Chapter 1

The foreclosure notice felt cold in my hand.

The lawyer's words echoed in the stuffy office of the Majestic, our family's movie theater.

"Thirty days, Ms. Hayes."

My mother, Sarah, sat beside me, her face pale.

The Majestic wasn't just a building.

It was Dad's dream.

His legacy.

Now, his medical debts and some bad calls before he passed were about to swallow it whole.

I clutched the worn screenplay in my lap.

"Hollywood Haze." My one shot.

I had to save the theater.

I had to.

Somehow, I scraped together enough money for a bus ticket to Los Angeles.

A tiny, almost unknown film festival was happening.

Maybe, just maybe, I could get my script into someone's hands.

I stood awkwardly at a crowded industry mixer.

My pitch felt clumsy, rehearsed too many times in a dusty bus seat.

A man I tried to talk to, some low-level agent, barely glanced at my script.

Then, a voice cut through the noise, deep and confident.

"What's this about?"

Marcus Thorne.

The Marcus Thorne.

His picture was always in the trades, a kingmaker producer.

He was older, maybe early forties, with eyes that saw everything.

He took my script, flipped a few pages, then looked at me.

Not at the script, but at *me*.

A slow smile spread across his face.

"The script needs work, kid."

My heart sank.

"But you... you have potential."

He leaned closer.

"I have a proposition. I'm looking for a companion. Someone bright, beautiful, to be on my arm. You do that for me, and your little theater in Ohio? Consider it saved."

A companion.

My stomach twisted.

But then I saw Mom's face, the crumbling facade of the Majestic.

"Okay," I whispered.

"The Majestic is safe?"

"As long as you're with me," he said, his smile never wavering.

The deal was made.

Marcus moved fast.

One day I was in a cheap motel, the next I was in a sleek, minimalist apartment he provided.

He took me to a struggling art-house cinema I'd once mentioned I loved.

The next week, a sign went up: "The Hayes Classic Cinema – A Gift from Marcus Thorne."

He beamed at me.

"For us, Amelia. For our love of film."

I felt a warmth spread through me, unexpected.

He flew me to a private island film festival on his jet.

Red carpets, champagne, famous faces smiling at me because I was with *him*.

I felt like I was in a dream.

Then, I got a terrible flu, right before a major international distribution meeting he was supposed to chair.

I expected him to be annoyed, to leave me with a doctor.

Instead, he cancelled the meeting.

He stayed by my side, brought me soup, read to me.

"You're more important, Amy," he murmured, stroking my hair.

Amy. He called me Amy.

This wasn't just a deal, was it?

He seemed to genuinely care.

I started to fall for him, hard.

This powerful, worldly man, showing me such tenderness.

It felt real.

The news hit the trades like a thunderclap.

"Victoria Sinclair Returns to Hollywood."

Marcus's former fiancée. The A-list actress who had left him years ago.

I asked Marcus about it.

He shrugged, his eyes unreadable.

"Ancient history, Amy."

But a knot formed in my stomach.

A few days later, I was at a quiet cafe, trying to work on a new script idea.

A woman approached my table.

Perfectly styled, impossibly glamorous.

Victoria Sinclair.

"Amelia Hayes, I presume?" she said, her voice smooth as silk.

She sat down without asking.

"Marcus has told me... so little about you."

Her eyes scanned me, a polite smile on her lips that didn't reach them.

It felt like an assessment.

A threat.

"You're very young," Victoria observed, stirring her untouched espresso.

"Marcus likes... youth."

I bristled. "Marcus cares for me."

My voice sounded small, even to my own ears.

Victoria laughed, a light, tinkling sound.

"Oh, darling, of course he *cares*. He cares for all his little projects."

She leaned forward, her voice dropping.

"But don't confuse attention with affection. You're a placeholder, a pleasant distraction until the real thing comes along."

"That's not true," I said, trying to sound firm.

"Isn't it?" Her eyes gleamed. "Let's find out. A little test, shall we?"

My heart hammered.

"Tomorrow, around noon, I'll text Marcus. A little wardrobe malfunction before a minor luncheon. Nothing serious."

She paused, watching me.

"You text him around the same time. Say you've had a minor car accident. Also nothing serious, just a fender bender. Let's see who he calls first."

