to move, her body heavy and trembling. She opened the door just enough for him to slip inside before she immediately turned away.

“What— Lexa…” Bellamy froze, shock overtaking his expression. “Are you— are you okay?”

“No,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Panic attack.”

Bellamy stood there helplessly — this version of Lexa was not in the script. His hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know whether to touch her or stay back.

Lexa tried to control her breathing, but each inhale came too fast, too shallow — her chest tight, throat closing.

Bellamy swallowed, glanced at the door, then back to her.
“Okay. Okay. Um— what can I do? Just— tell me what to do.”

Lexa shook her head, tears sliding down in silent streaks.
She didn’t need comfort.
She didn’t need closeness.
She needed out.

But she had no script for how to escape.

The tears had finally slowed, leaving Lexa hollow and shaky, when there was another knock. Before she could react, Bellamy opened the door.

Anya swept in first, sharp and composed, but her eyes were already glassy with worry.

Behind her came Niylah, Lexa’s stylist, already unzipping her kit as she stepped inside. The door clicked shut again.

“What happened?” Anya asked, voice low, controlled—but her eyes flicked to Bellamy like a blade.
Bellamy raised his hands defensively. “I didn’t do anything—”

“It was just… too much,” Lexa murmured, her voice cracked and thin. She sounded young. Unarmored.

Anya nodded once, her eyes threaded with concern. “Okay. We’re getting you both out of here. Niylah, start with Lexa, then Bellamy.”

Niylah knelt in front of Lexa with calm, professional hands and soft eyes. “I’m not touching your hair,” she murmured. “Just your face.” She wiped the tear salt away, fixed mascara, left just enough flush to look natural. Lexa didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink much either.

Bellamy watched, bewildered, like he had stepped into a movie he didn’t remember auditioning for.

Then Niylah pulled out Lexa’s lipstick. Applied it to Lexa’s mouth. Blotted.

And without hesitation, she applied the same lipstick to her own lips.

“The story,” Anya said, voice steady but breaking around the edges. “You two were out here kissing. It’s the only explanation that won’t turn this into a meltdown on camera.”

Lexa didn’t respond. She was present, but distant, her eyes unfocused like she was somewhere underwater.

Niylah crossed to Bellamy.
“I’m going to kiss you,” she said plainly.

Bellamy blinked. “…Right. Okay.”

She gave him a few quick, practiced kisses — just enough to transfer color and smudge the edges. Then she ruffled his hair, making it deliberately messy, like fingers had been in it.

Perfect.

“The car is already outside,” Anya said. “Bellamy, put your arm around her. Get her out quickly, but not urgently. Just… take care of her.” She paused. Just a beat. “We’ll regroup at Lexa’s place.”

Bellamy nodded and stepped into Lexa’s orbit, careful hands at her back. She placed her hand on his chest and let herself be guided, her body remembering how to play this even if her mind wasn’t in it. She pulled a public smile over her face — soft, pretty, empty.

They walked out together, the low hum of paparazzi waiting like static on the air. Bellamy tried to look lovestruck, but the worry was still too loud in his expression.

The second the car doors closed, Lexa slid to the farthest edge of the seat, as if just the memory of his skin burned.

Bellamy didn’t say anything.

Chapter Text

Anya was already in Lexa’s apartment when Lexa and Bellamy stepped inside. The warm light of the late afternoon caught the edges of Lexa’s hair, slightly mussed from the earlier chaos.

“Lexa?” Anya said as soon as she saw them, her voice a mix of concern and relief.

Lexa hugged herself tightly as she walked in, her shoulders trembling slightly. “I’m okay. I’m better. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. This was too much. The PR relationship is necessary, but this—this isn’t,” Anya said firmly, her eyes sharp as they scanned Lexa’s face for any lingering panic.

Bellamy stayed in the background, shifting from foot to foot, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking concerned without wanting to crowd her.

Lexa shook her head, trying to steady herself. “I thought I could handle it. I thought I was over it. I had no problems with intimate scenes in my last film. I don’t know why this felt different.” Her voice was low, uneven.

Anya hesitated.

“Should I go?” Bellamy muttered quietly, almost afraid to speak too loudly.

Anya shot him a sharp look, her expression hard. “No. You’re staying here tonight as planned. There’s a guest room for you.”

“Are we still… following the plan?” Bellamy asked, voice hesitant, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Yes, we are. We follow tonight as planned, and then we make a new plan for the rest of your dates,” Anya said, her tone decisive, yet gentle enough to reassure Lexa.

“But we… continue?” Bellamy’s voice wavered slightly, betraying the confusion and care he felt.

“We are both bound by a contract, Bellamy,” Lexa said calmly.

“I… shouldn’t I at least know what’s going on here? So I’m not caught off guard?” he asked, taking a cautious step closer, still hesitant, still careful not to overwhelm her.

Anya glanced at Lexa. Lexa hesitated, biting her lip, then shrugged faintly and nodded.

“Lexa’s last PR relationship didn’t go well,” Anya explained, crossing the room to stand a little closer to Lexa. “Cage Wallace was controlling and heavy-handed.”

“The singer?” Bellamy asked, confused, his brow furrowed.

Anya nodded. “He had a very specific idea of what Lexa was supposed to be for him. A trophy on his arm.”

Lexa looked suddenly smaller than Bellamy had ever seen her. Her eyes flicked down to the floor, but she still said, “I started having panic attacks.”

Anya continued, her voice softening slightly, “Especially around him. We had to go to great lengths to get that contract annulled.”

Bellamy frowned, concern etched deep into his face. “Then… why do it again?”

Lexa shook her head wearily, the motion slow and exhausted. “Sometimes you don’t have a choice.” 

Bellamy ran a hand over his face, jaw tight, exhaling slowly. “Okay,” he said, quietly resigned, standing there, hands in his pockets, unsure what else to do but be present.

With nothing more to say, Lexa moved further into her apartment and sank wearily onto the sofa in the living room, letting herself finally relax for a moment. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced loosely, and she let out a quiet sigh.

Bellamy hesitated, standing awkwardly, unsure whether to follow or give her space.

“I can show you your room,” Anya said softly, breaking the tense silence.

Bellamy nodded, relief flickering across his face, and followed Anya down a side hallway, his steps careful, as if not to disturb anything—or anyone—along the way.

After Anya had escorted Bellamy to his room, she returned to the living room where Lexa was still sitting on the sofa.

“Do you want me to stay here tonight, too?” Anya asked gently.

Lexa looked up at her and managed a small smile. “No, no, that’s not necessary.”

“Are you sure?” Anya’s voice was hesitant, concerned.

“Anya, I don’t have a problem with Bellamy. I’m not afraid of him. He’s a good one. You were right—he is the right choice,” Lexa said firmly, her hands resting in her lap.

Anya smiled softly. “Glad I could make the right call this time.”

Lexa’s gaze dropped to the floor. “That time… it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was me who chose him,” Anya admitted quietly.

“You couldn’t know how he was, Anya,” Lexa replied calmly.

Anya nodded, accepting it. “Call me if anything comes up.”

“Always,” Lexa answered.

Anya turned and left the room, leaving Lexa alone with her thoughts, the quiet settling around her like a soft, necessary blanket.

Lexa sat on her sofa for a while, letting the quiet of her apartment settle around her, until her stomach reminded her that neither she nor Bellamy had eaten at the restaurant. She stood up and walked down the hallway to Bellamy’s room, knocking lightly.

“Bellamy, do you want some food? I was thinking we could order something,” she said.

Bellamy opened the door and hesitated, his expression unreadable for a moment.

“I can just order something… come into the living room,” Lexa offered, stepping aside.

“Are you sure?” he asked, still hesitant.

“I’m not fragile,” Lexa muttered, turning to lead the way into the living room.

Bellamy followed after her, the quiet of the apartment filling the space between them as they moved.

Bellamy had never seen so much takeout food in one place. Lexa had ordered a little bit of everything—crispy, greasy burgers stacked high, their buns glistening with butter, golden fries piled in small paper cones with flecks of salt catching the light, a platter of sushi rolls with delicate slices of salmon, tuna, and avocado, drizzled with sauces that glinted under the living room lights. Bowls of steaming pasta from a fancy Italian restaurant sent curls of aromatic steam into the air, and the decadent desserts—chocolate tarts with shiny ganache, cream-filled pastries dusted with powdered sugar, and tiny fruit-topped cakes—added bursts of color to the otherwise neutral coffee table. The room smelled of fried potatoes, rich chocolate, and herbs all at once, a strange but comforting mix. Lexa and Bellamy sat across from each other, eyes darting between the feast and each other, the quiet hum of the city outside the apartment windows filling the pauses.

“I didn’t know what you felt like eating,” Lexa said, picking up a delicate piece of sushi with chopsticks.

“You could have just asked,” Bellamy replied, lifting a burger with one hand, ketchup smudging slightly on his fingers.

“This was easier,” Lexa shrugged.

“Only someone with money would think that’s easier,” Bellamy said dryly, taking a tentative bite of fries.

Lexa paused, leaning back on the sofa, her long legs stretched out but knees slightly bent, her gaze drifting to the plate of pasta. “I’ve never… not had money, I mean. What’s it like?” she asked, her voice soft, curious.

Bellamy looked at her, his expression softer than she expected. “It’s not fun. Worrying all the time… feeling like you can’t ever rest. And sometimes desperation, if you have very little.” 

Lexa’s fingers traced circles on the edge of the coffee table, the smell of garlic and butter from the pasta filling her senses. “Was it like that for you? Desperation?”

“No, no, I never had it that bad. But my mom… she did. My sister and I, we were young,” he said quietly, his eyes flicking to the window as if remembering something he couldn’t quite place.

“What did she do?” Lexa asked, her tone gentle.

“She worked every job she could. Anything she could find time for, and we were looked after by whoever was available—neighbors mostly,” Bellamy said, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of sorrow.

“That sounds… brutal,” Lexa muttered, picking at a stray piece of dessert and letting the chocolate melt slowly in her mouth.

“Yeah. We didn’t get much time with her,” he admitted, shrugging slightly.

Lexa nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “I didn’t have much time with my mom either when I was little. But that was her choice, not a necessity. She had staff to take care of me.”

“How’s your relationship with her now?” Bellamy asked, leaning back, studying her face as if gauging her reaction.

“I’m here in Los Angeles and she’s in New York. When she comes here, I travel,” Lexa said, her voice calm, almost detached.

“Wow,” Bellamy murmured, his eyes widening slightly.

“But you have a good relationship with your mom, right?” Lexa asked, her tone softening.

“Yeah, very good,” he said, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.

“That’s nice. What about your friends? How do you know them?” Lexa asked, reaching for a mini chocolate tart, the cream sticking slightly to her fingers.

“High school. I have two close friends who are also friends with my sister,” Bellamy replied, taking a bite of his burger and chewing thoughtfully.

“The ones who came to the afterparty?” Lexa clarified, her gaze flicking to him.

“Yeah. Raven and Clarke,” he confirmed.

“The dark-haired one and the blonde?” Lexa asked.

“Exactly. Raven’s the dark-haired one. She’s super smart, works with electronics. Clarke’s the blonde, studying medicine,” Bellamy said, the corners of his mouth lifting into a soft smile.

Lexa looked at him and suddenly saw the blonde woman with the piercing blue eyes in her mind. A small, guilty smile tugged at her lips, and she felt her cheeks warm. She shifted slightly in her seat, hoping Bellamy wouldn’t notice the faint redness creeping across her cheeks as she reached for another piece of sushi, eating slowly to avoid giving anything away. Clarke—the beautiful blonde, blue-eyed woman was named Clarke, and Lexa felt a flutter in her chest.

“Lexa? May I ask you something?” Bellamy asked hesitantly, his voice careful, almost fragile, like he was treading on thin ice.

Lexa looked up from the half-empty takeout container in front of her, her expression calm but guarded. “Yes, what is it?” she said softly, her voice even, but with a trace of tension that only someone paying close attention could hear.

“You… you didn’t have a choice with this PR relationship. What does that mean?” Bellamy’s eyes searched hers, uncertain, trying to gauge if he was overstepping.

Lexa’s gaze drifted away, down to the patterned rug at her feet, tracing the lines absentmindedly. “It… it means I didn’t really have a good choice,” she admitted quietly, her words deliberate, weighed.

“What… does that mean?” he asked again, concern written across his face in every line.

Lexa shook her head and let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. She hesitated, swallowing as if the words were a bitter pill. Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, but Bellamy stayed still, watching her patiently, giving her the space she seemed to need.

After a long pause,  he added softly, “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me if it’s… too much.”

Lexa’s lips curved into a faint, tired smile, but her eyes stayed distant. “I know you’re under an NDA, so there’s technically no risk in telling you… but I’m so used to hiding it,” she said, voice low, almost mournful.

