By the time the word "monster" starts trending with my name, my coffee’s gone cold.
The mug shakes just enough to send a crescent of lukewarm bitterness over my fingers. I set it down, slow, like the table might explode if I move too fast, and watch the numbers climb on my laptop.
1.2 million shares.
3.8 million views.
The headline: "Critic Rory Hale Calls National Treasure Cassian Ward A Soulless Mannequin."
Not my wording, of course. Mine had been sharper, cleaner, something about glacial eyes and a voice like pre-packaged sunlight—polished, empty, plastic. I know how to wield language like a knife. I don’t use blunt instruments.
But blunt is what the internet does best.
The notification sound from my phone is a continuous stutter—pings crashing into each other, a glitching percussion track. My mentions flicker by so fast I can’t catch more than fragments.
Bitch.
Ableist.
Die.
My stomach tightens. I tell myself it’s hunger, nothing more, even though the untouched half of a bagel sits to my left, fat with cream cheese and suddenly obscene.
Marco calls without texting first.
"You’re not watching, are you?" he says by way of hello, breathless, the audio tinny in my ear. "Please tell me you’re not on Twitter."
"Good morning to you too," I reply. My voice sounds the way I’ve built it to sound on camera: dry, unflinching, like I’m already bored. "And technically, I’m on X now. Keep up."
He groans. "Rory."
I click refresh on the trending page. Cassian Ward’s face blooms across my screen—paparazzi shots, concert stills, fan edits with glitter fonts screaming PROTECT HIM. Somewhere beneath the noise is my review, embedded, my words highlighted like evidence in a trial I didn’t realize I’d agreed to.
"What happened?" I ask. "Last I checked I called a very rich man’s album a glorified perfume commercial. That’s Tuesday."
Marco exhales, a rush that fuzzes the line. In the background I hear overlapping voices, the hum of an open-plan office, the particular tense buzz of media people smelling blood.
"He went live," Marco says. "Cassian. On Streamline’s channel. Ten minutes ago."
I straighten without meaning to. Across the room, the cheap blinds over my only window throw broken bars of New York winter light against my bookshelf.
"And?" I prod.
Marco hesitates. He never hesitates.
"And he said he’s losing his hearing."
The words hit me like I’ve stepped off a curb that wasn’t there. My brain, ever practical, tries to slot them into the story architecture: pop prince, tragic secret, brave confession, fans rallying. My fingers, meanwhile, have gone numb on the keyboard.
"No," I say automatically. The word feels pathetic. "No, that’s—he can’t be."
"He is." Marco’s voice softens, the way it does when he knows I’m pretending not to feel something. "He said he’s been trying to keep it off the radar because of insurance and the tour, and that’s why some performances have been…"
"Off," I finish hoarsely.
Off.
Soulless.
Mannequin.
I see phrases from my review in my mind, crisp black against the white of my site: mechanically perfect, spiritually vacant. Like watching a hologram lip-sync someone else’s feelings.
Christ.
I stand too fast, my chair sliding back and catching on the rug. The room tilts. For a second all I can hear is my own pulse pounding in my ears, a rush like subway wind.
"Rory?" Marco asks. "Talk to me."
"I didn’t know," I say. It comes out thin, ridiculous. "Marco, I didn’t know."
"Of course you didn’t. No one did. That’s not the point—"
"That’s absolutely the point." I’m pacing now, the apartment too small for the amount of motion in my body. My socks whisper against the floor. "I called him a mannequin because he looked like one. I judged what was in front of me. That’s the job. I didn’t—" I can’t say exploit his disability out loud. It curdles in my throat.
"You’re trending because people think you did," Marco cuts in, pragmatic. "Listen to me. The platform wants you in."
I stop. "In where?"
"Here. Streamline." I hear a door close, muffling the office noise. Marco lowers his voice. "Lena’s in a conference room. She wants to offer you something. Damage control, spin, the whole machine. She told me to get you here, like, yesterday."
