Chapter 3: Reunion in the Spotlight

So, I said yes.

My heart was pounding, but my fingers typed out: “Deal.”

Two hours later, Mason and I walked out of the LA County Clerk’s office, clutching our marriage certificate.

The office was tiny, the clerk barely glancing up as we scribbled our names. Mason flashed me a grin, and I couldn’t help but laugh at how absolutely surreal this was.

Meanwhile, Twitter crashed—again.

The trending bar was a blur of our names, exclamation points, and pure disbelief. My notifications were coming in so fast, I had to turn my phone off just to keep my sanity.

The word “explosive” next to #MasonWhitakerChloeReedMarried# was impossible to miss.

I screenshotted it for the scrapbook, thinking one day we’d show our kids—or our agents—and laugh.

“Are my eyes deceiving me? Who married who?!”

Someone posted a screenshot of our marriage certificate. The comments ranged from jaw-dropped shock to gleeful celebration.

“Mason Whitaker and Chloe Reed???”

A fan posted a collage of our old red carpet moments, captioned: “The chemistry was always there.”

“Does Grant know about this?”

I pictured him spitting out his coffee all over his kitchen. The image made me snort.

“All three of the Steel Triangle finally married off—happy for them, but man, I’m exhausted.”

Someone joked that the Steel Triangle had finally completed itself. Even my agent texted: “Congrats, but you owe me a Napa cab for the stress.”

For three days, Mason, Chloe, and Grant’s names ruled the trending charts.

Every time I opened my phone, there was our faces. Paparazzi were camped outside my apartment, fans sent congratulatory flowers, and even my old drama teacher emailed me, thrilled.

Suddenly, all the attention shifted from Grant’s secret marriage and daughter to Mason and me.

We were the new main event. Even People Magazine and TMZ called, demanding exclusives.

Now everyone wanted to know: When did Mason and I become a thing?

Theories exploded across every platform. People analyzed old interviews, red carpet glances, even the way Mason once fixed my hair on set.

Some people dug up decade-old interview footage, hoping to catch us acting like a couple.

Someone posted a grainy wrap party video of us sharing fries, circling our hands like it was the Zapruder film.

“Look at Mason’s ‘ideal type’ from ten years ago—doesn’t that sound like Chloe?”

A fan account posted a split-screen of his quote and my headshot. It was a stretch, but honestly, kind of adorable.

“Didn’t Mason join that show just for Chloe?”

I laughed out loud at that. Mason only joined because he lost a bet, but hey, let’s keep the romance alive.

“And didn’t they wear matching outfits back then?”

Photos surfaced of us in suspiciously coordinated clothes. I remembered that day—Mason’s brainchild, obviously.

Rumors and facts blurred together, and even I, the actual Chloe, started doubting what was real.

It felt like watching a movie about my own life, half-truth, half-fanfic.

If I remember right, the so-called couple outfits happened because Mason, being a goofball, created a ‘family’ for the three of us and even had special matching shirts made.

He dubbed us the “Reed-Whitaker-Callahan Clan,” which made Grant roll his eyes so hard I worried they’d get stuck.

Grant thought Mason was nuts and flat-out refused to wear them.

He once threatened to burn the shirts if Mason brought them to set again.

In the end, Mason nearly booted him from the ‘family,’ and the two of them sulked for a week.

There was a whole week where they wouldn’t even eat lunch together. I had to bribe them with donuts to broker peace.

To keep the peace, I wore the family shirt and played mediator.

I snapped a selfie in the shirt, flashing a peace sign, and sent it to both of them. Miraculously, it worked—sort of.

Eventually, Grant caved and wore it too.

We snapped a group selfie, Mason beaming, Grant looking like he’d just bitten into a lemon.