Bellamy’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing across his face, and he simply nodded, silently giving her space.

Lexa took a slow, deep breath and let it out with a quiet exhale, trying to calm the tightness in her chest. “The company behind my latest film… they gave me an ultimatum. Either they could take legal action for allegedly harming their box office, or I could agree to a PR relationship.”

Bellamy’s brow furrowed, confusion and disbelief flickering across his face. “What? Had you done something? How could you possibly hurt their earnings?”

Lexa rolled her eyes, a small, dry laugh escaping her despite the heaviness in her chest. “I… was filmed with my previous partner. And apparently, that was enough for them.”

Bellamy blinked, still trying to process. His mouth opened slightly as if to say something, then closed again.

Lexa rested her hands lightly on the edge of the coffee table, the tremor in her fingers betraying her calm exterior. She drew another deep breath, one that reached down to steady the panic she had carefully kept at bay for years. “I was filmed with a woman… and they decided that having a lesbian lead actress would… hurt the film.”

Bellamy’s eyes widened, a mixture of surprise, confusion, and something gentler, more careful flickering across his features.

Lexa closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep, steadying breath—the kind she had practiced for years, the kind that had kept her secrets safe from everyone. Then she opened her eyes and looked back at him with calm and resolve. “I’m a lesbian, Bellamy.”

Chapter Text

Lexa and Bellamy were sitting in the living room, drinking coffee and eating breakfast when Anya and Echo walked in. 

“Good morning, you two,” Anya said, voice bright, “Did you have a good night?”

“We did,” Bellamy answered immediately, easy smile in place

“Wonderful,” Anya replied. She leaned against the back of a chair. “Echo and I talked through our options regarding the relationship narrative, and we think the best move is to keep your passionate romance very private. Which means, for the next few weeks, the only paparazzi shots should be Bellamy coming and going from this apartment. It gives Lexa a break from being photographed, but… it would mean Bellamy is essentially living here.”

“Here? In her guest room?” Bellamy said, grinning like someone had just handed him a vacation. “Yeah, thank you. I’ve never slept better in my life.”

Lexa hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly on her mug. “Maybe we could update the room a bit. Make it feel more like yours.”

“It’s good already,” Bellamy said with a laugh. “It’s the best bed I’ve ever slept in. There’s a big closet, a sofa, a TV. I’ll bring my PlayStation and I’m set.”

“Okay then.”

“Perfect,” Anya said, satisfied. The plan was set.

Bellamy pushed up from the couch. “I should get going. I’ve got a meeting in an hour.”

He gathered his plate and mug, disappearing into the kitchen. The room fell quiet — a soft, thoughtful quiet — until Echo followed after him without saying anything.

Lexa and Anya were left alone.

Lexa let out a slow breath. “We should get him a PlayStation,” she said, voice lighter now. “And a better TV for the guest room.”

Anya’s mouth curled into a small smile. “We can do that.”

They stood there a moment before Anya asked, carefully, “So… last night went well?”

“Yeah.” Lexa nodded, the memory softening her shoulders. “We ordered food. Talked. And…” She paused, then looked up at Anya. “I told him the truth.”

Anya blinked. “The truth?”

Lexa swallowed, but there was no fear in it — just something steady. “About me. I came out to him.”

Anya stared at her, surprise flickering into something warmer. “You’ve never done that for a PR partner before.”

“No,” Lexa admitted, a quiet smile touching her face. “But it was the right thing to do. And it felt… good. Really good.”

Anya nodded slowly, relief and pride settling into her expression. “Then I’m glad,” she said softly.

Lexa held her gaze, and for the first time in a long time, her chest didn’t feel tight. It felt open. Real.

Bellamy was unloading Lexa’s dishwasher when Echo walked into the kitchen. She paused in the doorway, arms folded loosely, watching him for a moment before speaking.

“You know she has staff who do that,” Echo said, tone light — like she wasn’t actually criticizing, just… noting.

“I know,” Bellamy replied, placing another glass onto the shelf. “I just like feeling a little useful.”

Echo stepped farther in, slow and unhurried.
“I heard it was a bit of a night,” she said.

“Yeah,” Bellamy said with a soft exhale, though he smiled at the memory. “It was. But it ended well.”

“How?” Echo asked, leaning back against the counter, giving him her full attention without pushing.

Bellamy hesitated, his smile shifting into something smaller, more private.
“When we got back here, we talked. Really talked. And I think we’re a lot closer because of it. I… know her in a different way now.”

There was a faint warmth in his voice. Something like fondness. Maybe admiration.

Echo’s expression barely moved — but her eyes did. Something quiet flickered there.
“Oh,” she said, soft and a little uncertain. And then, more carefully, “I see.”

“What?” Bellamy asked, sensing the shift.

Echo looked at him steadily. 

“Just be careful. Lexa is… different from most people. She’s built a kind of armor around herself. Make sure you don’t get hurt pushing against it.”

Bellamy let out a small laugh. “I’m not falling for her.”

Echo still didn’t quite look convinced — but she didn’t argue. Instead, she stepped closer. She reached out and took his hand. Her touch was gentle. Warm. Controlled.

“Good,” she said quietly. “Because you deserve better than… that.”

Bellamy looked down at their hands, his breath catching a little.
“I…” he began, unsure of where the sentence was going.

And that was when Anya walked in.

Echo’s hand dropped instantly. Too fast.

“Do you need a ride again?” Anya asked Echo — but her eyes flicked to where their hands had just been.

“Yes,” Echo said, voice smooth, composed again like nothing had happened.

She didn’t look at Bellamy when she walked past him — but the space she left behind felt heavier than before.

Raven and Octavia were stretched across Octavia’s bed, pillows piled behind them like a fortress. The soft afternoon light slanted through the blinds, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. They talked about Finn, an old friend Raven had recently started dating.

“Is his hair still as long and greasy?” Octavia asked, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

Raven flung a pillow at her. “No! He’s not a teenager anymore! He’s… actually really nice. And good,” she said, rolling her eyes but smiling.

“Good, huh? You deserve the best,” Octavia said, nudging her friend playfully with her elbow.

“You know him. He couldn’t hurt a fly,” Raven said, leaning back against the headboard.

“Yeah, I know him. Unlike Bellamy’s new girl,” Octavia said, her tone lighter but tinged with curiosity.

Raven raised an eyebrow. “How’s that going?”

Octavia shrugged, lying back and letting her dark hair fan across the pillow. “I don’t know much. I get my updates from the magazines like everyone else,” she admitted with a small laugh.

“He hasn’t told you anything?” Raven pressed, leaning forward a little.

Octavia shook her head. “I barely talk to him. He’s been with her constantly the last two weeks!”

“Wow,” Raven said, eyes wide. “And Clarke? Is she still ….?”

Octavia nodded slowly. “Yeah, she’s keeping to herself. I don’t really know what’s happening with her. She’s been painting a lot again, so at least she’s got that.”

“Maybe that’s why she keeps to herself. She’s just focused?” Raven suggested softly.

“Yeah, maybe,” Octavia agreed. She glanced toward the window for a moment, then they heard the front door open and close, the familiar thud of boots on the stairs. Footsteps echoed up, and soon Bellamy walked past the open doorway to Octavia’s room.

“BELLAMY!” Octavia shouted, leaping off the bed like a spring.

Bellamy jumped, his arms flailing. “Give me a heart attack!” he exclaimed, eyes wide, realizing it was just Octavia.

“I had to catch you before you vanished again! Where are you sneaking off to?” she said, a mischievous grin on her face.

“I… I was just grabbing a bit more clothes…” Bellamy said, trying to sound casual but clearly uncomfortable.

“And then back to her place, huh?” Octavia interjected, waggling her eyebrows. Raven walked over, trying not to laugh at Bellamy’s flustered expression.

“Uh… yeah?” Bellamy said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… yeah.”

“Isn’t it about time we actually meet her?” Raven asked calmly, a small smile playing on her lips.

“What?” Bellamy asked, confusion written all over his face.

“It’s time we meet her. All of us,” Octavia said confidently, arms crossed.

“Isn’t that… a little soon?” Bellamy muttered, glancing between the two girls.

“Not when you’re spending so much time together. It doesn’t need to be fancy or anything. She can bring her friends, so it’s just a casual group hangout,” Raven said, her tone gentle but firm.

“Yeah, and it doesn’t have to be in her… evil lair,” Octavia added with a smirk, “It can be somewhere neutral”

“Her… what?” Bellamy asked, utterly bewildered.

“Evil lair… because she’s a spider who’s trapped you in her web,” Octavia said deadpan, tilting her head as if this were obvious to everyone but him. 

Bellamy shook his head, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. “You’re relentless,” he muttered.

“It’ll be fun,” Raven added, shooting him a supportive look. “Just us, Clarke, her, and her friends. Chill. Totally casual.”

“I… I can maybe ask her,” Bellamy said, hesitating.

“Do it!” Octavia said, bouncing on her toes. “I want to meet her properly! And don’t chicken out. You’ve been hiding her long enough.”

Bellamy, Lexa, Anya, Marcus, and Echo all sat around the polished oak table in Lexa’s sleek meeting room. Bellamy fidgeted slightly with his pen, glancing nervously at Lexa as he tried to find the right words.

“You called this meeting, Bellamy,” said Anya, her voice calm but sharp, giving him the floor.

“Uh, yeah, um… my sister and her friends want to meet Lexa for a group hangout,” said Bellamy, his eyes flicking between Lexa and Anya. He scratched the back of his neck and gave a small, awkward smile.

Lexa looked up, her expression a mixture of surprise and mild amusement. “Already?”

“Yeah, um… just casual… maybe with your friends… somewhere neutral,” said Bellamy, his words rushing slightly as he tried to clarify.

Lexa cast a glance at Anya and Echo. Echo, poised and professional as ever, leafed through her papers with a practiced air, and murmured, “That’s earlier than expected.”

Bellamy hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. “I… am the first one dating someone that the others don’t already know in some way,” he admitted.

Anya nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, which friends can you invite, Lexa?”

“Uh… Lincoln maybe… possibly Luna?” answered Lexa, her tone measured as she weighed the options.

“Okay, and they requested a neutral place? What does that mean?” asked Anya, raising an eyebrow, her voice calm but questioning.

Bellamy shrugged, letting out a small, nervous laugh. “Just not in Lexa’s evil lair… uh, home.”

Lexa raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly, but said nothing.

Anya tried to hide a smile behind her notebook, making a quick note. “I’ll review the security situation with Gustus and then choose a time and location that you can pass along to your friends.”

Bellamy nodded.

Octavia knocked on Clarke’s apartment door.

“Come in,” a voice called from inside, and Octavia opened the door.

The apartment was a whirlwind of creativity. Sketches and drawings covered every surface—tables, chairs, even the floor—and paintings leaned against the walls in an almost haphazard gallery. On the easel stood a single abstract piece in deep, forest greens, still wet with paint. Clarke herself wasn’t immediately in sight.

“You’ve been productive,” Octavia called, picking up a sketch from the floor. Her eyes widened as she realized what she was holding.

“I was inspired!” Clarke’s voice echoed from deeper inside the apartment.

Octavia stared at the drawing in her hands. It was in black and white, with only a single touch of color—Lexa’s striking green eyes. Bellamy’s figure was turned away, blurred as though out of focus, but Lexa Woods was precise, her gaze fixed over her shoulder directly at the viewer. Octavia froze for a moment, the sketch sinking in. This was the night at the afterparty. Bellamy and Lexa Woods—captured in the moment as they stepped onto the dance floor. Octavia placed the drawing carefully on the table.

Clarke stepped out from a side room, wearing paint-stained overalls, splatters of color on her hands and smudged across one cheek.

“We haven’t seen you in a while,” Octavia said.

“No, I had some things I needed to work through,” Clarke murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “How’s Bellamy?”

“Fine. Actually, that’s why I’m here. We’ve planned a hangout so we can meet Lexa Woods and her friends,” Octavia said, a spark of excitement creeping into her voice.

“Meet her? So they’re serious?” Clarke asked, tilting her head as she processed the news.

“Seems like it,” Octavia said, nodding slowly.

Clarke blinked, taking it in, and said simply, “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Backstage, the air was warm with studio lights and the electric hum of cameras. Lexa stood perfectly still while a stylist smoothed a fictitious wrinkle from the sleek, fitted dress she wore — a dress chosen carefully to look effortless, to look like she had never tried at all.

The host’s voice boomed from the stage:

“LEXA WOODS!”

The audience erupted. A familiar wave of sound — worship, hunger, expectation — rolled toward her. Lexa stepped into it with long, confident strides, shoulders relaxed, chin lifted. She greeted the host with a polite half-embrace, then sat, crossing one leg elegantly over the other.