Lena Cross. The queen of unscripted content, ice in stilettos, architect of at least three scandals I’ve ripped into on my channel. The idea of her wanting me for anything is vaguely nauseating.
"Why would she want to help me?" I ask. "My brand is currently ‘woman who kicked a puppy on live TV.’"
"Because you and Cassian just made the perfect narrative," Marco says. "Villain critic, wounded idol. Antagonists to…whatever. Healing, redemption, all that crap. And Streamline lives for that." He pauses. "Also, because your ad revenue is tied to our platform and Lena can kill it with one email."
There it is. The hand around my throat I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.
"So this is blackmail," I murmur.
"This is opportunity," Marco replies smoothly. "Get dressed. I’m sending a car."
The Streamline building is all glass and intimidation, a vertical mirror spit out of the riverfront. The security guard’s eyes flick over me with the faintest recognition—jaw tightening, nostrils flaring. The elevators are even worse. Two teenage girls get in on the third floor; one’s clutching a Cassian hoodie like a lifeline.
They don’t know who I am until my reflection shifts with the angle of light.
"Oh my God," the girl in the hoodie breathes. "That’s her."
Her friend hisses, "Shut up," but it’s too late. I feel the stare travel up and down my body like a scanner: messy braid, black turtleneck, the trench I wear in half my videos. The Rory Hale uniform.
"Do you feel good about yourself?" Hoodie Girl demands suddenly.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"Dragging him like that when he’s literally going deaf?" Her cheeks are flushed. She’s shaking, whether from nerves or anger I can’t tell. "He’s carried the industry for years. You sit in your apartment and tear people down for a living."
The elevator doors slide open with a discreet chime. The floor indicator shows 27: my stop.
There’s a whole speech I could give her about criticism as art, about holding power to account, about refusing to equate sympathy with silence. I’ve given versions of it on panels. I’ve believed it.
Right now, all I can manage is, "I didn’t know."
She snorts. "Convenient." Then, lower, to her friend: "Imagine being that bitter."
They stay on as I step off, the doors sealing me out of their judgment. For the first time in years, I wish I were anonymous again. No one screaming for my attention. No one screaming at me.
Lena’s meeting room is colder than the hallway, like she’s negotiated her own microclimate. The windows look out over the Hudson, grey and flat under a colorless sky. She’s at the head of the table, tablet in front of her, manicured fingers resting lightly on the glass.
Marco sits to her right, jittery, a coffee he doesn’t need untouched in front of him.
"Rory." Lena stands, smile precise, as if calibrated. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. You look…"
"Like the internet’s favorite chew toy?" I offer, shrugging out of my coat.
"Relevant," she corrects, amused. "Sit. We don’t have much time."
I drop into the chair opposite her, Marco a nervous satellite at my side.
"So," I say. "What’s the part where you save my life in exchange for my soul? I skipped breakfast."
Lena’s gaze sharpens, approving. "I like her," she tells Marco, though she never looks away from me. Then, to me: "Here’s the situation. Cassian’s confession has flipped the narrative. He is brave and vulnerable. You are…"
"Trash," Marco supplies. Then, at my glare: "Public perception, not personal. Mostly."
"You are a villain with reach," Lena says, unbothered. "Which makes you valuable. Heroes without obstacles are boring. Audiences love watching redemption arcs almost as much as they love watching falls from grace. Right now, you and Cassian are two snakes twisted together. We can either let you strangle each other or we can choreograph the dance."
"Snakes don’t dance," I point out.
"On my network, they do." Lena taps her tablet. A logo blooms on the wall screen behind her, bright and soothing: 100 DAYS OF SILENCE, letters dissolving into a waveform of muted pastel.
My throat goes dry. "You have a title already?"
"I have a development slate full of concepts that can be repurposed in a crisis," she says. "This one is simple. A hundred days. You move into Cassian’s residence. You become his personal music consultant. Together, you navigate what it means to reimagine sound and performance under these new circumstances. We market it as a ‘healing couple’ journey. Intimate, inspirational…forgiveness porn."
