Visibility wasn't free.
It never had been.
Aria felt it the moment she stepped out of the car—phones lifting, lenses adjusting, conversations pausing half a beat too late. Smiles came easily now. Access did not.
Security lines tightened. Schedules grew rigid. Every movement required approval from someone who hadn't earned it.
"They're charging you for being seen," Noah muttered.
"They always do," Aria replied. "They just don't call it a fee."
---
A stylist canceled at the last minute.
A venue "lost" her reservation.
A meeting time was moved without notice—twice.
Nothing overt. Nothing actionable.
Just friction.
"This is punishment," Noah said.
"This is conditioning," she corrected. "They want me tired."
---
At an industry dinner, a senior executive leaned close, voice low.
"You know," he said, smiling, "things would be easier if you picked a lane."
Aria sipped her water. "I like intersections."
His smile thinned.
"Visibility comes with responsibility," he added.
She met his gaze. "So does power."
---
Later, backstage at an event, she caught her reflection in a mirror.
Perfect hair. Perfect dress.
A controlled image.
She loosened the clasp at her neck—just enough to breathe.
---
In a monitoring room, someone logged a note.
Subject remains visible despite applied pressure.
Fatigue response minimal.
Another replied:
Increase cost.
---
That night, Aria kicked off her shoes and sat on the floor, back against the couch.
Noah handed her a bottle of water. "You okay?"
She nodded. "This is the toll."
"For what?"
She looked up at him.
"For being impossible to ignore."
Outside, cameras waited.
Inside, she stayed awake.
Visibility had a price.
She was still deciding how much she was willing to let them charge.