I shouldn’t have posted that photo.
Of course, in hindsight, I shouldn’t have—because hindsight always sounds smarter than reality. But when I tapped the little blue checkmark that confirmed my post had gone live, I wasn’t thinking about likes, shares, or comments. I was thinking about aesthetics, lighting, and how the caption sounded. A harmless little joke. Something to make people smile.
And now… the entire internet seemed to think I’d personally orchestrated a PR disaster that could sink one of the biggest brands in the country. Alexander Hamilton’s brand. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. My notifications had multiplied exponentially in less than ten minutes. Mentions, tags, comments, DMs from strangers, friends, even journalists—each one more dramatic than the last.
I scrolled, eyes widening. “Tasha Hughes ruins Hamilton Enterprises” read one headline. “Influencer sparks brand crisis” read another. Memes of me holding my smoothie like a weapon were already circulating. One even had me photoshopped with horns and fire behind me. The sheer audacity of the internet never ceased to amaze me.
I sank onto my couch and pressed my temples. Deep breaths, Natasha. You’re fine. You’re fine.
Except I wasn’t.
Because somewhere in the chaos, a part of me knew this wasn’t just a viral storm. It was a perfect storm. One that was about to hit me personally, professionally, and socially… all at once.
A ping. Another notification. My heart skipped. This one was different. Not a like, not a comment, not a repost. A direct message from the man at the center of the chaos. The one I had never met but whose name alone carried the weight of an empire: Alexander Hamilton.
Meet me. Now. There’s a lot we need to fix.
I blinked at the screen, once, twice. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dropped. Now? I hadn’t even had time to breathe. I hadn’t had time to prepare. I didn’t even know what “a lot we need to fix” actually meant—but somehow, my gut told me it wasn’t going to be friendly small talk.
The room suddenly felt smaller. My apartment, usually a safe haven of warm lights, cozy corners, and creative chaos, seemed suddenly claustrophobic. I paced. My mind raced faster than my heartbeat. I was an influencer. I knew how to handle trolls, haters, fake news, and even some very nasty comments. But a direct confrontation with the CEO of Hamilton Enterprises? That was a different game.
I grabbed my laptop and opened the social media accounts I managed professionally. My team wasn’t here yet—I was alone—but I needed to see how bad it was. How deep the hole I’d fallen into really was.
It was worse than I thought.
Screenshots were circulating—taken completely out of context, twisted, edited. Every word I’d written in my harmless post was being dissected, misinterpreted, and weaponized. People were calling for boycotts, refunds, and even public apologies. One particularly dramatic post suggested that my “influence” had caused a catastrophic drop in stock value for Hamilton Enterprises.
I laughed. Nervously. Because… what the hell did that even mean?
And then, just as quickly, I stopped laughing. Because I knew, somewhere, Alex Hamilton was reading every single one of those posts. And judging me. Or maybe not judging… maybe planning a way to obliterate me professionally.
I chewed my lip and tapped my phone. Should I ignore him? Should I respond? Should I run away screaming into the night? None of those options seemed smart. Especially the last one.
Deep breath. Just… breathe.
I grabbed my coat, shoved my phone into my bag, and left my apartment. The elevator ride felt like it took forever. Each ding of the floor indicator was another countdown, another heartbeat, another step closer to the unknown.
I arrived at the lobby of Hamilton Enterprises. The building was sleek, imposing, and glossy—everything about it screamed power, money, and control. I felt small. Insignificant. Completely out of place in jeans and a hoodie. Perfectly invisible, except for the fact that apparently, I had just made the entire world notice me.
The receptionist barely glanced at me. She obviously knew I was coming. I didn’t even have time to check my reflection in the lobby’s glass walls. I just wanted to vanish. But before I could, a voice cut through the air.
“You must be Natasha Hughes.”
I turned. My stomach dropped. There he was. Alexander Hamilton. Tall, sharp, impeccably dressed, and exuding that kind of confidence that made people both want to impress him and run away. His eyes—dark, intense, almost calculating—locked onto mine. And suddenly, the elevator, the lobby, the entire city outside, didn’t exist. There was only him.
“Yes,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “That’s me.”
He didn’t smile. Not really. There was a faint curl at the corner of his lips, but it was more like a warning than amusement. “Good. We need to talk about your post.”
I nodded. “I… I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” he interrupted smoothly. “I don’t care about intent. I care about results. And right now, the results are catastrophic. My brand, my team, my investors—all of them are looking at me, wondering why a single post went viral and tanked confidence in hours. And somehow, it’s connected to you.”
I swallowed hard. The words felt heavy. I wanted to argue, to explain, to tell him it wasn’t personal—but I didn’t. Because I knew. I knew it was personal now.
He gestured toward a private lounge in the corner. “Sit.”
I hesitated, then obeyed. Something about him… his presence… demanded it.
He pulled out his phone, swiping through something I couldn’t see. “Natasha, I’m going to be blunt. You are going to fix this. And I’m going to make sure it gets done. With or without your cooperation.”
My throat went dry. “Or else?”
He looked at me then, really looked, like he was measuring me, testing my resolve. “Or else… we both lose. And trust me, that’s not an option for either of us.”
The weight of his words sank into me. My career. His empire. Somehow, they were tangled together now. And for reasons I didn’t yet understand, I couldn’t walk away.
Then he said something that made me freeze:
“I have a solution. A contract.”
My brow furrowed. “A contract?”
“Yes.” His tone was sharp. Controlled. “Six months. Fake-dating arrangement. You stay in line. I protect my brand. You protect your reputation. We pretend for the world—and maybe, just maybe… we don’t destroy each other in the process.”
I blinked. “Fake… dating?”
He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. I could see the logic, twisted though it might be. Social media would eat this up. Rivals would pause. Investors would calm down. And most importantly… I’d survive.
But as I left the building that day, my chest tight with nerves, something else had already begun to take root. The contract was just business, he said. Rules were rules. But every glance he’d given me… every word… every calculated move—had ignited something dangerous inside me.
I was about to learn the hardest lesson of my life:
Love, chemistry, and desire never play by the rules.
And sometimes… the fire you try to control burns you anyway.
