At 6:00 AM the road was blocked, many photographers and nightcrawlers gravitated on Weston’s doorstep the man did not even dare look out the window. Instead, it was on the net, where Weston read how six clichés got his house under siege.

From his living room, Weston could hear Tilda talking, he got up from his desk and walked to stand and lean on his bedroom door frame. Tilda sat on his bed, fingers lightly tapping on her lips as she spoke.

“I’ll be ready in 15min, no I don’t know how many they are, I can’t approach the window.” She was right; the paparazzi shot thousands of snaps per second at any moving shadow behind the curtain.

“Okay, I’ll be ready,” Tilda said and hung up.

“Agent?”

“Yes, she’s coming to get me,” Tilda got up and walked to where he stood. She grabbed and locked her hands in his while searching to make the man’s fleeing stare meet hers, “are you angry?”

“No, it’s just I didn’t expect them to find out this quick. There are so many photographers outside; I can’t even count,” Weston replied, freeing one hand to scratch the back of his head.

Until now, Weston lived a discreet life avoiding public exposure, and there he was on the brink of having his routine explode.

Ever since Tilda walked in his existence, that’s how he felt, his life, heart, body, and soul exploded because and for this woman. And Weston did not care as long as he had her, it was enough. The vultures could rummage through his dustbins; the man could handle it.

“I’m sorry, Westー.”

Tilda had no time to finish, “it’s okay, I’m fine, are you okay?” Weston asked, pulling her hair away to see her expression, her eyes twinkled, displaying both worry and sadness.

Weston noticed how Tilda’s humor was fragile like still waters; it rippled by the slightest impact. For some reason, life as a celebrity didn’t seem to fit Tilda’s personality, talented she was, but something didn’t add up.

The doorbell interrupted their embrace, “it must be Theresa, can you please open for her while I get dressed,” Tilda said.

Weston went downstairs to help the woman who barked at the paparazzi.

“Do you know who I am? I’m Theresa Kingsley, Google me, and you’ll find I’m known to have cannibalistic behaviors, so don’t mess with me,” the woman said while adjusting her profile in case someone snapped a shot at her.

There was no lie in her statement, Theresa broke material, fractured arms, bite and ran over a foot or two to get her celebs out of sticky situations. Not caring less about lawsuits, her motto was: If you’re not happy, sue me.”

Many did, and they lost their teeth, for she was ruthless. Seeing the gap, Weston left open Theresa ran squashing herself in while Weston held the door from the photographer’s pressure.

“Good lord, aren’t they snappy for the morning,” Theresa said as she straightened her clothes before looking at Weston.

“Tilda was right, you do have that je ne sais quoi,” Theresa added while she twirled her hand in circles in front Weston’s face. “Gosh, you’re tall, anyway, where is she?”

“Hmm, she’s upstairsー.”

Before he could finish, Theresa was dashing up the stairs, eyes darting everywhere like a ferret.

“Wow, I can’t believe I’m standing in Gabriel Saint Clair’s apartment, oh don’t make that face I forced her to tell me, she didn’t betray whatever trust you put in her,” Theresa said as she visited the house as if she was prospecting to rent.

“Oh, here,” Theresa said, handing Weston a copy of Lone Horizon,” my son’s a fan of yours, may I have an autograph, please?”

Weston took the Mont Blanc, which Theresa handed him and signed without giving it much thought only to realize it was the first time he signed his book in front of someone. The gesture left him with a weird sensation.

“Tilda, love, we haven’ got all day the more the sun rises, the more precise the shots will be.”

Tilda walked into the living room, wearing one of Weston’s Pull&Bear OUR GENERATION WILL SAVE THE WORLD hoodies.

“Weston, do you mind? I borrowedㅡ.”

“What’s mine is yours,” he said, approaching Tilda to adjust the hood.

Theresa clapped in her hands to grab their attention, “okay, my lovelies, look at me, “eh, Mr.ー.”

“Edmonds,” Tilda completed.

“Mr. Edmonds, I’m Theresa Kingsley; here’s my card as you are well aware we are in the middle of a mini-crisis but rest assured I’ve got everything under control. First, would it be possible to have your editor’s number, I thought about it all night, and the best option would be either for you to disclose your identity or if it’s possible to say your next book is ready to be published.

“No,” Tilda yelled.

“Wait, Tilda, let me explain, people, forget a scoop when there’s a bigger one follows. If you want peace, you will have to give those hounds a bone.”

“But they’ll terrorize Weston, I refuse.”

“No, I think it’s a good idea. I finished my manuscript, but do you think it’s enough to divert the attention?” Weston asked.

“No, it isn’t, but it will split the public focus, and your romance might pass to the second plan.”

Whether it was the right thing to do or not didn’t matter, what was essential was, there was no more need to hide.

“Okay.”

