Chapter 2

The heavy wooden door of the dressing room violently slammed open.

The brass handle cracked against the drywall with a deafening thud.

Catalina jumped, her body physically launching off the velvet sofa. Her pulse spiked in her throat.

Her manager, Fran Key, marched into the room. Her sharp stilettos stabbed the carpet with every step. Fran's face was a mask of absolute fury. Her skin was pale, and her lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

Fran's hands were wrapped tightly around two smartphones. Both screens were lit up, vibrating relentlessly.

Without a single word, Fran slammed an iPad face-up onto the glass coffee table.

The screen flared to life.

There it was. The TMZ photo, blown up and glaringly bright.

Catalina's eyes locked onto the image. Her throat instantly closed up. It felt like she had swallowed a handful of sand.

"Fran, I can explain," Catalina started, her voice shaking. "It was an accident. I tripped-"

Fran held up a hand, slicing through the air to cut her off.

"Nobody cares about the truth, Caty," Fran said, her voice dripping with ice. "They only care about how you managed to seduce the most eligible, untouchable bachelor in America on the night of your biggest win."

Catalina reached out with a trembling finger and swiped down on the iPad screen.

The Twitter comment section loaded.

A barrage of vile, toxic words assaulted her eyes. Her stomach plummeted. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin freezing cold.

Green tea bitch.

Clout chaser.

Shameless whore.

Brogan's massive, rabid fanbase was tearing her apart. The data stream was moving so fast the iPad screen stuttered.

Catalina's fingers shook violently. She couldn't look away.

Fran snatched the iPad off the table and hit the power button, plunging the screen into blackness.

"Stop torturing yourself. That's an order," Fran snapped.

Fran spun around and immediately dialed her PR team. She paced the length of the room, her heels clicking sharply.

"I need full sentiment monitoring," Fran barked into the phone. "Bury it. I don't care what it costs."

A pause. Fran's jaw tightened.

"What do you mean you can't suppress it? It's a single photo!" Fran yelled, her voice cracking with frustration.

Fran pulled the phone away from her ear and aggressively rubbed her temples. She took a deep, ragged breath.

She opened her contacts. Her thumb hovered over a name buried deep at the very bottom of her contacts list, a ghost from the past she rarely acknowledged.

She pressed call.

She lifted the phone to her ear. It rang three times. Every ring felt like a physical weight pressing down on Fran's chest.

"Dwayne," Fran said, her voice dropping into a flat, robotic monotone.

On the other end, Dwayne Dickerson, CAA's top agent, answered. His voice was deep, smooth, and entirely devoid of emotion.

Fran gripped her phone so tight her knuckles turned stark white.

"We need a joint statement," Fran demanded, keeping her tone strictly professional. "Your client ambushed mine."

Dwayne let out a low, dark chuckle. The sound vibrated through the speaker.

"Ambushed?" Dwayne's voice dripped with subtle mockery. "Fran, your girl is the only one benefiting from this exposure. Brogan doesn't need her press."

Fran's eyes flashed with anger. She planted her feet firmly on the carpet.

"If you don't cooperate, Dwayne, I will leak a draft saying Brogan has been harassing her for months," Fran threatened, her voice dropping an octave. "Don't test me."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

After a tense, silent standoff that stretched for ten agonizing seconds, Dwayne finally sighed.

"Fine," Dwayne said coldly. "We release a unified front. They don't know each other. It was pure gentlemanly conduct. Nothing more."

Fran hung up. She didn't take a breath before dialing her contact at Variety. Within two minutes, she locked in a time for an exclusive, definitive denial.

A heavy knock pounded on the dressing room door.

A massive bodyguard poked his head in. "Ms. Key. There are over a hundred paparazzi swarming the lobby and the loading dock. We have to move her now."

Catalina's stomach churned. She grabbed a pair of oversized black sunglasses and shoved them onto her face. She pulled a black mask up over her nose, hiding almost every inch of her skin.

Four massive bodyguards surrounded her, forming a tight, physical wall of muscle.

They pushed out of the room and headed for the back exit.

The second the metal doors pushed open to the alley, the night exploded.

Thousands of camera flashes went off simultaneously. It was like staring into a strobe light. The blinding white light seared Catalina's retinas even through the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

"Catalina! Are you sleeping with Brogan?"

"How long have you been hiding it?"

"Did you plan this for publicity?"

The paparazzi shoved heavy microphones directly toward her face. The screaming was deafening. It physically hurt her ears.

The bodyguards shoved back, using their shoulders to violently tear a path through the mob.

Catalina kept her head down. She couldn't breathe. The air was thick with sweat and aggression.

They finally reached the black SUV. A bodyguard yanked the door open and shoved her inside.

The heavy door slammed shut.

The chaotic screaming was instantly muted. The heavy silence of the soundproofed car wrapped around her. The engine roared, and the driver slammed on the gas, throwing Catalina back against the leather seat.

Ten minutes later, Fran's phone buzzed. The Variety statement was live.

It explicitly denied any romantic involvement.

Fran let out a long, shaky breath.

But the relief didn't last. Fran refreshed the analytics page. Her face hardened.

The fans weren't buying it. They were taking screenshots of the statement, analyzing every single word. The conspiracy theories mutated and grew stronger.

Brogan's fans decided the denial was a manipulative tactic from Catalina's team playing hard to get.

They swarmed Catalina's Instagram.

Catalina's phone, sitting on the seat next to her, began to vibrate. It didn't stop. It buzzed continuously, a relentless physical reminder of the hate pouring in.

Notifications flashed across the screen. Death threats. Slurs.

Catalina reached out and flipped the phone face down against the leather. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Fran stared at the data. Conventional PR was useless against this level of hysteria. She needed a different angle.

Outside the tinted windows, the neon lights of Los Angeles blurred past.

Catalina stared at her own reflection in the glass. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were hollow.

Tonight was supposed to be the pinnacle of her career. She had won a Golden Globe.

Instead, it was a living nightmare. She gripped the fabric of her dress, her fingernails digging deep into her own palms.

Suddenly, a different sound cut through the silence.

Deep inside her designer clutch, a secondary, hidden phone vibrated.

It was a specific, customized chime. A sound only three other people in the world knew.

Catalina's eyes snapped wide open. Her breath hitched in her throat.