Fear coiled in my gut. This was cruel.

But a desperate, ugly part of me needed to know.

"Okay," I whispered.

The next day, my hands shook as I typed out the fake text about a car accident.

I sent it at 12:03 PM.

My phone lay silent on the table.

One minute passed. Two.

My stomach churned.

I replayed his gentle words, his hand on my forehead when I was sick.

The way he looked at me when he dedicated that cinema.

He had to care.

At 12:07 PM, my phone remained dark.

Then, Victoria's call came through on my other line – a burner phone she'd insisted I use for this.

Her voice was triumphant.

"He called me at 12:01, darling. So worried about my dress. Offered his personal stylist immediately."

A cold wave washed over me.

"Did he... did he call you?" Victoria asked, feigning concern.

"No," I managed.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure he's just busy."

The line went dead.

My own phone finally buzzed. A text from Marcus, sent at 12:15 PM.

*"You okay? In a meeting."*

That was it.

The warmth I'd felt from him turned to ice.

Later that week, Victoria "ran into me" at a gallery opening.

She was radiant, Marcus's hand possessively on her waist.

She smiled sweetly at me.

"Amy, darling! So good to see you."

She gestured to a ridiculously ornate movie prop on display.

"Marcus bought a failing vintage movie prop house once, just because I admired a little tiara there. He's so extravagant when he truly cares, isn't he?"

Her eyes flicked to mine, knowing.

Then, with a sigh, "And that private island film festival? We had such memories there, years ago. He always did love that spot."

Each word was a small, sharp cut.

I felt sick.

At a studio party a few nights later, I tried to avoid them.

But I overheard two of Marcus's executives, their voices slurred by alcohol.

"Thorne's still got it bad for Sinclair. Never really got over her."

"Remember all those 'business trips' to Europe? Always coincided with her film premieres there. He chased her for years."

The pieces clicked into place, ugly and sharp.

I was a fool.

The industry gala was a nightmare.

Marcus insisted I attend.

He was all over me, ostentatious kisses, his arm tight around my waist.

His eyes kept flicking to Victoria, who watched with a cool, amused expression.

He was using me. Showing her he'd moved on, trying to make her jealous.

I felt like a puppet.

Midway through the main course, Victoria pressed her fingers to her temple.

"Oh, Marcus, darling," she murmured, her voice faint. "My migraine. It's come back, terribly."

Marcus was instantly at her side.

"I'll take you home," he said, all concern.

He didn't even glance at me as he led Victoria from the ballroom.

Abandoned. Publicly.

That was the final straw.

I went back to the apartment, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

I found my old, creased acceptance letter to UCLA's film program. I'd deferred it because of the Majestic, because of Marcus.

My eyes fell on the custom-designed, vintage-style clapperboard he'd had made for me.

Engraved on it: "Our Story."

I snatched it up and threw it into the trash can with all the force I could muster.

Our story. What a joke.

I started packing. Just essentials. My clothes, my laptop, my scripts.

My father's vintage Super 8 camera, his most precious possession he'd left me, went into my carry-on.

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened.

Victoria stood there, a silk robe clinging to her, a smug smile on her face.

She was staying here now. In Marcus's mansion.

"Leaving so soon, little mouse?"

Her eyes landed on the Super 8 camera peeking from my bag.

She picked it up, her perfectly manicured fingers tracing its lines.

"Oh, this looks old. Probably very fragile."

She dangled it casually.

My blood ran cold. "Please, don't."

"Kneel," she said, her voice soft but laced with steel.

"Kneel and apologize for wasting Marcus's time, for thinking you could ever be more than a temporary amusement. Do that, and maybe I won't... accidentally... drop this."

My father's camera.

Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn't let her break it.

Slowly, reluctantly, I sank to my knees.

"I... I'm sorry."

The words choked me.

As I knelt, Victoria made a small sound, a theatrical "oops!"

She "tripped" over nothing, her body lurching.

The camera flew from her hand, arcing through the air.

At the same time, she tumbled dramatically down the two carpeted steps leading into the sunken part of the master suite, letting out a piercing scream.

The camera hit the marble floor with a sickening crack.

Marcus burst into the room, his face a mask of fury.

