The Fame Game || Tom Holland

one: a simple fix?

One: A Simple Fix?

"No. No way."

"Yes."

"There's absolutely no way I'm agreeing to this."

"Y/N, it's the only way."

"I would rather die than sign that piece of paper."

"Do you not think that's a little dramatic, Y/N?"

"If you think I'm seriously about to agree to be Tom's little- little PR girlfriend, then clearly you have no idea who I am."

Your manager raises her eyebrows. "I'm sorry to tell you that you don't really have a choice, Y/N."

You've been a lot of things in your life: a daughter, a sister, a friend - and, more recently, also a BAFTA-nominated actress, Hollywood's rising star, and the media's wild child. But what you've never been - and never could've dreamed you'd become, is Tom Holland's fake girlfriend. You won't allow it.

You scoff. "Of course I have a choice."

There's a rather uncomfortable silence hanging in the conference room, and you don't like the way your PR team awkwardly glances around at one other. With a frustrated groan, you reach out for the styrofoam cup of tea resting on the table in front of you and throw it back. The tea burns your throat, but you bite back your wince and enjoy feeling the ache against your mouth. At this point, you'd take any distraction from reality.

You're in a pissing awful mood. Not only are you so hungover it feels as though there are a hundred tiny men hiding in your skull, chiselling away at your cerebral cortex with sharp, persistent hammers, but it's also 9am, pouring outside, and you're stuck in a stuffy boardroom with management for this 'emergency meeting'. You're sitting here in front of fifteen people, your wet t-shirt sticking to your cold arms, and not even the thick-framed sunglasses you've got balanced on your nose can take the edge off the pain.

This whole situation has been made worse by your manager's suggestion that you enter this ridiculous scheme. Tom Holland's PR girlfriend? You'd truly rather die.

"If you don't comply, we'll have no choice but to drop you from the firm."

Your jaw drops. You stare across to the woman sitting at the head of the table, utterly gobsmacked.

"Rebecca," you cry out. "Isn't that a little harsh?"

Rebecca Thornton has been by your side since you set out in Hollywood five years ago, and she's never led you wrong. Through the humble beginnings of your career to the recent rockier patches, she and her talented team in PR have managed to salvage your image - even amidst the latest trials and tribulations you've been facing. Your reputation has never been worse, and whilst you know it's been causing your team stress, you never imagined it had grown this bad.

The woman shakes her head. Her plush lips lie in a deep, worried frown, and her dark eyes swirl with irritation.

"You had one rule, Y/N: don't make a scene. And what did you do?" She pauses for effect, and the following words mix with your second exasperated groan, "You made a scene! At the Oscars, no less. The higher-ups aren't happy." She clicks her tongue, her fingers toying with a shiny silver pen. "I am your friend, Y/N, but this cannot continue. It makes the entire company look bad to have a liability running around."

You don't know if you want to scream or cry.

"Look, what happened last night was... Not ideal, I get it. But it was a mistake! Can't we just run some bullshit story and call it a day?"