Breaking 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.

He wasn't wrong and she hated to acknowledge that, but the fact was he wasn't wrong.

"If I agree," she whispered, lifting her chin, "there are conditions."

A faint spark lit Damien's eyes. "Of course there are."

"This is temporary. We control the story, together. And when it's over, you walk away for good."

His gaze flickered, dark, dangerous. "I'll agree to that."

She didn't believe him for a second, but she had no choice.

The city lights glowed beneath them, bright, hungry, unforgiving.

From the moment she stepped out of that car, this stopped being a choice. It became a war, and Damien Sinclair never fought a battle he couldn't win.

The elevator chimed softly as it reached the penthouse level, but neither of them moved. The air between Celeste and Damien was thick enough to cut, charged, tense, electric in the worst way. The kind of tension that came with too many memories and too many wounds that had never healed.

Celeste stepped out first, refusing to give him the satisfaction of leading. The penthouse hallway was silent, the kind of expensive silence that only came with wealth, distance, and isolation high above the city.

Damien followed, his presence a shadow she didn't want but couldn't shake.

Inside the penthouse, the door clicked shut behind them, sealing them away from the world and the media chaos simmering below.

Celeste spun around, all her anger reigniting with a vengeance. "You had no right to drag me in here," she snapped. "You had no right to touch me out there."

Damien's jaw ticked. "I touched your wrist, Celeste. Not your life."

She hated the way he said her name. Like it meant something. Like it still belonged to him.

"You think this is a game?" she demanded. "A narrative you get to control because you always get to control everything?"

His eyes darkened, the calm façade slipping just enough to reveal steel beneath. "You think I wanted to be blindsided by this? You think I enjoy being ambushed by a fake engagement too?"

"Your empire thrives on attention," she shot back. "Mine gets destroyed by it."

"And that," he said, stepping toward her, "is exactly why you can't afford to walk away from this conversation."

Celeste stiffened.

"Someone is using us," he continued. "Someone with access. Someone who knew where to hit."

She clenched her teeth. "Who would do something like this?"

His silence was louder than an answer.

"You have an idea," she said quietly.

Damien didn't look away. "Several."

"But you think it's someone close," she pressed.

"I think it's someone who benefits from chaos," he replied. "Someone who understands both our worlds. Someone who wants control, not of the story, Celeste, but of you."

Her stomach dropped. She knew exactly who he meant. She just didn't want to say the name.

"No," she said firmly. "This isn't her style."

"Her style has always been whatever gets results," Damien countered.

A chill danced up her spine. Veronica Hale, Hollywood's obsession, the industry's most dangerous manipulator, Damien's biggest mistake, and the woman who had always wanted Celeste gone.

But Celeste refused to let fear show. She crossed her arms, even though her hands had begun to tremble.

"So what's your plan?" she demanded. "Say it plainly."

Damien exhaled once, controlled and precise. "We get ahead of the story."

"By pretending to be engaged."

"By controlling the engagement," he corrected. "If the world thinks we're together, then whoever is behind this loses leverage."

"You can't protect me," she spat.

"I can protect the narrative," he said quietly. "Right now, that's the only thing keeping your career from imploding."

Her breath hitched.

He wasn't threatening her. He was stating reality.

And the worst part was, he was right.

"Celeste," he said softly, and she instantly hated the softness. It made her feel exposed. "This is temporary, but I can't do it without you."

She turned away, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city glittered below like a thousand burning secrets. Her reflection in the glass looked like someone trapped in the wrong life.

She whispered, "We were toxic, Damien."

His voice came from behind her, low and controlled. "We were young. We were reckless. Neither of us knew how to love the other without tearing ourselves apart."

She closed her eyes. "Damn him for remembering."

"But this isn't about then," he added. "This is about now."

She turned, meeting his gaze head-on. "If we do this, you play by my rules."

"I agreed to your conditions," he reminded her. "Temporary. Controlled. And when it's over, I walk away."

She studied him for a long moment, searching for the lie she expected to find, but Damien Sinclair was unreadable. Always had been.

"Fine," she said finally. "We do this, but only until we find whoever planted that story. Then we end it."

His jaw tightened, but he nodded.

She stepped closer, lifting her chin. "And there will be no confusing this arrangement with anything else. Not emotions. Not proximity. Not... whatever we used to be."

Something flickered in his eyes, a shadow of something she didn't want to name. "Understood." But the way he held her gaze made her chest tighten.

"Good," she whispered.

Damien's phone buzzed on the marble counter. He glanced at it, and his expression sharpened dangerously.

"What?" Celeste asked.

He turned the screen toward her.

A new headline. A new leak. A new photo. This time, it wasn't an old manipulated image. It was a picture taken tonight.

Her and Damien together. His hand around her wrist. Her face, close to his. The elevator behind them.

CELESTE LAURENT RUNS TO DAMIEN SINCLAIR'S PENTHOUSE AFTER SECRET ENGAGEMENT LEAK!

Celeste's blood went cold.

"This doesn't make sense," she breathed. "How would anyone know we were together? That we came up to your penthouse?"

Damien's expression hardened, his voice dropping to a lethal murmur. "Because whoever leaked the first story is watching us."

Celeste's heart slammed against her ribs. "Watching? As in... right now?"

Damien stepped closer, his gaze burning with a fury she'd only seen once before, the night everything between them had fallen apart.

"Celeste," he said quietly, "we're not dealing with a rumor anymore."

He took her hand, not roughly, but firmly.

"This is a trap."

Her breath trembled.

"And we just walked right into it."