“Lexa Woods. You’re on everyone’s lips these days,” the host said, bright with performative delight.

“Am I?” she replied, letting out a soft laugh — effortless, warm, perfectly measured for hearts to melt.

“You got your claws into a young actor before he even hit the shelves.”

“Bellamy Blake and I are the same age,” Lexa said, correcting him gently, the smile never leaving her face.

“You know what I mean. He was unknown before you. How did you meet?”

Lexa didn’t tense. She didn’t blink. She only tilted her head slightly.

“I think everyone saw our first meeting.”

“Kissing in the alley? That was the first?”

“That was the first. I just couldn’t help myself,” she answered, the memory sparkling across her face like something warm — though there was a sharpness behind her eyes that no one in the room knew how to read.

The audience reacted exactly how they were supposed to: awed, charmed, invested.

“You just couldn’t help yourself?”

“Bellamy is so lovely. So sweet. A real gentleman. I’m lucky I met him.”

Her tone was affectionate — believable — the kind that filled tabloids with hearts and hashtags.
She had perfected it.

“You sound in love,” the host teased.

Lexa smiled with her eyes, the way fans loved.

“He takes up all my time.”

Applause. Whispers. Hearts caught in throats.

The host leaned forward. “Speaking of taking up your time — you’ve got a new movie coming out soon. An action film.”

“Yes. That was a major project for me.”

“How so?”

Lexa turned her face slightly toward the cameras. Not dramatic. Just intentional. A queen choosing where to look.

“Oh, it affected my life quite a bit. It still does. The role… stayed with me. It influences my choices.”

The host blinked, surprised by the weight beneath her even tone.

“Really?”

“Yes. It almost… haunts me.”

“You’re haunted by it? That doesn’t sound good.”

Lexa’s smile sharpened.

“Does it not? Then I’m telling it wrong.”

The host laughed, not understanding. The audience laughed along too.

Lexa’s interview played on the TV while Octavia, Raven og Clarke got ready, the studio lights bright and the audience laughing warmly at something Lexa said. Lexa sat comfortably opposite the host, legs crossed, shoulders relaxed, smiling in that easy way that made people lean in. She looked like someone who belonged exactly where she was — confident and funny. 

Octavia tugged her shirt down and turned toward the screen, eyes wide.
"I still can’t believe we’re actually going to hang out with Lexa Woods. Not just meeting her — hanging out. Like… as friends!"

Raven snorted, brushing through her hair.
"Yeah, it’s insane. Who even are her friends? Who just casually has Lexa Woods over for game night? Probably other celebrities, right?"

Clarke sat on the arm of the couch, quiet. On the screen, Lexa laughed, head tipping back a little, the kind that made the studio audience cheer. She looked like someone who could make a room warmer just by standing in it.

Raven turned when Clarke didn’t answer.
"Hey. You excited?"

Clarke blinked, like she had to return from somewhere else.
"Yeah… I guess I am," she said softly.

Octavia didn’t hear the hesitation. She was already half dancing to the show’s outro music and checking herself in the mirror for the twentieth time.

"Okay, but be honest," she said, spinning around, hands in the air. "What if her friends are famous too? Like — what if some Oscar winner just walks in like ‘Hey guys’?"

Raven laughed, shaking her head.
"Then you’re going to pass out is what’s gonna happen."

Clarke looked once more at the TV — at Lexa’s warm smile, her relaxed posture, her easy charm.

Clarke swallowed and forced a small smile.
"Yeah… it’ll be fun."

Lexa sat at the bar with Lincoln, the rooftop space quiet except for the distant city noise far below. String lights hung overhead, swaying slightly in the breeze. The whole place had been cleared out for them — tables set, music low, glasses ready.

“It’s a shame Luna couldn’t make it today,” Lincoln said, offering Lexa a small smile as he leaned back against the bar.

Lexa nodded, fingers absently tracing the rim of her glass.
“Yeah… but I understand if she didn’t feel like it.”

“I think she really was busy,” Lincoln said, though his voice carried that familiar gentleness. He glanced around the empty bar, the space too polished, too prepared.
“It is a little strange though.”

Lexa huffed a quiet laugh — not annoyed, just acknowledging the reality.
“Yes.”

Lincoln looked at her, studying her posture, the calm stillness in her face.
“Are you nervous?”

Lexa took a breath — slow, steady — and considered the question honestly.
“I didn’t think I would be,” she said. “But… I know they already have opinions about me. At least one of them is a fan, so… it makes it a little weird.”

Lexa didn’t know whether Bellamy’s friend Clarke would be there tonight.
A part of her hoped she wouldn’t.
That would be easier — cleaner — nothing to handle, no question quietly pulsing under the surface of everything.

Because Lexa had felt something that night at the afterparty.
And she hadn’t allowed herself to name it.
Not then, and not now.

If Clarke didn’t show up, Lexa could pretend it hadn’t meant anything at all.
She could play the role. Be who she was supposed to be.
Simple.

But another part of her — the part she tried not to look at too closely — felt like the entire point of this hangout would be pointless if Clarke wasn’t there.

She stared down into her glass, the ice slowly melting.
Lincoln was speaking to her again — something gentle, something grounding — and she nodded.

She kept her expression calm, steady, open.
No one watching her would have guessed the conflict sitting quiet beneath her ribs.

Because Lexa Woods had spent years perfecting the art of seeming like nothing touched her.

Lexa took a slow sip from her glass, when the rooftop bar door finally opened.

Bellamy walked in first — and Lexa’s face shifted effortlessly into warmth. Not forced. Just… the version of herself she had learned to offer the world. The version that never cracked. The version people adored.

Her smile unfolded across her features like sunlight.

Octavia rushed in behind him, practically glowing, excitement sparkling off her like static. Raven followed close behind with the deliberate calm of someone trying not to gawk. The music was low, the lights golden, the city spread out beneath them in glittering constellations.

And then — Clarke.

She didn’t push forward like the others.
She didn’t walk quickly.

She just… appeared.

As if she had always been meant to fill that doorway.

Her hair was slightly messy, like someone had been absentmindedly running fingers through it while thinking too hard. There was something about her that felt like midnight skies and unfinished thoughts and quiet oceans. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just quietly overwhelming.

Clarke moved like she was made of something softer than everyone else in the room, and yet Lexa felt the impact of her like a punch.

Lexa’s breath caught.
Her mouth dried.
The floor shifted.

Clarke looked up, and her eyes — blue, but warm — met Lexa’s across the open space.

And everything Lexa had prepared for tonight fell apart in silence.

“Lexa?” Bellamy asked, uncertain.

The sound hit like a splash of cold water.

Lexa didn’t think — she moved.
She tipped back her drink and let the burn run down her throat like armor sliding into place. Then she closed the distance to Bellamy with the collected grace of someone stepping into a spotlight.

“Hey, babe,” she said, draping her arms around his neck and kissing him — soft, warm, practiced. 

But while Bellamy leaned in, smiling against her mouth —

Lexa was already looking past him.

Not obviously.
Just enough.

Clarke wasn’t smiling.
She wasn’t blushing.

She was watching.
Still.
Open.
Like she was trying to understand something she didn’t have the words for yet.

Their eyes met and held — in that suspended second where the world didn’t make sound. Blue met green

Lexa felt every beat of her heart in her ribs.

Then Bellamy stepped back, his hand slipping to Lexa’s waist, grounding her in the wrong reality.

Clarke looked away first.
Like she was putting something fragile back into its box.

And Lexa felt the loss.

“Hi everyone. It’s great to meet you — I’m Lincoln,” Lincoln said warmly, stepping forward and shaking each of their hands in turn.

Lexa still felt frozen in Bellamy’s arms, her heartbeat caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. When he finally let go to greet Lincoln, the spell broke — just enough for her to breathe again.

“Come closer,” Lexa said, her voice smooth but a shade too bright, the practiced tone of someone who refused to let nerves show. “We have a bartender tonight who can make anything you’d like, so just say what you’re in the mood for.” She turned her head toward the man behind the bar with a small teasing smile. “Right?”

The bartender nodded eagerly, clearly flustered under her attention.

“And there are some snacks over here,” she added, gesturing gracefully toward the table, her rings catching the light.

Octavia and Raven both looked thrilled — their eyes darting between Lexa, the rooftop view, and each other like they couldn’t believe they were really here. Bellamy was trying to play it cool, though his proud smile gave him away.

But Lexa barely saw any of them.

Her gaze found Clarke — effortlessly, inevitably. Clarke stood a few steps back from the others, quiet, still. The city’s glow touched her hair, painting soft gold along the edges. She wasn’t showing excitement like the others; she simply looked… present. Watching.

Lexa let her eyes linger, just long enough for Clarke to notice.

When Clarke’s gaze finally lifted, it met Lexa’s head-on — steady, searching.

And Lexa, for all her practiced composure, forgot what she’d just said. The air between them thinned until it felt charged, fragile — a thread neither of them meant to pull, yet somehow both were already holding.

Octavia and Raven eagerly went with Lincoln and Bellamy toward the bar to order their drinks, chatting and laughing already as they debated what to pick. Lexa naturally let herself fall a little into the background, simply observing the pure excitement radiating from them. Clarke, equally naturally, hung back, and eventually ended up at Lexa’s side. Lexa watched the group’s animated energy, but her attention couldn’t help but settle on Clarke. 

“What are you having?” Lexa asked, her voice calm, measured, but with an undercurrent of warmth that made Clarke look up. Clarke’s eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink around them. It hit Lexa that this was their first conversation.

Clarke smiled, hesitated, and murmured, “I don’t know… I don’t drink much, so… I don’t really know what’s good.” Her voice was soft, unsure, and Lexa felt a pull, a sudden, magnetic urge to help.

Lexa’s gaze lingered on Clarke, slow and deliberate, letting her eyes trace the lines of her face, the soft curve of her jaw, the way her lips moved when she spoke. “I know what you should choose,” Lexa said, calm but infused with a subtle authority, her lips curving into a warm, unassuming smile. Clarke felt heat bloom in her chest, a blush rising to her cheeks that she couldn’t hide, and Lexa felt a thrill, a quiet satisfaction at the visible effect.

Octavia and Raven were already moving toward a sofa in the corner of the bar, glittering drinks in hand, their laughter spilling over in bright, easy waves. Lincoln and Bellamy followed, leaving Lexa and Clarke alone at the bar. The space between them was charged, the tension hummed like a current just beneath the surface.

Do you like sweet white wine?” Lexa asked, her eyes never leaving Clarke’s.

Clarke nodded, her voice soft. “Yes.”

Lexa turned to the bartender, her movements smooth, precise, commanding just enough attention without breaking the intimate bubble she was creating with Clarke. “A bottle of Château d’Yquem 2015, please.” The bartender blinked at the choice, impressed, and went to fetch it, pouring two glasses with a professional flourish, he set the bottle down and stepped back, giving them a moment of privacy.

Lexa held Clarke’s gaze as she lifted her own glass. Clarke, flustered under the attention, reached for her glass — and fumbled, spilling wine across the bar. The bartender jumped back with a shocked expression, but Lexa quickly set down her glass and said reassuringly, “It’s okay, I’ve got this,” letting him retreat again. The liquid spread in a slow, cruel pool, and Clarke’s face burned with embarrassment.

“It’s okay,” Lexa said again smoothly, placing her warm hand over Clarke’s. Clarke could feel the heat of Lexa’s touch, firm yet gentle, grounding yet tantalizing, as Lexa steadied her. Lexa took the bottle and poured the wine into Clarke’s glass with careful precision.

“There,” Lexa said softly, her gaze locked on Clarke’s, unwavering. Clarke’s cheeks flamed hotter, her fingers gripping the glass tightly as she raised it to her lips.

“Wow… it’s really good,” Clarke whispered, almost breathless. Lexa smiled, small, pleased, but there was a spark in her green eyes.

“Come on, you guys?” Octavia called from the sofa, her voice breaking the spell of the moment. Lexa blinked, momentarily startled, a small laugh escaping her as she realized she had completely forgotten the reason they were there.

“Right… we should…” Clarke mumbled, embarrassed, her cheeks still warm, as she moved toward the others. Lexa followed, forcing herself to refocus, to remind herself of her role — Bellamy’s girlfriend. 

Clarke settled into an armchair by the coffee table, and Lexa slid down next to Bellamy, leaning lightly into his side. Bellamy’s arm came around her, a satisfied, comfortable smile on his face. Lexa tilted her head slightly, feeling the closeness, the soft, warm press of him beside her.

“What did you order?” Octavia asked, her enthusiasm unabated.