I stare at the screen. At my own words, cannibalized.
"You want me," I say slowly, "the woman currently being doxxed for calling him soulless, to move into his house and pretend we’re…what, dating?"
"Healing," Lena repeats. "Not dating. Labels are limiting. We imply. We let the audience ship you. That’s the magic."
I laugh, a short incredulous burst. "He’ll never agree."
"He already has." Lena’s satisfaction is a knife wrapped in silk. "His tour is at risk, sponsors are panicking, and the sympathy window is short. This series buys him stability and a new narrative. It buys you a chance to prove you are not the monster the girl in the elevator thinks you are."
I flinch before I can stop myself. Lena notices. Of course she does.
"Walk away," she continues, softer, "and your channel loses its primary distribution within the week. Our competitors won’t touch you while this is hot; advertisers are skittish. You’ll still have your followers, for a while, but influence without a platform is just noise."
It’s not a threat. It’s logistics. That makes it worse.
"You’re blackmailing me into playing girlfriend to a man who probably wants to sue me," I summarize. "For a hundred days. On camera."
"Consultant," Lena corrects lightly. "And Cassian doesn’t sue. He sings. Or he used to. Right now he’s sitting downstairs in Studio B, storming at his manager and agreeing to things he never would have touched a week ago. Pain is a powerful motivator."
Something twists in my chest at the thought of him elsewhere in this building, furious and cornered. I’ve watched his performances for years from the safe distance of my screen: the flawless crescendos, the spun-gold smiles. I’ve dissected them with relish. It never occurred to me I’d be dissecting his actual life.
"I won’t exploit his disability," I say quietly.
Lena tilts her head. "The network will tell whatever story the audience wants to hear. That train has left the station. The only question is whether you’re on it, helping steer, or tied to the tracks."
Marco leans forward, eyes pleading. "Rory, it’s a hundred days. Then you walk with a brand-new image. Compassionate. Evolved. The critic who learned to listen. You can leverage that for anything. A book, your own series, a—I don’t know—a masterclass."
A hundred days, I think. A hundred days in a glass house with a man whose fans want my head on a stick.
"And what does he get?" I ask. "Besides higher ratings."
"He gets you," Lena says simply. "The woman who ripped him to shreds because she refused to accept autopilot artistry. You think he doesn’t know he’s been coasting? You hit a nerve because you were right. Imagine what you could do if you were on his side."
I look up at the 100 DAYS OF SILENCE logo again. The letters blur. I see my younger self for a heartbeat—standing on a community center stage, blanking halfway through the second verse of an original song, the crowd’s murmur slicing through me. The way I swore, afterwards, that I would never be in that position again. If I was the one judging, no one could humiliate me.
Yet here I am.
"Will I be able to speak freely?" I ask. "About process, about artistry? Or is this all soft-focus B-roll and tearful confessionals?"
"We want conflict," Lena says. "We want you to challenge him. We want him to challenge you back. Just remember cameras are always rolling. Even the quiet moments are content. Especially the quiet moments."
Always rolling. Of course.
My hands have stopped shaking. There’s a strange clarity settling over me, a recognition I’m stepping onto a stage again, just a different kind. I can hear my own voice in future reaction videos already: Look at Rory Hale selling out. Look at her bending the knee. Look at her pretending to care.
But I do care. That’s the sick joke. I care so much it’s eaten the soft parts of me alive, so I encased what was left in steel and called it a brand.
"Fine," I say. "I’ll do it. On conditions."
Lena’s brows rise, delighted. "Name them."
"No surprise reveals about his medical stuff," I say. "Nothing he hasn’t signed off on. If you ambush him on camera with anything, I walk."
Lena smiles like a cat presented with an especially spirited mouse. "We’ll put it in the rider. Anything else?"
"I’m not calling it romance," I add. "Not in my words. If fans want to ship, that’s their business. I’m not faking a relationship for a narrative arc."
