The Love That Bloomed

I was on vacation in Rivermill, indulging in street barbecue, when my phone pinged.

"Cameron Wells is getting married"—the headline flashed across every trending page.

The food became harder to swallow, and eventually, I couldn't hold back my tears at the stall.

My tears turned into a spectacle. Fans began crowding around, snapping photos and ordering barbecue just to linger. The stall owner looked at the surging crowd and practically lost his mind. "There's no way! I can't keep up! I'm closing shop tomorrow!"

1

#Cameron Wells Returns Home.

#Wells Corporation CEO is Gorgeous.

#Wells Corporation Engagement.

Those were the top trending hashtags. The company had asked me to schmooze with a big sponsor, but I'd ditched that plan entirely, choosing to escape to Rivermill for some R&R and grilled meat.

At first, the barbecue was satisfying. Then I saw the headline—Cameron Wells, the CEO of Wells Corporation is back, and he's getting married.

Suddenly, nothing tasted right.

I tapped into the article. It began as a financial news piece, but Cameron's strikingly handsome photo had gone viral, flooding every corner of the internet. With it came an avalanche of information about Wells Corporation's upcoming events, including his engagement.

I stared blankly at the screen, the food in front of me losing all appeal.

This man from college—the one I had shamelessly adored and pined for over eight long years—was tying the knot.

I sat there in a daze for a long time before I couldn't hold back my emotions and started crying at the stall.

Around me, the barbecue stall was buzzing with diners, and the owner hollered, "We're full! Try the next stall—Rivermill barbecue never disappoints!"

Then came the voices. "Wait, isn't that Dayna Barton? Is she crying?"

"Oh my God, it's really her! Forget other stalls—gather round, everyone!"

The crowd thickened, swarming my little corner of the stall.

Phones clicked incessantly, and I snapped out of my daze just long enough to flee the scene. Somewhere behind me, the owner's voice rose in despair.

"I can't keep up with these orders! This is insane! Damn it, I'm shutting down tomorrow!"

2

By the next evening, hashtags like "Dayna Crying at Rivermill BBQ" and "Barbecue Stall Owner Shuts Down Due to Overcrowding" were trending in the top spots on social media.

At first, my manager, Sabrina, dismissed the situation as manageable. "It's fine," she said. "A bit of public pressure—happens all the time."

But after two days, the narrative took a darker turn. An alleged "college classmate" posted a scathing exposé online.

"A certain B-list actress has always been morally bankrupt," it began. Then it accused me of being Cameron's obsessive junior in college, claiming I was a mistress who had tried to steal him away.

Worse, it suggested that I now worked in my brother-in-law's company, leveraging our "special relationship" for professional benefits.

The cherry on top? My barbecue tears coinciding with the Wells Corporation engagement announcement—proof of my supposed lingering obsession.

With fabricated evidence and an arsenal of convincing "proof," the post took the internet by storm, with people calling me shameless and demanding I leave the entertainment industry.

#Scandalous Star Exposed. #Mistress Actress. The hashtags trended relentlessly. When the controversy reached its peak, the company dispatched representatives to confront me.

3

In the small hotel conference room, the door swung open. Shane Barker, my brother-in-law, strode in.

I had been trying to stay composed, but the sight of him immediately darkened my expression. Shane, unfazed by my reaction, approached with that same insufferable smirk. He placed his hands on my shoulders, the touch as unwelcome as ever.

"The company's decided to take control of your social media accounts," he began. "We don't need you saying or doing anything to make this mess worse. No idea which rival decided to target you this time, but we'll handle it."

Then, with a disgusting leer, he leaned closer. "And about my previous offer. Being a sponsor's little sweetheart isn't that bad. You're experienced enough by now, aren't you? I wouldn't worry about your... technique disappointing me anymore."

I slapped his hand away and glared at him, cold fury coursing through me.

But Shane, arrogant as ever, grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me closer.

"You said you wanted to be a big star," he sneered. "Well, you don't have to entertain clients if you don't want to. Let me take care of you instead. You'll get everything you want—fame, freedom, protection. All it takes is becoming mine. All those nasty rumors online? I could clear them up in a day. Or you can watch yourself get blacklisted, frozen out of the industry entirely."

"Let me go!" I snarled, twisting free. My stiletto heel came down hard on his foot. As he yelped in pain, I didn't hesitate—I slapped him across the face.

"Shane," I said icily, "when I signed with your company, I trusted you because you were my sister's husband. Over the years, I've earned billions for your business. Don't think for a second I'll cower because of your sleazy lies."

He stumbled back, clutching his cheek. I kicked him away and strode toward the door.

Behind me, Shane shouted, his voice filled with rage. "Dayna! Don't think I won't destroy you! You can't afford to break your contract!"

His next words stopped me in my tracks. "What, still pining for Cameron? Saving yourself for him? What a joke!" he spat. "You're nothing but a pathetic lapdog chasing after a rich man who doesn't even know you exist! You think he remembers you? Please."

I paused, slowly slipped off one of my heels, and marched back towards him.

Shane's bravado faltered as I advanced. "Y-you wouldn't," he stammered, holding up his hands defensively.

Grabbing my high heel, I slammed it down on his head with a satisfying thud. "Mind your own damn business!" I growled, my voice trembling with anger.

4

The past few days, I'd been holed up in the hotel, avoiding the outside world.

When I finally ventured out, I was immediately ambushed in the lobby. Reporters who had been lying in wait abandoned whatever they were doing and surged forward, cameras flashing.

"Dayna, is it true you had an inappropriate relationship with your brother-in-law for resources?" one asked.

"Ms. Barton, does this mean your image as a pure, unattached actress was all a facade?" another chimed in.

"How do you think your bedridden sister feels about all this?" another questioned.

I raised a hand to shield my face, trying to make it to the exit, but the reporters refused to budge.

Someone tripped me, and I fell hard onto the floor. Cameras clicked relentlessly, capturing every humiliating second.

The reporters pursued their questions.

"Ms. Barton, did your involvement with Cameron begin during college? Were you his mistress?"

Their accusations and questions blurred together, a sharp pain twisting in my chest.

I wanted to say something, anything, to defend myself.

In the perfect love story where the CEO won it all, I was not even part of the narrative.

Just as I gathered the courage to respond, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

"Oh my, isn't that..."

Footsteps echoed on the carpet, deliberate and measured.

They grew louder, closer, until they stopped right in front of me.

A hand—strong and steady—rested on my shoulder, pulling me gently to my feet.

I looked up, stunned.

It was Cameron. "Dayna," he said softly, his piercing gaze locking onto mine.

My throat tightened, and I felt an inexplicable rush of emotions.