“White wine,” Lexa said simply. She leaned over to plant a quick, practiced kiss on Bellamy’s cheek, then let her gaze flicker over to Clarke once more, catching her eyes for just a moment. 

They sat close together on the sofa. Octavia was laughing, retelling a wild high school story about Bellamy. Lexa tried to listen, nodding and smiling politely, but her gaze kept flicking across the table to Clarke. Every time her eyes met Clarke’s, a tiny thrill ran through her, sharp and undeniable.

To anchor herself, Lexa overcompensated with Bellamy. Her hands were constantly in his hair, stroking the back of his neck or his shoulders. She pressed quick kisses to his cheek, sometimes brushing her lips to his mouth, all while maintaining a casual air. Bellamy smiled and responded with light touches of his own, but after a while, the constant closeness started to feel a little too much—even for him.

He shifted slightly in his seat, clearing his throat. “Lexa… can we step aside for a moment?” he said quietly, giving her a look that was gentle.

Lexa’s brow lifted slightly, and she leaned back, giving him a fraction of space. “Of course,” she said softly, standing and smoothing her dress. Bellamy offered a small nod, and they moved toward the hallway.

Raven’s whistle cut through the air—a sharp, teasing sound. She leaned back on the sofa, a mischievous grin on her face. “Needed a moment alone, huh?”

Clarke felt a strange twist of jealousy curl in her chest, an unfamiliar pang that made her stomach tighten as she watched Bellamy walk away with his girlfriend.

Bellamy and Lexa stood in the quiet hallway, the noise of the others fading behind them. “What are you doing? Can you… ease up a bit on the physical stuff? They know we’re together,” Bellamy said, sounding a little strained.

Lexa blinked at him in surprise. “We’re in a physical relationship, Bellamy,” she said, a hint of irritation in her voice.

“I know that. But… I actually hope we can stay friends after… all this,” Bellamy said hesitantly, running a tentative hand over the back of his neck.

“Okay?” Lexa replied, confused, unsure what he meant.

“I just want my friends to like you, and I don’t want to make them uncomfortable,” Bellamy explained.

“I’m not making them uncomfortable,” Lexa mumbled, frowning.

“You’re making me a little uncomfortable,” Bellamy said, quietly, carefully.

“Okay, I’ll stop,” Lexa said, lifting her hands to show she meant no harm, her expression softening.

The mood felt a little awkward as everyone waited for Bellamy and Lexa to return. To break the tension, Octavia asked with a grin, “Clarke, can I try your wine?”

“Of course,” Clarke replied, holding out her glass. Octavia took a sip and her eyes lit up. “Wow, wow, this is really good. What is it?”

“Uh, I’m not sure. The bottle’s on the bar counter,” Clarke said, pointing toward the bar where they’d left it. They all looked toward it.

Lincoln whistled softly, clearly impressed. “What is that?” Octavia asked him.

“It’s a thousand-dollar bottle,” Lincoln said, eyebrows raised, and he shook his head slightly in disbelief.

“What?!” Clarke exclaimed, taken aback, a flush rising to her cheeks.

Lincoln shrugged casually.

“Then it’s probably even more expensive here, in a bar,” Raven added, tilting her head as she studied the bottle.

“Yeah, probably,” Lincoln agreed.

“Why would she pick such an expensive bottle?” Clarke muttered under her breath, Her focus faltered as she realized Bellamy and Lexa were returning, their presence immediately filling the space.

“So, what’s up?” Lexa said casually, her warm, effortless smile landing on Clarke. Her eyes lingered just a beat too long, sweeping over Clarke in a quiet, searching way. Clarke immediately looked down at her glass, cheeks burning, uneasy with both the expensive wine and the weight of Lexa’s gaze. Lexa was Bellamy’s girlfriend.

Lexa noticed, a subtle crease forming between her brows. She felt a pang of sadness, at the way Clarke avoided her eyes. Lexa had wanted this evening to be fun, but the way Clarke’s discomfort subtly shadowed her made her stomach twist. Still, she forced her smile to stay warm, almost apologetic, as she silently urged Clarke to meet her gaze again.

Clarke’s fingers fidgeted around the stem of her glass, heart racing, as she tried to reconcile the kindness and the quiet intensity in Lexa’s look with the fact that Lexa was with Bellamy.

“Let’s dance!” Octavia suddenly exclaimed, springing up before anyone could say no. She moved to the center of the floor, already laughing.

Lincoln followed her immediately, unbothered and grinning. Raven grabbed Bellamy’s hand without thinking, pulling him into the small crowd of movement.

Clarke drifted away from the group, moving toward the edge of the rooftop. The city stretched below her, a patchwork of lights and shadows, and for a moment she let herself breathe, the music and laughter fading into the background. Her fingers fidgeted at the railing as she leaned slightly forward, staring at the streets below, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions inside her. The warmth of the rooftop, the buzz of the party, and the closeness of Lexa and Bellamy had been too much all at once.

After a pause, Lexa’s presence appeared quietly behind her. She hesitated for just a heartbeat, as if giving Clarke the space she clearly needed, before stepping closer. Her eyes softened as they met Clarke’s, calm and knowing, but still searching. Clarke’s chest tightened in response, a mix of longing, jealousy, and something she didn’t want to name.

Lexa didn’t speak at first. She simply leaned against the railing, close enough for Clarke to sense her warmth, yet careful not to crowd her. The subtle tension between them was almost tangible. Clarke’s fingers trembled slightly, caught between the desire to retreat and the pull of Lexa’s steady, compelling gaze.

Lexa hesitated, then gently placed her hand over Clarke’s. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Clarke looked down at the hand, then slowly lifted her gaze to meet Lexa’s, holding her eyes. Lexa’s breath caught, and she whispered, “Your eyes… They're so beautiful.”

The words hit Clarke like a punch to the stomach. “What are you doing?” she asked, but she didn’t pull her hand away yet.

“Nothing… it’s just the color… it really suits you,” Lexa said, never breaking eye contact.

Bellamy glanced up from the dance floor, catching sight of Clarke and Lexa at the edge of the rooftop bar, hands touching, backs to him.

“You’re really beautiful,” Lexa whispered again.

Clarke finally withdrew her hand and took a small step back. “You’re with Bellamy,” she said sharply.

Lexa said nothing, standing there silently as Clarke’s words crushed the hope she had been nurturing. Clarke cast one final look at her before turning away and walking off, leaving Lexa frozen.

Night had fallen, and the others had gotten a little more tipsy. Lexa had stopped drinking after Clarke had rejected her. Everyone had gathered around a table, and Lexa now sat quietly next to Bellamy, lost in thought.

“Let’s play truth or drink!” Raven said, clearly buzzed.

“Really?” Octavia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah! Don’t you want to know things?” Raven replied excitedly, and Octavia nodded thoughtfully.

“Okay, me first,” Lincoln said with a smile.

“Are you dating anyone?” he asked Octavia without hesitation.

Octavia blushed deeply and shook her head. “No.”

The others laughed, except Lexa, who hadn’t even noticed Lincoln’s interest in Octavia. Normally, she would have picked up on that immediately.

“Okay, Lincoln, if you weren’t an actor, what would you be?” Clarke asked, smiling.

“Ever since I was little, I wanted to be a firefighter,” he said with a grin, and they all smiled together.

“Bellamy!” Raven exclaimed loudly. “Tell us a secret about your relationship with Lexa! Something the press doesn’t know!”

Lexa shot a worried glance at Bellamy. He, a little tipsy himself, just laughed.

“About Lexa and me?” he asked, grinning. “We’re in an open relationship.”

“What?!” Octavia gasped.

“We’re just honest with each other about what we want,” Bellamy said, looking at Lexa. She was no longer smiling; instead, her expression had soured. The others stopped laughing too when Lexa abruptly stood and quickly walked out into the hallway.

“Oh… I guess that was supposed to be a secret,” Octavia murmured hesitantly.

Bellamy leapt up and followed after Lexa. “Lexa, wait! Wait!”

Bellamy caught up with Lexa as she was already heading down the stairs, her heels clicking sharply on the steps, too impatient to wait for the elevator.

“Why did you say that? Why the fuck did you have to say that?!” Lexa yelled, stopping in the stairwell, her voice sharp and trembling with frustration. Her hands clenched at her sides as her chest heaved.

“I… I just thought…” Bellamy said hesitantly, his own hands slightly raised in a placating gesture, unsure how to calm her down.

“Thought? You thought? How can you say something stupid like that in front of a group of people! Why didn’t you just post it online?!” Lexa’s words cut through the air, a mixture of anger and disbelief painting her face. Her green eyes flashed.

“What? None of them are going to repeat it. I trust them,” Bellamy replied, voice calm but with a hint of defensiveness.

“You trust them? Do you also trust the bartender and the cleaning staff too?!” Lexa snapped, stepping closer, her hands slightly raised as if to physically underscore her words. Bellamy noticed the sharp edge of her tone, the rare mix of fury and vulnerability.

Bellamy opened and closed his mouth, unsure what to say. The air between them felt tight, heavy with unspoken frustration and regret.

Clarke rose from the table hesitantly. “I’m just going to the bathroom,” she said, but before anyone could respond, she turned and left. She made her way to the hallway and slowly opened the stairwell door and froze, hearing Bellamy and Lexa arguing further down. She felt guilty for eavesdropping but couldn’t stop.

“There’s a reason we have meetings. The scripts, the rules, the contract! We can’t anticipate every consequence, so we know what we can say and do!” Lexa shouted, her voice tight and furious, but underneath it, Bellamy could sense the strain and exhaustion from having to constantly perform for others while keeping her real feelings locked away.

“Okay, okay! I was just trying to help you. I thought if you were a little freer, maybe you could…” Bellamy said, trailing off, carefully choosing his words as he tried to navigate both her anger and the delicate reality of their public relationship.

“date?! I can’t date anyone, Bellamy! I can’t date anyone while you’re here. I can’t date anyone if you’re not! So stop trying to save me!” Lexa yelled, her voice cracked for a fraction of a second, revealing the sadness she had buried beneath. She spinned around, her fists still clenched. 

“Say goodbye to your friends for me,” she called over her shoulder, voice shaking slightly now, before striding down the hallway, leaving a trail of tense silence behind her.

Bellamy stood frozen on the stairs, stunned, his chest tight, watching where she had disappeared. He could feel the weight of the argument pressing on him, the helplessness of not being able to make her see his intentions.

“Bellamy,” Clarke said, her voice hesitant as she came down the stairs, heart still pounding from hearing fragments of the argument.

“Hey,” Bellamy replied cautiously, trying to compose himself but failing to hide the tension in his shoulders and the tight set of his jaw.

“What the hell, Bellamy?” Clarke asked, eyes wide, a mix of disbelief, and confusion swirling inside her.

Bellamy tried to smile but it fell flat. “How much did you hear?” he asked, voice strained, aware of the sudden gravity of their situation.

“Enough. Bellamy, is your relationship with Lexa… a PR thing?” Clarke’s voice was quiet but sharp, her stomach twisting.

Bellamy glanced toward where Lexa had gone, jaw tight, and said nothing. The question hung in the air like a weight he didn’t want to touch.

“Bellamy?” Clarke pressed,

Bellamy sighed deeply and turned to her, eyes weary. “You’re going to have to sign an NDA now,” he said tiredly.

Chapter Text

Clarke sat in her small apartment. Every surface was covered. Sketchbooks left open, loose sheets layered on top of one another, canvases leaning against the walls. Lexa again and again — her eyes, her jawline, her hands, the shape of her mouth mid-breath. Bellamy appeared in some of them, but only in passing, always background, always incomplete or blurred. Lexa was the center. Lexa was the light source everything was painted around.

It had been three days since the rooftop bar. Three days since Clarke had learned that the relationship the world adored — the one she had felt guilty for wanting to end — was a contract. A performance. A cage.

Clarke’s signed copy of the NDA lay on the table between the scattered drawings. Her handwriting on the signature line felt strange now — cramped, like she had signed something while underwater.

Propped against the wall in front of her was the painting she had made right after she got home that night. The canvas was chaos: thick strokes of black, bruised violet, deep storm-blue circling itself like something trapped in a whirlpool. And breaking through it — barely — the outline of Lexa’s face. Just the suggestion of her features. But her eyes… her eyes were startlingly clear. A green so bright it felt impossible, like they had cut straight through the paint themselves.

Clarke stared at them, unable to look away. There was longing there. And grief. And something else…

Her chest tightened.

She had been drawing Lexa for weeks, she realized — long before she met her for real.

Like she had been waiting.

She swallowed hard, but the ache didn’t go anywhere.

The NDA sat still on the table, patient and silent, like a reminder that even now — even after knowing the truth — Lexa was still something Clarke wasn’t allowed to reach.

