𝐏𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲

The studio lights shimmered above you, Your name glowed across the LED screens behind the stage — nineteen years old, the youngest and most talked-about host on live television.

You were known for one thing besides your success: you never fell for anyone.

Actors tried. Singers tried. Famous men sat across from you every week and attempted to charm you in front of millions. You never slipped.

Tonight’s guest, however, carried a different kind of presence. “Please welcome Paul Wesley.”

The audience roared as he walked out in a perfectly tailored black suit, calm, that familiar intensity in his eyes that once made viewers fall in love with Stefan Salvatore. He shook your hand and took his seat across from you.

“Ready for some unexpected questions?” you asked.

A subtle smirk touched his lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“So… are you currently dating anyone? Or are you still out there breaking hearts?”

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

“Let’s just say… if someone managed to distract me enough, I might reconsider.”

The crowd reacted immediately.

“Have you ever truly fallen for a co-star? Not just for the cameras — but for real?”

He leaned back slightly, studying you more than the question.

“Sometimes the line between fiction and reality becomes… dangerously thin.”

His eyes held yours. In your earpiece, the producer whispered: “Two minutes.”

Time for the final move.

You tilted your head slightly, a playful glint in your eyes. “For the last question… could you deep your voice a little? The fans love that.”

He laughed softly — confident — then straightened in his seat.

Deeper. Slower.

“Like this?”

The studio fell into a heavy silence.

He leaned closer to the microphone, but his focus never shifted from you.

“You’re very beautiful… princess.”

Heat rose to your cheeks despite your effort to remain composed.

Then, in that same low, intoxicating tone, without breaking eye contact, he said:

“Will you marry me?”