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Occasionally, when Hale and I were instructed to stare into each other’s eyes, a giggle slipped out.
“Try not to smile,” Viktor said from behind the camera.
But being told not to smile only made me want to laugh more. It was like an intense staring contest. Hale’s eyes creased at the corners as he seemed to challenge me in a game of who would break first.
“Great.” The camera snapped several times. “Rayne, now I want you to look at Hale as if he just proposed.”
I thought back to that night and my shock.
“No, no. You’re happy,” Viktor coached. “You should look elated. Maybe you’re in awe. Try not to look so scared and confused.”
But I had been confused when Hale proposed. Then terrified, then saddled with the worst case of relentless imposture syndrome I’d ever experienced. Cinderella probably went through the same shit when she traded in her dustpan for pearls.
Hale—at ease like a fucking catalog playboy—met my gaze and smirked. “Try food,” he said to the photographer while never taking his gaze off of me.
“Beg your pardon, Mr. Davenport?”
Why did it seem like everyone addressed Hale with the utmost respect and I was the tiresome toddler being lured with lollipops and shiny things?
“Talk to her about beignets. She loves food.”
Great. I was now as trainable as a puppy.
“You like beignets, Rayne?”
Here we go… I narrowed my eyes at Hale. Food lust was private talk.
“Imagine you’re surrounded by snowy powdered sugar and delicate treats.”
I rolled my eyes, holding the awkward pose exactly how Victor positioned us. “I’m not sure I know what you want.”
“We want to see your love for Hale. The audience wants to read the affection in your eyes. What is it you feel for him? Passion? Adoration? Gratitude?”
My brow creased and the feathered awnings glued to my eyelids flickered annoyingly. This wasn’t working for me.
I relaxed my pose and stood normally for a moment. “Can we have a minute?”
The photographer and crew looked bothered by my request, but Hale read the distress in my stare and ordered, “Clear the floor.” A moment later we were alone. “What’s going on?”
I picked my front-seater wedgie and held out my hands. “What are we doing?”
“We’re having our picture taken.”
I waved a hand at all the lights and billowing canvases. “But this isn’t us. We don’t stand like this and stare at each other like ice sculptures. None of this feels real.”
Hale caught my hands and pulled me close, pressing a kiss on my knuckles. “That’s because the world isn’t interested in what’s real. They want glamour and highlights starkly contrasted with tragedy and gore. None of this matters. We’re only doing it to provide the press with content that doesn’t stress you out. We can walk away at any time.”
Even if we gave them the best photos and a perfect interview, they’d eventually go back to the gritty snapshots that robbed me of privacy and pride. “I hate that this matters to me.”
“The only thing that really matters is that I love you and you love me.”
I wanted to live in a world where the superficial judgment of others didn’t faze me and I was immune to petty, hurtful headlines, but I simply wasn’t that evolved. “Everyone thinks I’m not good enough for you.”
“No one thinks that.”
I leveled him with a stare. “Hale.”
“Fine. But they don’t know you. And they don’t know me. They only know what my PR team and publicity handlers have intentionally chosen to show them. And I prefer it that way.”