Hell no.

Clarke shot up from her chair like the thought itself burned. The legs screeched against the floor, echoing in the cramped apartment. Her breath came fast, angry, uneven. She snatched the NDA up, folded it once, and shoved it deep into her bag along with a bottle of water, a protein bar.

Then her eyes landed on the painting — the chaos piece she’d done after the party. Clarke hesitated only a second before tearing the blanket off the sofa and wrapping it around the canvas, sealing the edges with duct tape. It was clumsy, uneven, but it would hold.

She dragged it out the door, down the stairwell, bumping against the walls, the echo of every thud feeding the storm in her chest.

Outside she didn’t slow down. She walked fast, then faster, until she was half running toward the nearest metro stop.

The first train was almost empty — a dull hum of fluorescent light, the sound of metal grinding against metal. Clarke sank into a seat, clutching the wrapped painting tight against her chest. Her reflection stared back from the window — wild-eyed, determined. She didn’t know what she’d say when she got there. She just knew she had to go.

At the first transfer station, she had to switch lines. The platform was crowded this time, filled with commuters. Clarke kept her arms locked around the painting, weaving between people who muttered as she passed. A man bumped into her, nearly knocking the canvas from her grip. She muttered an apology but didn’t meet his eyes.

The second train was packed — the kind of packed where breathing felt optional. She didn’t get a seat this time. She stood wedged between strangers, the painting held upright beside her, wrapped in its blanket like a secret she couldn’t let anyone touch. Every jolt of the train sent her stumbling; every stop was another reminder of how far she still had to go.

When she finally emerged back into the open air, the city was buzzing — streetlights, car horns, the smell of rain and exhaust. Clarke’s arms ached. Her shoulders burned. But she kept moving, crossing intersections, searching for the right bus line on shaking legs.

The bus ride was the worst. Overcrowded, overheated, slow. She stood near the back, her bag pressing against her ribs, the wrapped painting awkwardly balanced in her arms. A kid stared at her like she was carrying a body. 

By the time the bus rattled to its final stop, Clarke’s fingers were numb. Her hair stuck to her face, and her pulse beat somewhere between exhaustion and adrenaline. But when she stepped off the bus and looked up — really looked — she saw the city spread out in front of her, glowing under the haze of streetlights.

Clarke knew where Lexa lived — everyone did. It’s Lexa Woods, the movie star. Knowing the address wasn’t the same as being welcome there.
That reality hit Clarke like cold air when she stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the gleaming tower stretching into the clouds, glass catching the sun like shards of gold.

It looked impossible — and yet, she couldn’t turn back now.

Her pulse quickened. She adjusted the strap of her small canvas bag on one shoulder and tightened her grip around the awkwardly wrapped painting. She swallowed, squared her shoulders, and stepped through the doors.

Inside, the lobby was immaculate — marble floors that gleamed like still water, tall white columns, soft music playing low from nowhere in particular. Even her footsteps felt intrusive. A man sat behind the front desk, typing quietly. His uniform was crisp, his name tag perfectly straight.

Clarke waited, awkwardly shifting the weight of the painting, expecting him to notice her. He didn’t.

“Excuse me?” she said, her voice echoing faintly in the vast, empty space.

He made a soft, distracted sound — a kind of hmm — but didn’t look up.

“Excuse me?” she repeated, louder now, trying to sound polite but urgent.

This time, he lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes. His expression was neutral, bored.

“I have a painting for Miss Lexa Woods,” Clarke said quickly, her voice steadier than she felt. “She’s expecting it.”

The man blinked once. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” Clarke said instantly — too quickly.

He typed something on his keyboard. “Name?”

“Clarke Griffin.” She leaned forward slightly, craning to see his monitor as if she could make her name appear by willpower alone.

He frowned. “I’m sorry, Miss Griffin. You’re not on the list.”

Clarke forced a small laugh. “Could you double-check? It’s spelled with an E — C-L-A-R-K-E.”

“Makes no difference, Miss Griffin,” the man said without checking again. His tone was patient but absolute.

Clarke shifted her weight, clutching the painting tighter. “Maybe there’s another list?” she tried. “Like… a friends list? Or maybe a potential friends list?”

“Miss Woods does not have a potential friends list,” he said evenly. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Wait, please—this is really important!” Clarke said, her words tumbling out too fast. “Miss Woods personally asked to see this painting. It’s from an up-and-coming artist she’s been following, and it’s urgent — she’ll be furious if she misses it.”

The man sighed, “Miss Griffin, you need to leave.”

Clarke’s pulse thundered. “Just call her. Please. Call her and ask.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. His jaw twitched slightly, the smallest sign of hesitation. Clarke could practically see the battle in his head — the protocol versus the risk of angering Lexa Woods.

“Just call her,” Clarke pressed, breathless. “You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

At last, he reached for the phone. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the receiver, then dialed a number that seemed to make him nervous. “Miss Woods,” he said, voice tight. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a woman here who says you’re expecting a painting from her.”

Clarke held her breath. Her heart felt like it was sitting in her throat.

The man’s eyes flicked to her, and for a split second, she thought it had worked — until his shoulders stiffened.

“Of course,” he said, his tone suddenly careful. “I’ll have her removed.”

Before he could hang up, Clarke acted without thinking. She jumped onto the desk — the movement startled him so much he dropped his pen — and snatched the phone from his hand.

“It’s Clarke! Clarke Griffin! It’s me!” she shouted into the receiver, her voice shaking.

Security guards rushed in immediately, shouting orders she couldn’t process. Strong hands grabbed her arms and pulled her off the desk.

“Wait—stop! My painting!” Clarke struggled against them, twisting to reach for the wrapped canvas that had fallen to the marble floor. 

The man behind the desk stood frozen, pale as chalk, holding the receiver in one hand. Then suddenly, as if remembering Lexa was still on the line, he lifted it again.

“Miss Woods?” he said, his voice suddenly high and thin. He listened, and whatever he heard drained the last bit of color from his face.

He looked up sharply. “Stop! Stop, let her go!”

The guards hesitated mid-step, confused.

“Miss Griffin is… a friend,” he said, forcing the words out as though he couldn’t quite believe them himself. “She’s allowed upstairs.”

The guards exchanged uncertain glances but slowly released Clarke. She winced, rubbing her sore arms, then scrambled to grab the painting again, clutching it tight like a shield.

“You can take the elevator up,” the man said stiffly, pressing a button behind the counter. The gold doors at the far end of the lobby slid open with a quiet chime.

Clarke hesitated for half a second, staring at him — part disbelief, part fear that he might change his mind.

“Thank you,” she murmured breathlessly, tucking the painting under one arm and hurrying toward the elevator.

As the doors closed, she caught the man still staring after her — pale, sweating, as if he’d just seen something he couldn’t explain.

When the doors sealed shut with a soft ding, Clarke finally exhaled. Her hands were trembling, her heart still racing. The painting rested against her knees as the elevator began its slow, smooth climb.

The adrenaline was starting to fade as the elevator carried Clarke upward, and suddenly, cold panic spread through her chest. What the hell was she doing? She didn’t know Lexa Woods. She had met her once—twice, if one was being generous. A part of her had taken the revelation about the PR relationship as confirmation that Lexa had been flirting with her that night, but maybe that was wishful thinking. Maybe Lexa was just like that—warm, generous, easy with compliments.

After all, she’d rented an entire bar to meet her fake boyfriend’s friends. That kind of person didn’t operate on the same wavelength as Clarke Griffin from a cramped apartment with paint-stained floors. This was a mistake. A huge, spiraling mistake.

Clarke turned toward the elevator panel, heart pounding, ready to stop at the next floor and disappear before she made an even bigger fool of herself. But this wasn’t a normal elevator—there were only four buttons. Three of them required a key, and the last one was for emergencies.

“Great,” she muttered under her breath, clutching the edge of her wrapped painting tighter. The elevator kept rising, smooth and unstoppable.

Okay, fine. When it stopped, she just wouldn’t knock. She’d step out, find a staircase, and get the hell out of there before anyone saw her. There had to be a staircase somewhere, right?

The seconds stretched. Clarke shifted awkwardly. Her reflection in the polished metal walls looked pale, eyes too wide. 

She tried to breathe, but her pulse was everywhere—in her throat, in her hands, in her ears. What had she been thinking? Showing up like this, uninvited, holding a piece of her heart disguised as a painting. She felt ridiculous.

The elevator doors slid open—and instead of leading into a hallway as Clarke had expected, they opened directly into a penthouse apartment.

And right there, just a few feet away, stood Lexa Woods.

Her hair was loose, falling messily over her shoulders. She was wearing soft grey joggers and a flannel shirt—both of them probably crazy expensive, but the way she wore them made her look disarmingly casual, almost ordinary. And yet, she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Even like this, she looked impossibly beautiful, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and curiosity.

“Most people call first,” Lexa said, brow furrowing slightly as her green eyes took in Clarke—Wide-eyed, sweaty Clarke with a wrapped painting clutched awkwardly to her chest.

Clarke froze. She hadn’t even stepped out of the elevator.

“What are you doing here, Clarke?” Lexa asked quietly.

“I…” Clarke swallowed hard, her voice small. “I wanted to see you. To see how you were doing.”

Lexa’s confusion deepened, but her tone softened a little. “I know I left the party a bit abruptly, but I asked Bellamy to say goodbye for me.”

“I overheard the argument,” Clarke said suddenly. The words came out faster than she meant them to.

Lexa went pale. Her breath seemed to catch, her posture tightening.

“Bellamy knows that I know,” Clarke continued, her voice gentler now. “I signed the NDA. I brought a copy if you… if you want to see it.”

Lexa didn’t move. She just stood there—frozen, unreadable—but her eyes were sharp, scanning Clarke’s face.

“I thought maybe Bellamy would have told you,” Clarke added after a long pause.

“I haven’t spoken to him since,” Lexa said quietly. Her voice sounded strange—tired, maybe. 

Clarke hesitated. “I’ve… been thinking about you since.” The words barely made it past her lips, fragile and unsure.

Something in Lexa’s face shifted—just a flicker, a tiny, hesitant smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Come in, Clarke” she said softly, stepping aside.

And finally, Clarke stepped out of the elevator, clutching her wrapped painting like it was the only solid thing in the world.

Chapter Text

Lexa’s penthouse was breathtaking. The kind of place that made the rest of Los Angeles seem small. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framing the city like a living painting — skyscrapers glowing in the fading gold of the sunset, the first stars appearing above. The light spilled into the vast living room, sliding over soft cream rugs and sleek furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum. Everything was designed with impossible taste — sculptural lamps, a marble coffee table, art pieces Clarke didn’t dare guess the value of.

And standing there, surrounded by all that beauty, Clarke suddenly became painfully aware of herself.
Her clothes were wrinkled from two hours of trains and buses. Her hair was tangled, her shirt stuck slightly to her skin, and she was sure she smelled of city air and nerves. The contrast between them — between this world and hers — felt almost cruel.

She glanced down at the painting she had carried all this way, still wrapped in the blanket and sealed with tape. What had she been thinking? There was no way she could show it to Lexa now. Not here, not surrounded by perfection. Maybe she could just… leave it by the door and go.

Quietly, she propped it against the wall, trying not to draw attention. “I should go,” she murmured, her voice small. “I should probably just—go.”

Lexa turned to her, eyes soft with surprise. “You just got here, Clarke.”

“I know,” Clarke said, fumbling for excuses. “It’s just a long trip home, and if I want to make it back before it’s too late—”

“Stay,” Lexa said gently, stepping closer.

Clarke’s heart stuttered. She instinctively took a step back, words tumbling out in a rush. “I—I feel gross. I’ve been on a packed train for hours. I shouldn’t even be standing on your rug.”

Lexa’s expression softened. “Then take a shower,” she offered quietly.

Clarke blinked, startled. “If I do that, I’ll get home too late.”

Lexa took another step forward, voice low and even. “I have a guest room. You can take one that isn’t Bellamy’s.” There was the faintest hint of a smile there, shy and a little sad. “If you need to be somewhere tomorrow, my driver can take you.”

Clarke’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Lexa’s eyes held hers for a long moment. “Then stay,” she said again — soft, certain, almost pleading.

Clarke felt something inside her melt and shift. Clarke nodded before she could stop herself.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Lexa’s smile was small but real, a fragile curve that made the whole room feel warmer. As Clarke followed her further inside, she couldn’t tell if she was moving toward safety — or something far more dangerous.

Clarke stood beneath the water, surrounded by more luxury than she had ever seen. The walls were pale marble veined with gold, the shower itself a rainfall that poured down from the ceiling in a steady, perfect rhythm. Every inch of the room gleamed. Chrome fixtures, soft recessed lighting, the faint scent of eucalyptus from the neatly arranged bottles — each one an expensive brand she’d only ever seen behind locked glass at high-end stores. And this was just the guest bathroom.

