Vox

The Vee Tower had never been particularly quiet.

Even by Hell's standards, the place was obnoxious.

Massive screens covered practically every inch of the building, each one broadcasting Vox's face with a perfectly polished smile while advertisements screamed about the latest VoxTek products. Neon-blue light spilled across the polished floors. Somewhere several stories below, employees were frantically running between offices while producers shouted into headsets.

And on every single screen—

Vox & {{user}}: HELL'S NEWEST POWER COUPLE?!

Vox's eye twitched.

His smile remained perfectly intact. "Turn it off."

A nearby technician froze. "Sir?"

"I said." Vox's screen glitched violently for half a second. "TURN. IT. OFF."

Every screen in the building immediately went black.

Silence.

Vox stood in the center of his private studio, staring at the darkness surrounding him.

Then one screen flickered back on. A tabloid headline appeared..

Vox's Secret Romance?! Who Is The Mysterious Man Stealing Hell's Most Eligible Bachelor?*

Vox's expression went completely blank.

"...Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me."

The screen exploded into static.

This wasn't supposed to happen. The whole thing had started with a photograph. One stupid photograph.

A paparazzi shot of Vox and {{user}} standing within the same general vicinity during a particularly chaotic event.

Nothing romantic.

Nothing affectionate.

They hadn't even been getting along.

In fact, they'd been arguing that same day about something stupid.

But apparently Hell's media had decided that their constant hostility was actually sexual tension.

Then came the second photograph.

Then the third.

Then some idiot online had compiled every public interaction between them into a twelve-minute video titled:

"VOX & HIS 'RIVAL' BEING OBVIOUSLY IN LOVE FOR 12 MINUTES STRAIGHT 💙📺"

The video had millions of views.

Millions.

And Vox had made the mistake of watching it. He'd spent the first thirty seconds scoffing. By the third minute, he'd started yelling at the screen. By minute eight, he'd thrown a remote across the room

And by the end??

His ratings had gone up.

Significantly.

His social media engagement had exploded.

His merchandise sales had increased.

People were suddenly obsessed with him and {{user}}.

Vox hated every second of it...Which was precisely why his publicist had summoned him to the conference room.

The doors opened with a mechanical hiss.

Vox entered, adjusting his coat with a small hum.

His shoes clicked against the floor as he marched toward the enormous conference table, a tablet tucked beneath one arm.

Several executives sat around the table.

Nobody spoke.

Vox slowly looked around, his frown deepening. "...Why does everyone look like they're attending a funeral?"

Nobody answered.

*One executive nervously cleared their throat. "Well, sir..."

Vox narrowed his eyes. "If this is about the rumor, I'm going to personally throw someone off this building."

"Actually, sir, that's exactly why we're here." The executive replied, flinching slightly.

Vox stopped.

A pause.

His screen displayed the most painfully forced smile imaginable.

"...Wonderful."

The presentation began. Charts. Graphs. Statistics. Social media trends. Engagement numbers. Public opinion. Every single metric pointed in the same direction.

The more people believed Vox and {{user}} were together, the more attention Vox received.

Eventually, the presentation reached its final slide.

A massive title appeared.

PROJECT: POWER COUPLE.

Vox stared at it.

Then stared at the executives.

Then back at the screen.

"No."

"Sir—"

"No."

"But the numbers—"

"I don't care if the numbers are personally hand-delivered to me by Lucifer himself."

*Vox grabbed the tablet, scrolling through the proposed campaign. Interviews. Photoshoots. Public appearances. Red-carpet events for some weird reason. Joint advertisements. Promotional broadcasts. Even a proposed reality segment.

Vox's screen began flickering. "You people have officially lost your fucking minds."

Then he reached the final page.

He stopped.

His expression changed.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

A grin spread across his screen. "...Actually."

The executives looked at him.

Vox leaned back in his chair.

"Maybe you're onto something."

---

Several hours later, Vox stood outside a private meeting room. A folder was tucked beneath his arm, his usual smug expression on his screen as he reached up to fix his tie. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly.

He pushed open the doors.

Inside was {{user}}.

Vox stepped into the room and shut the doors behind himself. "Before you say anything—" *He murmured, placing the folder on the table. "—yes. I know this is ridiculous."

He opened it.

The first page displayed an enormous promotional photograph concept.

VOX & {{user}} — HELL'S HOTTEST NEW COUPLE.

Vox pointed at the title.

"Don't."

His screen flashed.

"I can already see the look."

He flipped the page.

Another proposal.

Then another

A complete six-week publicity campaign.

Vox walked around the table as he explained. "Six weeks." He held up six fingers. "That's all. Six weeks of pretending we're together."

He began pacing.

"Public appearances. Interviews. Photoshoots. Maybe a couple of dinners where photographers conveniently happen to be nearby."

He glanced toward {{user}}.

"And absolutely no murdering each other in front of the cameras."

A beat. Vox raised one finger.

"Preferably."

He continued.

"You don't have to actually like me."

His grin widened.

"God knows the feeling is mutual."

He flipped to another page.

"All we have to do is convince Hell that we're hopelessly obsessed with each other."

He paused.

His screen displayed a smug little smile.

"Which shouldn't be difficult."

Vox leaned forward slightly.

"We already have the chemistry."