“Good, now let’s get out, Bobby and his crew will arrive shortly,” Theresa said, walking into Weston’s kitchen and serving herself a glass of water as if she was home.

“Who’s Bobby?” Weston asked, making abstraction of the Theresa, the invader.

“He’s a security guard,” Tilda replied.

“Wow, Gabriel Saint Clair, can’t believe you roamed like a tray picker at the party if I were you I would have climbed on one of the tables, yelling I’m the king of the world,” Theresa said wielding the glass of water she held like a sword in front of her.

“ーEm.”

“Don’t listen to her, she’s crazy,” Tilda whispered.

“It’s not like it won an award,” Weston replied.

“Well, Tilda’s songs are going platinum, and your book is a best-seller even with its crappy name; you two are quite the golden combi,” Theresa said, winking in the couple’s direction.

Weston turned to look at Tilda.

Theresa put the empty glass in the kitchen sink, “I see you don’t follow entertainment news, starting from today you should watch and read the gossip columns. As your life will be mirrored there from now on.”

Weston’s face suddenly turned white.

Tilda grabbed on to the man’s t-shirt, “Weston?”

“Just give me a second.”

The agent’s phone vibrated, “Tilda, they’re here, let’s get going,” Theresa said beckoning Tilda with her hand.

“Weston,” Tilda whispered.

The reality that all of London, if not to say Great Britain was going to discover who Weston Edmonds was just hitting his face.

Theresa impatiently tapped her feet, “Tilda, hurry.”

“Just a minute, Theresa.”

Tilda’s plea made the agent roll eyes.

“Weston, I’m sorry; I didn’t want to do this to your life.”

Despite Tilda’s attempt to reassure him, Weston could see the woman was as shaken as him by the turn of the events.

“It’s nothing, Tilda; I just needed a second to realize. I’m coming with you, I’m taking you to the car,” Weston said out of the blue.

Theresa’s eyes gleamed; this was even better than she excepted.

“Are you sure, Weston?” Tilda asked.

The singer’s eyes filled with worry as she seized the meaning of Weston’s words, she had no time to ponder as Weston grabbed her hand, “I’m sure, let’s go.”

Theresa led the way they opened the door. The blinding flashes with the rays of light made it even more challenging to advance. With one arm around Tilda’s shoulders and the other blocking the cameras, they pushed through while the questions fused.

“How long have you been dating?”

“When did you meet?”

“Mr. Edmonds, please look this way.”

“Tilda, is this serious or a one-nighter?”

“How do you feel about Harry Tomilson marrying Grace Knowles?”

“Are you doing this to bring attention your way?”

“Mr. Edmonds, how does it feel to sleep a celebrity?”

The reporters stabbed where it hurt, by bringing up Tilda’s Ex’s, and belittling their relationship which they believed as ephemeral.

Weston felt his teeth grinding while his jaw tensed.

Tilda got into the car she whined the window down where Weston pushed back her hood to place a kiss on her forehead. There they had it; the proof cliché they had waited in the cold for hours.

The car drove off, and Weston was left with Bobby and his crew, who held back the remaining photographers for Weston to regain his apartment. The man didn’t need to call in sick; instead, his boss rang to give him a few days off.

Four hours later, it was Micheal who paced in his living room.

“I don’t know what to do, Weston; I don’t know whether I should head butt you or congratulate you. Can I do both?”

Weston sat with his hands clutched.

“What are we going to do now?” Micheal said, looking out the window where journalists of another type gathered on one side.

One could distinguish the entertainment paparazzi who tried to get Weston’s neighbors to speak, and the others made calls. There were also the cultural journalists who took turns ringing and explaining they wanted an exclusive about his new book.

Weston sighed and crossed his arms, “we’ll give them what they want; the manuscript is on the desk.”

Micheal blinked twice, “no, have you finished it?”

“Yes.”

“When? I mean, you had like 15 chapters how did you do it?”

Micheal went straight to Weston’s desk and picked up the manuscript.

“Tilda, she helped me.”

“Wow, I’m amazed,” Michael said, flicking through the pages, “so you are really disclosing everything?”

“Yep.”

“What are you going to do if you two break up, you’ll never be able to go back to your incognito life?”

“I won’t need to because what you just said will never happen,” Weston replied.

Michael eyed Weston up and down as if he had a screw loose before saying, “you lucky git.”

Micheal expressed what half of the men who woke up that day wanted to say when they discovered the daily news.

The comments flew:

“What has he got then I don’t have?”

“Brains, maybe.”

“It could be me?”

“I doubt.”

“Wow, isn’t it romantic?”

If some were cursing, the couple’s idle made both men and women dream.

“Honestly, if this guy can get Tilda Brentwood. Then I have all my chances of meeting Tom Hiddleston.”

All dreams were allowed.