The water was perfect. A smooth, velvety cascade that soaked into her hair, rolled down her skin, and for the first time in days, Clarke could breathe.

Her shoulders relaxed. The tension that had been twisting inside her since the night of the party began to dissolve, swirling away with the steam and the grime of the city. She let her eyes close, the soft roar of water drowning out everything else — the chaos, the guilt, the impossible swirl of emotions tied to Lexa Woods.

For a long moment, it was just her and the sound of the water, and Clarke wished she could stay there forever — suspended in warmth, hidden from everything waiting outside that door.

Clarke stepped out of the bathroom, her damp hair slicked back, wearing something soft and oversized that smelled faintly like Lexa — expensive and clean. The marble floor was cool under her bare feet as she moved through the penthouse, hesitant, the sound of her quiet steps swallowed by the vast open space. “Lexa?”

She found her standing in the living room, framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the glittering sprawl of Los Angeles. Lexa’s silhouette was caught in the dim golden light from the city below. She was staring at a painting propped up against the wall, the blanket and tape lying folded beside it. Clarke froze. Her painting.

Thick strokes of black, bruised violet, deep storm-blue circling in on themselves like something caught in a whirlpool. And breaking through it — barely — the outline of a face. Lexa’s face. Just the suggestion of her features, her jaw a blur, her mouth uncertain, but her eyes… her eyes were startlingly clear. A green so vivid it felt alive, as if they had torn through the layers of paint themselves, refusing to be buried.

“It feels… sad,” Lexa murmured, eyes still on the canvas.

“It’s doubt,” Clarke said softly.

Lexa looked up then, and the moment their eyes met, Clarke felt the air leave her lungs. The same shade of deep, knowing green, the same quiet sorrow she had tried to capture on the canvas was looking back at her.

“What are you unsure of?” Lexa asked, her voice low.

“I…” Clarke hesitated, fingers curling in the hem of her borrowed shirt. “I felt a connection between us. That night.”

Lexa’s mouth curved, but the smile never reached her eyes.

“I thought maybe… there was something,” Clarke whispered.

“Clarke,” Lexa said softly. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

For a heartbeat, Clarke forgot how to breathe.

“But we can’t.”

The words landed like a physical blow. 

“Your thing with Bellamy — it’s PR. You’re single,” Clarke said, confusion slipping into her cracking voice.

“Clarke…”

“It’s okay to be unsure,” Clarke said, her tone almost pleading. “To need time. To—”

Lexa’s laugh was small and humorless as she turned fully toward her. “I’m not confused about my sexuality, Clarke. I’m not unsure.” Her voice softened, trembling with something else. “I’m a lesbian. And you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I knew it the moment I saw you at Bellamy’s premiere. I wanted to dance with you that night. I wanted to kiss you in that alley… but I can’t.”

Clarke stared, stunned.

“It would ruin me,” Lexa said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve come too close to losing everything before. I can’t risk it again.”

Her gaze moved over Clarke’s face, stopping on her lips. Something in her restraint cracked. Something raw flickered across her face, a war she was visibly losing. 

Clarke took a small step forward.

“It’s only us,” she whispered. “Here and now.”

Lexa’s breath hitched — shallow, quick. Her eyes flicked between Clarke’s lips and her eyes, as if fighting gravity itself.

“Just us,” Clarke breathed, the words almost a plea.

And then Lexa broke. She closed the distance in one swift, desperate movement, her hands sliding up to cradle Clarke’s face as her lips crashed against hers — hungry, aching, trembling, tender. Clarke melted into her, her fingers clutching at the hem of Lexa’s shirt, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric, pulling her closer until there was nothing left between them but heat and heartbeat.

Clarke felt her entire being unravel as Lexa’s hands glided over her body, soft yet insistent. Every nerve ending was alight, every breath she took shallow and urgent. Lexa’s lips left hers, sliding down her jaw, tracing the delicate line of her neck. Clarke shivered, a gasp escaping her lips as her fingers found Lexa’s hair, threading through the strands, holding her as if letting go wasn’t an option.

“Clarke… I need you,” Lexa whispered, her voice low, urgent, vibrating against Clarke’s skin.
“I’m right here,” Clarke murmured, her own voice trembling, lips brushing Lexa’s jaw as if that alone could anchor them in the chaos of longing.

Lexa’s hands pressed closer, moving with a hunger that made Clarke’s heart hammer in her chest. “I need more,” she breathed, the words both desperate and reverent.

“It’s all yours,” Clarke whispered, her pulse throbbing in time with Lexa’s touch, the heat between them building, raw and impossible to ignore.

Lexa’s lips traced over the sensitive spot just below Clarke’s ear, and her voice was a ragged whisper, “Bedroom?”

“Show me the way,” she whispered back, every syllable heavy with need, every heartbeat echoing the tension that coiled through them like fire.

The air around them felt thick, electric, charged with the kind of desire that made the world outside fade entirely. Clarke could feel the warmth of Lexa’s body, hear the quick intake of breath. Every inch of skin against skin sent sparks cascading down Clarke’s spine. Her heart felt too big for her chest.

Lexa’s hand slid around Clarke’s waist, pulling her closer, their bodies a perfect fit despite the chaos of longing. Clarke could feel Lexa’s lips hover just above hers again, teasing, testing, demanding, and when they finally met, it was both an explosion and a whisper, a desperate claim and a gentle surrender all at once.

Clarke felt giddy, as if her heart had grown light and filled with butterflies, lying in Lexa’s arms on the sprawling bed. The soft sheets were warm beneath her, and their clothes were strewn across the floor like evidence of their fierce desire. Lexa’s hands rested on Clarke’s hips, her breathing slow but still heavy with warmth and closeness. Pleasantly satisfied.

“You’re so beautiful,” Lexa whispered, her voice low, almost awed, as her fingers traced Clarke’s side. Clarke couldn’t help smiling, her gaze roaming over Lexa’s skin, the sharp cheekbones, the soft lips, the intense green eyes that still held her captive.

“You’re enchanting… phenomenal… seductive… divine,” Clarke whispered, her voice low, trembling with awe. Lexa smiled but sat more upright against the headboard, saying softly, “I’m not. I’m just human.”

“A really, really, really beautiful human,” Clarke continued, her hands brushing over Lexa’s arms. Lexa let out a soft laugh, a sound that melted through the room, and pulled Clarke into a tender kiss.

Suddenly, the front door clicked in the hallway, a sharp sound that made them both freeze. Lexa sat up, her body tense with sudden alertness.

“Lexa?” Bellamy’s voice called from the hallway, an edge of urgency threading through it. Clarke looked up at Lexa, startled, her heart hammering as if it might leap out of her chest.

“Lexa, are you there?” Bellamy shouted again.

“In the bedroom. Don’t come in. I…” Lexa’s voice wavered but remained firm. She turned her gaze to Clarke and quickly added, “I’m not alone.”

Lexa took a deep breath and spoke calmly and quietly, “We have nothing to hide. Not from him. Me and him. Our relationship is fake.”

Clarke nodded slowly, trying to trust the words, trying to let her heart settle. Logically, she knew it was true. There was nothing forbidden here—but every glance from Lexa, every brush of her hand, every stolen breath made her feel like she was standing on the edge of something dangerous. Clarke felt the intoxicating, the thrill of crossing a line she could never uncross. This felt like a sharp, undeniable pulse of an illicit affair. 

Lexa gathered her hair into a quick, careless bun. She slid into her clothes with practiced ease, the movement almost casual, but there was an undeniable intensity in the way her green eyes lingered on Clarke. Clarke hesitated, frozen for a heartbeat, before slowly beginning to stand, her own movements self-conscious.

Lexa gave her space to dress and walked out toward Bellamy, her steps measured, confident.

“What are you doing here?” Lexa asked, voice low, controlled.

“I just… I wanted to apologize. But what did you mean by… you’re not alone?” Bellamy’s words stumbled out, hesitant, unsure.

Clarke tugged her shirt down, smoothing it over herself, silently listening to the two of them. Her heartbeat was still a racing pulse she could feel in her throat.

“I’m not always alone,” Lexa said, dismissive but firm.

“But you… you were in the bedroom… you don’t date. You said so yourself. I… I should probably go,” Bellamy muttered, nervously running a hand through his hair. The words came out hesitant, embarrassed, a slight flush rising to his cheeks.

Clarke, almost without thinking, poked her head out of the bedroom door.

“Clarke?” Bellamy’s voice cracked slightly, surprise threading through it.

“Hey, Bell,” Clarke mumbled, cheeks warming as she ducked her gaze but felt the weight of Bellamy’s wondering eyes lingering on her.

Bellamy’s gaze darted from Lexa to Clarke and back, confusion, and then a tinge of awkward realization flickering across his face.

“Oh… oh okay,” he murmured, voice low, barely above a whisper, like he’d just stepped into someone else’s private storm.

“You can stay, Bellamy. We’re done… for now,” Lexa said, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. She turned toward the kitchen, leaving Clarke and Bellamy suspended in a moment of breaths caught and cheeks flushed. 

It was late, and the three of them had just finished dinner together—laughing, joking, the clink of cutlery and the faint scent of wine lingering in the air. Lexa had disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for bed, leaving Clarke to wander out onto the balcony. The city lights stretched endlessly below, a glittering, humming ocean of gold and white, and the warm evening air brushed against her skin, making her shiver slightly.

“Clarke? You okay?” Bellamy’s voice broke the quiet as he stepped out onto the balcony, his presence grounding her.

“Yeah… just… happy? But in this incredibly thrilling, almost terrifying way,” Clarke admitted, her voice catching as she looked out over the rooftops.

Bellamy smiled, an easy, knowing smile. “That’s exactly how I felt when I got my lead role,” he said, his tone both reassuring and intimate.

“Really?” Clarke asked, tilting her head, her hair brushing against her shoulder in the gentle breeze.

“Joy, excitement, fear—all tangled together. But you know what it also sounds like, Clarke?” Bellamy said, leaning casually on the railing, the city lights reflecting in his eyes.

“What?” Clarke asked, a flutter of nerves in her stomach.

“Falling in love,” Bellamy said simply, and the words landed like a warm weight in her chest.

Clarke smiled, shaking her head, feeling her pulse quicken. “I’ve only just met her,” she murmured softly, the memory of Lexa’s laugh and that impossible gaze flooding her mind.

“But you like her,” Bellamy said gently, his hand brushing lightly against hers in a comforting gesture.

“She’s perfect, Bellamy,” Clarke admitted, the words tasting both dangerous and true as she breathed them out.

“I’m so happy for you, Clarke.” Bellamy said, wrapping her in a warm, steady hug. Clarke pressed into him, savoring the familiar comfort, letting the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.

“It’ll all be okay,” Bellamy murmured against her hair, his voice low and steady, before finally letting go.

“Thanks,” Clarke whispered, pushing up on her toes to place a quick, fleeting kiss on his cheek. The city lights flickered below, and for a moment, everything felt both fragile and infinite.

“I’m so happy you met her for me,” she whispered, turning back toward the apartment, ready to find Lexa again.

Chapter Text

Lexa lay still, watching Clarke sleep — hair tangled across the pillow, lips parted, her breathing slow and even. The morning light painted her skin gold, soft and warm. Lexa couldn’t believe she’d ever been this lucky — that someone like Clarke existed, that she could look this breathtaking even in sleep.

“LEXA!”

Anya’s voice sliced through the quiet and shattered the moment. 

Lexa’s pulse jumped. She slid carefully from the bed, her movements silent, unwilling to wake Clarke. She pulled on a shirt, raked her fingers through her hair, and stepped into the living room.

“Please stop yelling,” she said, voice low, controlled.

Anya was already pacing, her face tight with disbelief. “Then explain this,” she said, flinging a stack of glossy magazines across the coffee table. They slid apart like fallen cards — each cover screaming with headlines and photos.

Lexa froze.

On every cover — her name. Her face. And next to it: three images of Clarke and Bellamy on her balcony. One with their hands brushing, one mid-embrace, and the third — the one that made her chest hurt — looked unmistakably like a kiss.

The world narrowed to the sound of her own breathing.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Lexa said, her voice quiet but firm, though it trembled beneath.

Anya stared at her, searching her face. “Lexa, I’m not sure there’s much room for interpretation here.”

Lexa shook her head, the motion almost violent. “No. No, she wouldn’t… This is from last night. She wouldn’t kiss him and then crawl into my bed. She wouldn’t.” Her throat tightened as she spoke the last words.

Anya blinked, momentarily thrown. “Wait, what?—Lexa. Who is she?”

