Under the Spotlight

Los Angeles, California

The night outside the Grand Riviera Hotel pulsed like the heart of the city itself, loud, hot, relentless. Paparazzi lights exploded in rapid-fire bursts, bleaching the air in blinding white. The noise, shouting, screeching, camera shutters, hit Celeste the moment her driver cracked open the car door.

She stepped out and was swallowed whole.

“Celeste! Over here!”

“Celeste, look at the camera!”

“Celeste, what about the engagement rumors?”

That word again. Engagement.

Her pulse flickered with irritation. She had just gotten off a long-haul flight, still smelled faintly of airplane coffee, and definitely had not gotten engaged while she was filming across the world.

Yet apparently the entire city believed otherwise.

Crowds surged closer. A microphone nearly smacked her cheek. Cameras flashed so aggressively she had to blink repeatedly just to see straight. Hotel security tried to carve a path for her, but the press didn’t care about security when scandal was involved.

She lowered her chin, using her coat’s collar as a shield, and kept moving, but then, right above the hotel entrance, every screen displayed the same headline in bold gold lettering:

HOLLYWOOD ROYALTY: CELESTE LAURENT & DAMIEN SINCLAIR ENGAGED IN SECRET!

Her breath hitched. The words felt like a slap.

Below the headline came the real blow, a photo of her and Damien Sinclair, a little too close for comfort.

The photo was familiar. An old photo, taken a few years ago and had been manipulated into something more recent.

Her stomach twisted. Someone had dragged her past up from the grave and dressed it in a designer tuxedo.

Her steps faltered before she forced herself forward again, jaw tight. The last thing she needed was for the paparazzi to catch weakness on her face. They devoured weakness for breakfast.

“Celeste! Comment on the engagement!”

“Is Damien the mystery fiancé?”

“Are you rekindling the romance? Is it real this time?”

She wanted to scream, to ask which sick bastard thought this was funny. Instead, she kept walking, until a voice sliced straight through the chaos.

“Celeste.”

Her entire body went still. She didn’t turn. It wasn't necessary. That voice had lived in her memory like a curse.

Damien Sinclair, the billionaire media titan who built empires with cold precision. The man she had once loved with her entire heart, and the man who had broken it with equal force, and now he was here. Of course he was.

He stood at the edge of the paparazzi frenzy like he was born from the shadows themselves, cameras erupting the moment he appeared. Damien commanded attention without trying.

His broad shoulders were wrapped in a charcoal suit, jaw set like carved stone, grey eyes fixed on her with a depth she didn’t dare read into.

“Damien! Confirm the engagement!”

“Is the ring real?”

“When’s the wedding?”

Frenzy escalated into riot.

Celeste quickened her pace.

She made it to the private entrance, breath uneven, pulse in her throat, then warm, steady, oh so very familiar fingers wrapped around her wrist.

“Inside,” Damien murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Now.”

Celeste should have jerked away. Should have unleashed every sharp word she had sharpened over the years, but exhaustion, shock, and the sheer force of the situation shoved her forward.

She let him guide her through the doors.

The silence inside the hotel hit like a physical force.

The elevator doors closed behind them, sealing them into a gold-lit box suspended above chaos, only then did Celeste turn on him.

“What the hell is this?” she snapped, yanking her wrist free. “An engagement? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Damien didn’t flinch. He was actually amused at how stubborn she had become. He simply leaned back against the elevator wall, arms relaxed at his sides, like he was discussing stock numbers instead of a full-blown media scandal.

“That’s not an answer,” he said calmly.

“Oh, you want an answer?” Her laugh was sharp, brittle. “It’s bullshit. All of it.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smirk, but colder. Calculated.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this.”

“Not happening.”

“Suit yourself.”

He reached into his jacket and handed her a black phone. “Scroll.”

She snatched it. Her breath caught as article after article filled the screen. Every outlet, platform, International coverage, had fabricated quotes, a fake timeline of events and claims of a rekindled romance.

The engagement rumor wasn’t just circulating, it was dominating.

“This… this isn’t a rumor,” she whispered, eyes narrowing. “This was planted.”

Damien nodded once. “Exactly.”

A chill spread across her skin. Someone had manually engineered this. Someone with resources. Someone who wanted to force a story neither of them had written.

She looked up sharply. “Did you do this?”

“No.” No hesitation.

“Then why are you so damn calm?”

“Because panic doesn’t solve problems.” His voice sharpened. “Strategy does.”

She scoffed sarcastically. “Of course. Damien Sinclair, king of never losing control.”

But something flickered in his eyes. Something unreadable. “This isn’t random,” he said quietly. “Someone is trying to use us. And until we know who and why… we adapt.”

Her stomach dropped. “Adapt how?”

His gaze locked on hers, intense enough to make her breath stutter.

“We make the engagement real.”

Celeste froze, and immediately the air seemed to thin.

“No.” The word tore from her throat. “Absolutely not.”

“Celeste...”

“You’re insane if you think I’ll pretend to be engaged to you.”

He stepped forward. “Then let the story spiral out of our control. Let the press twist this into something worse.”

“This is not my problem,” she hissed.

His response was razor-sharp. “It is now.”

The words hit harder than she expected.

Damien stepped closer, voice low. “Whoever planted this wants something. And until we figure out what, we control the narrative. Not them.”

She swallowed hard, fury and fear tangled in her chest.