"Of course," she says smoothly, which means nothing. "We’ll keep the language…open-ended."
Marco squeezes my arm under the table in silent triumph.
"We’ll get contracts drawn up today," Lena continues. "Ward’s team is waiting on confirmation. You’ll both move into the primary location tomorrow. We start rolling the moment you walk through the door." She pauses, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "And Rory? When you meet him, do try not to call him a mannequin to his face. At least not on the first day. We need somewhere to go."
Studio B smells like stale coffee and lighting gels.
They lead me down a corridor lined with framed posters for Streamline’s biggest hits—dating shows, survival competitions, docuseries where people cry on cue. My boots echo on the polished concrete, each step a countdown.
At the end of the hall, a producer I don’t know pushes open a heavy soundproof door. "We’ll just do a quick introduction," she trills. "Cameras are already set for a social clip. Super casual."
Super casual. There are three cameras that I can see, maybe more. A ring light throws flattering glow across a high stool where he’s sitting.
Cassian Ward.
For a second all I register is symmetry: the sweep of dark hair, the impossible cheekbones, the mouth that’s sold millions of posters. He’s in a simple black tee and jeans, no stage costume, yet somehow he looks more curated than anyone I’ve ever met.
Then I see his eyes.
On TV they’re warm, molten, always crinkling at the corners. Here, in person, they’re flat. Not empty—no, there’s plenty in them. Fury. Hurt. Calculation. But the warmth is an act I’ve just watched him shrug off like a jacket.
He stands as I enter, movement precise. There’s a tiny delay between my steps and his gaze tracking me, like he’s calibrating.
"Cassian," the producer chirps. "This is—"
"I know who she is," he says.
His voice is lower than I expected, the edges rough. It does something treacherous in my chest.
I stop a few feet away. The air between us feels charged, like we’re both standing under a stormcloud no one else can see.
"Rory Hale," I say, because silence feels like surrender. "Apparently your new roommate."
His mouth curves, but it’s not a smile. "The monster under my bed," he replies. "Nice to finally meet."
The producer laughs nervously. "Okay, love that energy," she gushes. "Let’s just get a quick shot of you two saying hi, maybe a little banter—"
"You called me a soulless mannequin," Cassian says, still looking directly at me. "Was that banter?"
My pulse stutters. Every instinct screams at me to deflect with a joke, to slice him open with some cutting line and claim the high ground. Instead, I force myself to breathe past the knot in my chest.
"That was a review," I say. "Based on what I saw. Not what I didn’t know."
"Right," he says softly. "You didn’t know."
The way he says it tells me that excuse is no shield here.
Behind us, someone signals. A red tally light blooms on the nearest camera.
Rolling.
"So," Cassian says, voice suddenly brighter, the performance sliding over him like second skin. He shifts his stance, body angling toward the lens while his eyes never leave mine. "A hundred days together. Cameras everywhere. You ready to pick apart my life the way you pick apart my songs?"
I lift my chin. If this is a stage, I know how to stand on it.
"Only if you’re ready to finally make something worth defending," I answer.
For the first time, something like interest flickers behind his gaze. It’s quick, almost nonexistent, but I feel it like a static shock.
"Careful, Hale," he murmurs, just loud enough that the mic still catches it. "If you teach me how to hear the way you do, you might not like what I start hearing in you."
The producer claps her hands, delighted by whatever combustible thing she thinks she sees between us.
My skin prickles, every nerve awake.
A hundred days, I think, as Cassian steps closer, close enough that I can see the delicate flesh-tone curve of a custom in-ear monitor tucked behind his hair. A hundred days of pretending.
Or worse—of finding out how much of it isn’t pretend at all.
"Ready or not," he says quietly, smile razor-bright for the camera. "Let’s give them a show."
My mouth answers before my fear can.
"I don’t do background noise," I tell him. "If we’re doing this, we’re doing it loud."
His gaze holds mine, steady, unreadable.
It feels like warmth pretending to be distance.
And somewhere in the control room, a red light keeps burning.