Lexa looked up, the rawness in her eyes answering before her words did.

“Is it her? Bellamy’s friend? The one you… like?” Anya asked carefully.

Lexa nodded.

“And she’s here? Right now?”

“They both are,” Lexa whispered.

Anya sat back, trying to process. “Lexa… did something happen between them?”

“No,” Lexa said quickly. “They were just… hanging out. They’re friends.”

“Are you sure?” Anya’s tone softened, though her eyes flicked back to the damning images. “A picture’s worth a thousand words — and they got three of them.”

Lexa’s gaze fell again to the photo. Clarke’s face half-hidden behind Bellamy’s, their closeness unbearable. It looked like a kiss. God, it looked like betrayal.

“What about the source saying you two have an open relationship?” Anya asked quietly.

Lexa exhaled shakily, dragging her hands through her hair. “Bellamy got drunk when we were out with his friends. He said he wanted to give me more freedom. He told his friends we had an ‘open relationship.’ I shut it down right away. It was just a stupid moment.”

“You should’ve told me,” Anya said.

“I know,” Lexa muttered. “But I thought it was done. Contained.”

Anya leaned forward, fingers steepled, her mind racing. “Okay. We need to move fast. Issue a statement before the narrative settles.”

Lexa nodded faintly, her voice small. “Okay.”

Anya began outlining possibilities. “We’ll deny the open relationship. Say Bellamy was here with a friend, she tried something, and he turned her down.”

Lexa looked up sharply. “No. We can’t say that.”

“Lexa—”

“I won’t throw her under the bus. That would destroy her,” Lexa said, voice rising for the first time.

Anya met her eyes. “Look at the pictures. Something happened last night while you weren’t there.”

Lexa’s gaze drifted down again. The photo burned into her mind — their faces pressed close. She felt something inside her fracture.

“I can’t…” she whispered.

Anya said nothing. She only sat there, weighing their options, her expression softening into something that almost resembled pity.

Finally, she sighed. “Then maybe we cut our losses. Get out before this spirals further.”

Lexa’s eyes lifted, dazed. “Cut our losses?”

“End the contract,” Anya said gently. “There are still a few months left, but this gives us an exit. Bellamy was unhappy. He wanted an open relationship — we can confirm that through witnesses. You shut it down, he kissed someone else at your home, and that’s the story.”

Lexa stared past her, hollowed out.

“What about the studio? They’ll want me to stay in the relationship.”

“No one’s questioning your sexuality right now, and they won’t after this. You’ll be the wronged one — hurt, betrayed. It’ll give you time.”

The words sank in like stones.

Lexa looked down at the photograph one last time. Her fingertips trembled where they brushed the edge of the page.

Something had happened last night.

She swallowed hard. “Let’s cut our losses,” she murmured, her voice breaking.

Anya nodded and rose quietly from the couch. “I’ll wake them. They need to leave — now.”

Lexa didn’t look up. She just kept staring at the picture, at the moment frozen in time, at the girl she loved pressed too close to another.

Anya banged sharply on Bellamy’s door, her voice cutting through. “Up! Now! And pack your things!” she snapped, not waiting for an answer before moving down the hall.

She paused only for a heartbeat outside Lexa’s bedroom, hand hovering on the handle, before she pushed the door open and flicked on the light.

Clarke flinched, blinking against the sudden brightness — tangled in sheets, bare shoulders exposed, confusion spreading across her face.

“Get dressed. Now,” Anya said, her tone flat, clipped, leaving no room for questions.

Then she turned on her heel and walked out, shutting the door behind her.

In the living room, Lexa sat hunched forward on the couch, elbows on her knees, her head buried in her hands. The magazines lay scattered across the table in front of her, glossy pages glinting under the ceiling light — images she couldn’t unsee.

“What’s going on?” Bellamy’s voice broke the tense silence as he stepped into the living room, his brow furrowed in confusion. He looked between Lexa — motionless on the couch — and the magazines spread across the coffee table like a crime scene. Their glossy covers glared beneath the light, each one showing a different frame of betrayal.

Clarke appeared a moment later, hair still tousled from sleep, wearing one of Lexa’s oversized shirts. She froze at the sight before her — Lexa’s bowed head, the magazines, Anya’s composed stance.

“I’m going to have to ask you both to leave,” Anya said calmly, her voice steady but cold enough to cut glass. “And not come back.”

“What?” Bellamy blinked, his voice pitching upward. “Leave? Why—”

“We’ll arrange a meeting with you and your agent,” Anya interrupted smoothly, “You’ll get the details later. Time and place.”

“Anya, what the hell is happening?” Bellamy’s voice dropped.

He turned to Lexa, but she didn’t move. Her face was buried in her hands, shoulders trembling just slightly. Clarke’s stomach dropped.

“Lexa?” Clarke’s voice came out small. She stepped closer, scanning the table. Her eyes caught on the top magazine, and the blood drained from her face. There she was — standing on Lexa’s balcony beside Bellamy — caught in a moment that looked too much like something it wasn’t. Her body leaning into his.

“Oh my god…” she whispered, picking up the magazine with trembling fingers.

“I need you both to leave,” Anya repeated, her tone sharper this time.

“Lexa, this isn’t what it looks like!” Clarke burst out, clutching the magazine. “It was just a kiss on the cheek — nothing more, I swear!”

Lexa still didn’t move. Her silence was deafening.

“Lexa, please, look at me,” Clarke begged, her voice cracking under the weight of panic.

Finally, Lexa lifted her head. Her eyes were red, her face streaked with tears she hadn’t bothered to wipe away. She looked at Clarke like someone watching the last light fade from the horizon.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lexa said quietly, her voice hollow. “What’s done is done.”

Clarke took a step forward, desperate. “But it isn’t! I didn't do it!”

“I’m asking you both to leave,” Anya said again.

Clarke’s jaw trembled. “I’m not leaving her like this,” she said to Anya, voice rising with emotion.

Bellamy stood frozen, eyes darting between them, guilt and confusion flooding his face.

“Leave, Clarke.”

Lexa’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it landed like a blow. Clarke froze, staring at her — at the woman she’d fallen for — but Lexa wouldn’t meet her gaze. Her hands were shaking, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Something inside Clarke cracked. Her lips parted, but no words came. She just nodded — once — and turned toward the door. Bellamy followed her silently, his expression grim.

When the door shut behind them, the penthouse was silent again.

Lexa exhaled, broken, her voice barely audible. “If the photographer’s still out there, they’ll get shots of them leaving together.”

Anya’s shoulders dropped. She didn’t look satisfied — only tired. “It’ll only make our version of the story stronger,” she said quietly.

Lexa nodded slowly, emptily. “Yeah.” Her voice was rough, almost unrecognizable. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and stood up on unsteady legs.

“Cut our losses,” she murmured, more to herself than to Anya. “Before there’s nothing left to save.”

Anya watched her walk toward the hallway, her bare feet silent on the polished floor.

“I’ll start drafting a statement,” Anya said, mostly to herself, as she got up to leave.

Lexa stepped into her room—and instantly regretted it. The sheets were a tangled mess, the air still heavy with the warmth of what had happened. Clothes were scattered across the floor, an intimate trail of chaos. She froze in the doorway, then turned away sharply, guilt twisting in her chest.

When she walked back into the living room, the silence hit her like a wall. Anya was gone. The magazines were still strewn across the coffee table, and leaning against the wall was the painting

Thick strokes of black, bruised violet, deep storm-blue—colors that clawed at each other, spiraling inward like a whirlpool. In the middle, barely emerging from the storm, a face. Her face. The features were blurred, distorted by the chaos surrounding them, but the eyes—those eyes were unmistakably hers. 

Lexa stared at it, her throat tightening. That was what she was—the still point at the center of destruction. 

She sank to the floor, legs folding under her. She didn’t bother wiping the tears when they came; she was too tired to fight them. So she just sat there, staring until the colors blurred together, until the storm on the canvas became her own.

Her gaze finally drifted down to the corner, to the name scrawled in paint.
C. Griffin.

Clarke.

Lexa was still sitting on the floor, wrapped loosely in the blanket Clarke had used to transport the painting, when she heard footsteps behind her—soft, hesitant ones, the kind that belonged to someone trying not to disturb. She blinked slowly but didn’t turn around.

“Oh—I’m so sorry, Miss Woods. I didn’t realize you were home,” said the cleaning lady in a small, apologetic voice.

“It’s fine,” Lexa murmured, her eyes never leaving the painting. “Just… pretend I’m not here.”

“Alright,” the woman replied quietly and began tidying up, her movements careful and muted. The faint scent of disinfectant and citrus filled the air.

When the woman reached the coffee table, her hand brushed over the glossy magazines.

“Please throw those away,” Lexa said softly.

The woman looked at her for a moment, then nodded and gathered them up.

Some time passed before she returned, a small pile of clothes folded over her arms. “I found these in the guest bathroom. Should I wash them?” she asked gently.

Lexa’s head lifted at once. Her gaze landed on the shirt, the jeans, the light sweater—still wrinkled and faintly stained with paint. Clarke’s clothes.

“No,” Lexa said quickly, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. Then softer: “No… don’t wash them. Just fold them, please.”

The woman hesitated. “But they’re dirty, Miss Woods.”

“I know.” Lexa’s voice broke slightly. “Don’t wash them. Just fold them and put them on my bed.”

The woman nodded silently and left the room. Lexa’s eyes drifted back to the painting—the storm of dark color circling in on itself.

What was she supposed to do now? How do you cut your losses when the loss is the only thing that matters?

Chapter Text

Bellamy recognized the building as soon as he and his agent, Marcus Kane, stepped inside. It was the same office building Anya had used for their first meeting, and now here he was again.

Marcus was clearly irritated, muttering under his breath as he power-walked toward the conference room. “Unprofessional… insolent… unbelievable woman,” he grumbled, his shoulders tense.

Bellamy just struggled to keep up, weaving between other people in the lobby while trying not to trip over his own nerves.

When they stepped into the room, Anya was seated calmly, as always, her posture precise, radiating controlled authority. “Welcome,” she said, eyes briefly flicking to both of them.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries. What’s going on? What kind of nonsense is it to release a statement before we’ve had a chance to meet and discuss it?” Marcus said, dropping into a chair at the table, his voice sharp and impatient.

Bellamy felt like a schoolboy being scolded by a furious father. Anya didn’t seem surprised by his reaction, but she straightened in her chair, her calm presence a stark contrast to the storm around her. “It was necessary to act quickly in the situation,” she said evenly, but there was a steel edge beneath her calm.

“Bullshit. You blindsided my client!” Marcus snapped, leaning forward, hands clenched.

“Marcus, you know full well that this is more than enough to terminate the contract. We are under no obligation to include you in our current or future statements because your client has already breached the contract,” Anya said, her voice quiet but lethal.

“It’s customary to at least try to save the situation together,” Marcus shot back, anger brimming.

“We have nothing in common anymore. Our cooperation is over,” Anya replied, eyes cold, unyielding.

“What kind of people are you! You’re ruining him! Instead of giving him the promised career boost, he’s now getting a reputation as a cheater!” Marcus yelled, veins tense in his neck.

“You’re just angry he got caught,” Anya said, her tone sharp as glass.

“Whoa. Clarke and I didn’t kiss!” Bellamy stood abruptly from his chair, hands shaking slightly, heart hammering in his chest.

“Bellamy,” Marcus said calmly, but his eyes betrayed disbelief.

“No! Lexa cannot think Clarke betrayed her!” Bellamy pleaded, turning to Anya. “Please tell me she doesn’t think Clarke betrayed her!” His voice was almost desperate, raw with fear.

Marcus now looked between Bellamy and Anya, frowning. “There’s something here I don’t know. What is it?!” he demanded, voice rising.

“It’s not relevant. Sit down, Bellamy,” Anya said calmly, the weight behind her words leaving no room for argument.

“It’s obviously relevant if other things are involved! I’m his agent and advisor. I deserve all the information,” Marcus pressed.

“Not this,” Anya said firmly, but Bellamy, overwhelmed, turned to Marcus. “Clarke and Lexa fell in love, and now Lexa thinks Clarke betrayed her. But it was just a friendly kiss on the cheek! Nothing else!” he said, desperation threading every word.

“SIT DOWN,” Anya snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip.

Bellamy’s shoulders slumped, and he sank back into the chair, mouth shut.

Anya rose slowly, deliberately, her movements controlled, radiating barely-contained fury. “I need to remind you that you are both legally bound by an NDA, but if this information leaves this room, I will personally ruin you both. When I’m finished with you, you won’t even be able to work as a cashier. Is that understood?” she said, eyes hard, voice icy.

