“It is being said you had many girlfriends,” you stated looking him straight in the eyes, not afraid to call him out on gossips that have been roaming around for a while now. The forever pure, innocent face of his had to be saved somehow, and you were willing to give him a helping hand by denying the rumours.

That was, of course, only if he would accept.

Which, he did not.

“Oh, I did have many girlfriends,” he replied calmly, a glint in his eyes as he sat back more comfortably. Slightly, he bent his head, looking at you from behind of his lashes curiously, ready to give you the fruit you did not ask for. “And I loved them. Every one of them. Oh, so dearly, so passionately. I still could tell you their favourite food or favourite clothing. Whatever it may be, I sure know it. I know my women well.”

There was no chance you would give him the luxury of physically showing him what you were actually thinking, and what you desperately wanted to do: stand up, slap him and leave. But the cameras were rolling, lights were on, strong and shiny, the exact opposite of your own weak and dull being. You couldn’t leave and he knew it, too. He knew you so well, just like he insisted he knew all his previous lovers. Despite all of this, he wanted to gift you something - your interview, your chance to shine and make yourself known as a good reporter, good writer for the fashion magazine you had been so diligently working for. A writer that just won a prize by getting information that no one ever was successful enough to get.

Was he really doing this for you?

As soon as the pages would be in the printer, the world would know. Surely, nobody could keep this a secret and wait till the magazines hit the shelves of the newstands. Somebody would sneak a picture of the interview, upload it… And the bomb would go off, taking him down. Hm, who could you trick? His managers and assistants - everyone present from his company - were trying hard not to go mad, instead going behind the rolling cameras and showing him hand gestures to stop the bull he was pulling. 

Nobody must know. 

“Mhm, how about you tell me about your favourite piece of clothing?” you resumed, easing the tightening of your hand on the notepad that was lying on your thigh as you were sitting cross-legged on the uncomfortable chair opposite him. “Since the highlight of the photoshoot is the collaboration with high-fashion brands, there has to be something incredibly rare in your wardrobe that you like so much to wear.”

Before answering, he his lips, still giving you a curious stare that by now had a knowing glint to it - he knew what you were doing, and he was trying not to show the slight disappointment. He liked to play, especially with someone like you. Someone, who was so unreadable it made his open-minded self go crazy; that was, of course, back when he ju