This was not how it was supposed to be. At least that was what Ryan said when we first entered this arrangement. "A little media attention here and there, but nothing overwhelming," he said. And here I was, Ryan standing beside me outside a mansion-like restaurant, feeling like I was part of a high-profile circus.
At first, it was just another ordinary night-dinner at one of Ryan's frequent trendy hotspots. An arm draped casually around my waist, leading us through the entrance, when BOOM the paparazzi actually has awaited us. But I thought I was just seeing several flashes for the first time. Nothing would be strange here-in a couple of photos, a couple of questions about our "relationship." But what the blazes was that going to turn into as soon as the doors of the restaurant swung open?
The air erupted around us, filled with bright, sharp flashes from cameras. The din of shouted questions suffocated the surroundings, and I hurriedly bent nearer to Ryan for the security they might provide. "Are you two really dating, or is this just another PR stunt?" shouted another, "What's it like to date someone so much older, Emily?" making me feel nauseated.
Ryan, the professional, kept a straight face. He neither left nor broke into a run. But I knew he was tense. As we moved past the crowd of photographers and reporters, his hand tightened just a bit on mine.
"Just ignore them," he ribs, his voice low, but with a tone that held no trace of uncertainty. "Keep walking, and we'll get inside."
I tried to ignore the barrage of intrusive questions and flashing lights. He was ahead of me, and I was really not prepared for all this. The thirst of the media brought in for scandal, for drama, became suffocating. But even with all the focus on Ryan's hand on my back or the actual standpoint of our steps, it didn't stop that feeling of vulnerability creeping in.
Eventually, we reached the restaurant doors, where one of the security guards stepped forward, ushering us inside and closing behind us with a quiet but forceful thud. There was a relief breath as I felt the heart racing in my chest. Outside noise faded into a muffled hum, but the feeling of anxiety still spun in my gut.
Ryan led me past the host stand, offering a cursory nod to the hostess, and sped past me into a private booth in the back of the restaurant. Inside, though, I found it hard to relax, with the weight of the situation smartly pressing down on me.
I finally released a shaky breath while we got settled into the booth. "That was... intense."
Ryan raised a brow, his lips twitching upward in a brief, amused smile. "Intense? That was just a taste. Trust me, it will get worse before it gets better."
I blinked, my eyes widening in surprise. "What do you mean 'worse'?"
"Paparazzi thrive on moments like this," Ryan explained. "They'll follow us. They'll want more pictures. More questions. It's all about creating a story. We're the hot topic right now, and they won't let up."
"I supposed we were merely required to appear as if we were a couple- not... like this," I said under my breath, in annoyance. "I didn't expect hounding for every exit."
Ryan's smile slipped away as he leaned back in his chair, making his expression turn into serious. "You're right. I did not either. But you must understand, Emily, this is part of the game. If we are to make people believe we are a couple, the media is going to be all over us. Scrutinizing every move we make. Touch, glance, whatever. This is the price we pay for that illusion."
He lowered my head, and I could almost feel the weight of those words lapping down on my hands. No longer was this just a performance put on for his family; it was a performance for the public, for the media, for the entire world watching us and waiting for fissures to develop. And I was stuck undecided about whether that pressure would break me or make me stronger.
Ryan's voice broke in on my reverie. "We will manage it, however, we shall see. Have to be careful what we say, how we behave. Every movement of ours can make or break a story."
I locked gazes with him, trying to analyze him. I wanted to believe he had it all under control, but something in his eyes told me he wasn't as calm as he put out to be. Maybe he had done this once before, but it didn't mean that he wasn't getting bothered.
"I don't think I can do this," I admitted in a low voice while picking at the frayed edge of my napkin. "It feels like... Like everything is being watched. It's not only the cameras. It's the pressure. The pressure to be perfect. What if I mess up?"
And Ryan, on a top note, followed it with a sharp breath, reached towards me across the table with fingers brushing mine. For just a moment, perhaps, I could read in his eyes the softness of a man, the man behind the businessman, the one who wasn't just playing a role but trying to help me survive it. Quietly, he spoke, "You're just you. That is all they will see: A woman who dates someone like me; so there's no need for you to be perfect."
His warmth touched my hand, and again, I offered a small comfort. "I'm not used to this," I admitted, feeling more vulnerable than I ever would before. "This isn't my world."
"I know," Ryan said, his voice gentle but firm. "But I'm here, Emily. I've been doing this for a long time. We're going to get through it together."
I nodded, even as a part of me felt overwhelmed. That was the end of the uneventful meal, but I didn't seem able to shake off the feeling that every word I spoke was being analyzed and every laugh I forced into conversation was being cataloged by invisible eyes. By the time we got to dessert, I was no longer hungry: there sat untouched food before me, conversation between Ryan and I faltered and then picked up again, in an effort to appear relaxed.
After dinner, we left the restaurant and stepped outside. The atmosphere was very picturesque. The paparazzi were waiting. They started snapping at us the second we stepped out, but this time I was ready for it. Ryan had a firm grip on my back, leading me through their tight-knit circles. All of them were screaming at us, calling over questions, trying hard with the same end: a headline, a scandal, a glimpse of drama.
"Ryan!" one reporter had shouted before asking, "Is this relationship going on for a long time? Is it serious?"
I felt those muscles in his body tense, but his voice was steady. "We have been together a few months now. Things are great."
I looked up at him, my heart racing seeing how those words did just roll off his tongue in such a casual fashion. He wasn't lying, not strictly; I felt like he meant something more than the surface. This wasn't just a 'few months.' It was a complicated little arrangement-one that poked its head up more like a game every day.
"Emily!" This time it was another voice and I turned toward it, swallowing hard. "How does it feel to be with someone so much older and richer?"
I froze, taking the question like a knife cut through me. Mouth dry, but Ryan was quick with an answer, his tone nearly curt. "Emily and I have a lot in common. That's what matters."
I was feeling that weird concoction of gratitude and angry possessiveness as we made our way to the car. Ryan had tamed most of the worst questions, but I still wasn't sure I was ready for this—being seen, dismembered, and judged by a world that did not care to know us.
He opened the door to the car for me and allowed his hands to hover on the handle longer than reasonably necessary. "We'll get used to it," low voice came, more to himself than me. "It is just part of the deal."
I crawled into the back seat, the heaviness of that hanging in the air. But I couldn't shake off feeling that we were both on the cusp of becoming something we were not-something we had to pretend to be, as far as being out in the open was concerned. And I wasn't so sure just how much longer I could keep up the facade before everything came crashing down.