Bellamy had never felt so small. He swallowed hard, heart thundering in his chest. Marcus, however, straightened in his chair, expression blank as if Anya’s threat meant nothing to him.

“Good. If there’s nothing more to say, I’ll leave,” Anya said, her tone returning to her usual controlled calm.

“Of course there’s more to say,” Marcus replied smoothly.

“If there’s nothing more to say, I’ll leave. Should any questions arise, you can write to me,” Anya said, glancing at her watch with clinical precision. “You have the room for another half hour,” she added, eyes locking on Marcus for a fleeting second before she walked out, leaving a charged silence behind.

“She got angry,” Bellamy muttered under his breath, his jaw tight.

Marcus leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. “And she had every reason to. Do you even understand what this means?”

Bellamy shook his head, uneasy.

“Lexa Woods,” Marcus continued, his voice almost reverent, “Hollywood’s number one star. Romantic lead, femme fatale, the kind of woman millions put posters of on their walls. Her brand? Untouchable. Divine. Irresistibly desirable.”

Bellamy’s brow furrowed. “She still is,”

“Not for everyone,” Marcus interrupted sharply. “Not for the millions of conservative households across America. Not for the red-blooded man who expects the dream girl to be straight, approachable, and… obtainable. Lexa Woods is a lesbian.”

Bellamy froze. He didn’t think of it as leverage. He had never once considered using it against her. But Marcus’s grin widened, like a predator smelling opportunity.

“Do you see it?” Marcus asked, leaning forward. “Knowledge is power, and no one else knows this. We could destroy her.”

Bellamy swallowed hard, tension knotting in his chest. He physically ached at the thought.

Lexa stood in the middle of her living room, staring at the painting the same way she did every single morning. It hung on the wall now—framed, preserved, elevated—her one allowed reminder of Clarke. The thick strokes of black, storm-blue, and bruised violet seemed even deeper in the morning light, as if the colors had sunk further into the surface overnight. In the center, the blurred outline of her own face emerged, those clear green eyes still so sharp it almost hurt to look at them. Clarke had painted her as the heart of the storm, and that was exactly how she felt: the quiet eye trapped inside her own chaos.

Everything else—anything that still smelled like Clarke—was hidden away in a box beneath her bed. The dirty clothes she’d arrived in, the blanket she’d wrapped the painting in. All of it folded carefully, reverently. Untouched. Just like the bed itself. She hadn’t slept in it once since that night. It stood perfectly made, almost sterile, she almost held her breath every time she walked past it. Instead, she slept in the guest room Clarke never got to use. It felt less… wrong

Lexa let her gaze linger on the painting one last time, feeling that familiar knot gather in her stomach. The same hollow ache. The same weight behind her ribs. She stared at the storm and saw herself.

“Are you ready?” Anya’s voice came from behind her—calm, controlled, though something softer hovered beneath it. Concern, maybe. Worry she’d never say out loud.

Lexa inhaled slowly, forced her shoulders back, forced the storm down. “Yeah,” she said quietly, turning away from the wall. “Let’s go.”

She followed Anya toward the door. The press tour couldn’t be delayed any longer. And today was her first interview since… everything.

“Lexa Woods!” the host announced brightly, and the audience erupted—cheers, applause, a few shrieks that bounced off the studio walls.

Lexa stepped onto the stage with long, steady strides, her posture flawless, her smile practiced but warm. She lifted a hand in a small wave, letting the lights catch her face just right. To anyone watching, she looked composed. Untouchable. A star.

“Lexa, it’s wonderful to see you again,” the host said as she took her seat in the sleek interview chair.

“It’s wonderful to see you too,” Lexa replied, keeping her smile soft, controlled.

The host exhaled as if preparing to dive underwater. “You’re in the middle of quite a media storm right now… and not the fun kind.”

Lexa inhaled deeply, her chest tightening for a brief second. She forced a sad smile. “That’s true.”

“Your boyfriend—now ex-boyfriend—Bellamy Blake and you have ended things,” the host continued carefully.

“Yes. Unfortunately,” Lexa said, voice steady but thinner than usual.

“You released a statement about the breakup. It says—” The host picked up a sheet of paper and read aloud.
“Lexa Woods and Bellamy Blake have ended their relationship. Bellamy has appeared dissatisfied in the relationship, which led him to propose an open arrangement that Lexa declined. The breakup became final after images of his infidelity surfaced.”

The host looked up. Lexa gave a slow, controlled nod.

“For anyone who somehow hasn’t seen the pictures,” the host said, turning to face the big screen behind them, “this is what we’re talking about.”

A beat of silence.
Then the screen flickered—
And there it was: the photo.
Bellamy. Clarke. Caught in a kiss.

Lexa’s breath punched out of her chest. She felt everything inside her slip—control, composure, balance. She had to look away, had to turn her face just enough that maybe the cameras wouldn’t catch the way her lips trembled.

Fuck.

Her vision blurred. She blinked hard, hoping no tear would break. 

“It affects you,” the host said softly.

Lexa couldn’t trust her voice, so she only nodded, eyes fixed on her lap. A ripple of sympathy moved through the audience—soft murmurs, someone saying “oh no—”

And then a lone voice cut through:
“Blonde slut!”

It hit her like a slap—instant, brutal. The tear escaped fully this time, tracing a clean path down her cheek. She knew she couldn’t hide it. So she lifted her head, met the host’s eyes, letting the tear sit openly on her face. Vulnerable. Human. The audience hushed.

“Can you put words to what you’re feeling right now?” the host asked gently.

Lexa nodded slowly. She centered herself, searching for a voice she could trust. “It hurts,” she said quietly. “It hurts to see someone you care about… with someone else.”

“So you still care about him,” the host said.

“Yes. I do.”

“And that’s… complicated. Because a few days ago Bellamy released his statement.” The host lifted a second paper.
“This is all a misunderstanding. Bellamy Blake was never unfaithful to Lexa Woods. The image is of a cheek kiss between two old friends.”

The host set the paper down. Lexa nodded, though her jaw tightened.

“What do you make of that?” the host asked.

“It’s… difficult to feel certain,” Lexa said. “I didn’t suspect anything until I saw the photos. Not even that night.”

“This is your balcony, isn’t it? You were home at the time?”

“I was,” Lexa said quietly. “I was just inside. And I had absolutely no sense that anything was wrong.”

“And the woman in the photo—is she an old friend of Bellamy’s?”

“She is,” Lexa confirmed.

“So Bellamy’s statement could be the truth.”

“It could,” Lexa agreed. Her eyes lifted—against her will—to the giant screen still showing Clarke and Bellamy mid-kiss. Her stomach clenched. She swallowed hard. “But how am I ever supposed to be sure?”

“That’s fair,” the host said gently. “Alright. Let’s take a commercial break. When we come back, we’ll talk about Lexa’s new film. Stay with us—there’s plenty more Lexa Woods after the break.”

The moment the cameras cut, Lexa was on her feet. The smile she’d held like armor evaporated.

“I just need a moment to pull myself together,” she murmured, already stepping away from the lights, from the audience, from everyone’s eyes.

She moved toward the edge of the set, her breaths coming shallow and uneven. She pressed a hand to her ribs, trying to force air deeper into her lungs. The host watched her go, worry flickering openly across his face—genuine, startled concern. There was something almost apologetic in his expression, as if he hadn’t meant to cut her this deeply.

A stylist hurried over, soft-footed and gentle, carrying a small kit. “You’re okay,” she whispered automatically, though Lexa didn’t answer. She lifted Lexa’s chin with careful fingers, dabbing at the tear track, fixing the smudged eyeliner, patting powder onto trembling skin. Lexa kept her eyes unfocused, staring past the woman, trying not to fall apart under her touch.

When the stylist stepped back, satisfied, Lexa inhaled and squared her shoulders. She walked back toward the interview chair—slowly this time, as if every step cost something.

The host was still watching her. Not with the polished curiosity of a man doing his job, but with real, unsettled worry. Lexa Woods never cried on television. Never cracked. Never let the world see where she broke.

He had asked hard questions, yes. But he hadn’t expected to hit the nerve buried under her skin. He hadn’t expected her to bleed in front of him.

And the shock of that lingered in his eyes, sharp and unmistakable, as she sank back into her seat and tried to rearrange herself into something that looked like Lexa Woods again.

“I don’t know what to think about any of this,” Raven said, exasperated, as she tossed a magazine across the table. It skidded to a stop in front of Octavia, who had been hunched over a thick study book.

On the cover: the infamous photo of Bellamy and Clarke frozen mid-kiss, right beside a tear-streaked still of Lexa from her latest interview.
The headline screamed: “Lexa Woods Shattered.”

“Yeah,” Octavia sighed, closing her book with a dull thud. “Me neither.”

“What does Bellamy say?” Raven asked.

“The same as his official statement,” Octavia replied slowly. “That it was a kiss on the cheek.”

Raven snorted. “It doesn’t look like a kiss on the cheek.”

“I know,” Octavia admitted, leaning forward to study the grainy freeze-frame again. “But the angle is… weird. You can’t actually see where their mouths land. It could be—maybe.”

Raven shook her head. “Okay, but why was she even there that night?”

Octavia lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking… Clarke did miss him a lot when he got busy with that big role.”

“She also shut down completely when he started dating Lexa Woods,” Raven added, voice low. “Did you notice how she watched them that day we all hung out?”

Octavia nodded immediately. “Yeah. God. She kept staring at them like she couldn’t tear herself away.”

Raven let out a long breath. “Shit. Do you think she’s in love with your brother?”

Octavia froze, eyes widening as the thought solidified. “I think… yeah. Yeah, I think she is.” She stared ahead, suddenly pale, the idea settling like a stone in her stomach.

“Have you talked to her since the pictures dropped?” Raven asked.

“I’ve tried,” Octavia said, frustration creeping in. “She’s ignoring my calls.”

“Mine too,” Raven muttered.

“I even went by her place the other day,” Octavia continued. “She didn’t open the door.”

Raven stiffened. “She’s alive, right?”

“Yes,” Octavia said quickly. “Yeah. She answered through the door—said she just wanted to be alone and that she was fine.”

“She said she was fine. But she sounded… off. You know how Clarke gets when she’s hurting — she shuts everything down.” Octavia added hesitantly.

Raven exhaled slowly, dread pooling between them. “She must be absolutely spiraling right now.”

Octavia nodded, jaw tight. “I know. I think, maybe, she shouldn’t be alone.”

Bellamy burst through the front door so suddenly that both Raven and Octavia jumped in their seats. The sound echoed through the house — sharp, frantic, wrong.

Without a word, he stormed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, shoulders tight, breath uneven. A second later, the door to his room slammed so hard the walls seemed to vibrate.

Octavia and Raven exchanged one startled glance — wide-eyed, tense — and then rose at the exact same moment.

Something was wrong. Really wrong.

They hurried up the stairs after him, their footsteps quick and quiet, dread building with every step toward Bellamy’s closed door.

Octavia pushed open Bellamy’s bedroom door without even thinking. It creaked softly as it swung inward, and the first thing she saw was her brother sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his head buried in his hands. He didn’t even look up when the door opened.

“Go away, Octavia,” he said sharply — but his voice had a fragile edge that made Octavia’s stomach tighten.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, shocked, already stepping fully into the room.

Bellamy lifted his head. His eyes were hollow — not from tears, but from exhaustion, from holding himself together long past the point where he could. There was frustration there, yes, but it was empty, drained.

“I need you to leave,” he said, turning his gaze away as if it physically hurt to be seen.

“No,” Octavia said softly but firmly. “Something is terribly wrong, and I need you to talk to me.”

Behind her, Raven hovered uncertainly, peeking over Octavia’s shoulder. Her eyes flicked nervously between the siblings, like she was afraid one wrong word might shatter him completely.

Suddenly Bellamy shot to his feet, his shoulders coiled tight as wire.
“Don’t you think I would if I could?” he burst out — not angry, but desperate. “I have no one to talk to about this! Clarke refuses to see me, Lexa hates me, and my agent… he…” The words died on his tongue, as if saying them aloud would make everything real. “I don’t even know what to believe anymore.”

He started pacing, tight restless circles, running both hands through his hair again and again. He looked like a man trapped in a shrinking room, air running out.

Octavia stood frozen, shocked to see her brother like this — normally unshakeable, always the strong one, always the one who took the hits. But now… now he looked like one wrong breath might knock him over.

And then his legs seemed to give out, and he collapsed back onto the bed, no control, like he’d fallen straight through himself. He stared blankly ahead.

Octavia took a small step toward him but stopped as he whispered — mostly to himself:

“I think he’s planning something… and if he is, it’s my fault.”

Raven and Octavia both stiffened.

Bellamy shook his head, defeated and lost. “But I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “I really don’t.”