He saw Victoria sprawled on the steps, clutching her ankle. He saw the broken camera.

"She pushed me, Marcus!" Victoria sobbed. "She was angry I found her packing to sneak away! She attacked me and broke your... our... that camera thing!"

Marcus didn't even look at me.

His rage was a physical force.

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in like talons.

"You ungrateful little witch!"

He dragged me out of the room, down a flight of stairs, to his expansive, soundproofed wine cellar.

He shoved me inside.

The heavy door slammed shut, the lock clicking with terrifying finality.

Darkness. Cold.

Hours passed. I don't know how many.

I huddled on the cold stone floor, shivering, clutching the pieces of my father's camera.

Finally, the lock turned.

Marcus stood there, silhouetted against the dim hallway light.

He held out the Super 8 camera. It looked... whole.

"It's fixed," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

"Let's just forget this happened."

Forget? He'd locked me in a cellar for hours because he believed a liar over me.

No apology for his actions, no remorse for his cruelty.

He showed no sign he even considered I might be innocent.

I took the camera, my hand trembling.

Victoria, emboldened, began her torment.

Texts arrived daily.

Photos of her and Marcus at exclusive Hollywood parties I was never invited to.

Close-ups of her wearing a diamond necklace – a necklace Marcus had gifted *me* weeks ago, claiming it was a symbol of "their unique connection."

Each picture was a fresh stab of pain.

I started my classes at UCLA.

I threw myself into my studies, trying to build a wall around the hollow ache in my chest.

I submitted a short film, a raw, personal piece, to a student film festival.

The night of the festival, my heart pounded.

Then I saw them.

Marcus and Victoria, entering the auditorium, all power and glamour.

They sat in the VIP section.

During a lull, some of my former acquaintances, sycophants who knew of my past with Marcus, spotted him.

One of them, a girl named Tiffany, called out loudly, "Marcus, darling! Do you remember that little writer, Amelia Hayes? She's a student here now!"

All eyes turned to me, then to Marcus.

Victoria, ever the actress, turned to Marcus, her voice dripping with false sweetness, loud enough for everyone nearby, including me, to hear.

"Darling, do you know her?"

Marcus looked directly at me. His eyes were cold, dismissive.

He wanted to present a united front with Victoria, to erase me completely.

"Never seen her before in my life," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the hushed room.

The world tilted. Crushed wasn't a strong enough word.

But I lifted my chin. I would not let them see me break.

Not again.

That night was Marcus's birthday.

He was hosting a lavish party at his mansion, the kind that made headlines.

I was at LAX, a one-way ticket to Ohio in my hand.

I needed to go home, to breathe air that wasn't thick with Hollywood deceit.

To rethink everything. Maybe LA, maybe screenwriting, wasn't for me after all.

The Majestic was safe, that was the core of our deal.

My part was done. His part was done.

Before boarding, I pulled out my phone.

I typed a short text to Marcus.

*"Marcus, I won't be at your party. The Majestic is safe, so our arrangement is over. I'm going home. Goodbye."*

I hit send.

Then, I turned off my phone and walked onto the plane.

Marcus felt Amy's absence at the party.

A small, nagging unease that grew with every passing hour.

His phone buzzed. A text from Amy.

He read it.

"Home." "Goodbye."

The words slammed into him.

He tried calling her. Straight to voicemail.

A sudden, desperate panic seized him.

He rushed out of his own party, ignoring the confused calls of his guests, even Victoria's annoyed frown.

He sped to the apartment he'd provided for Amy.

It was mostly empty.

Her clothes were gone. Her books. Her presence.

In the kitchen trash, he saw it.

The custom clapperboard. "Our Story." Discarded.

On the small counter, next to the coffeemaker, sat the repaired Super 8 camera.

Beside it, a small, folded note.

His hand trembled as he opened it.

*"Thank you for fixing this. It meant more than you know. I hope you find what you're looking for. Amy."*

The simple sincerity of her words, the quiet dignity, hit him harder than any accusation.

He sank onto a stool, the note clutched in his hand.

The depth of his feelings for her, a genuine, aching tenderness he'd mistaken for casual affection, crashed over him.

And with it, the crushing weight of his own cruelty, his blindness.

He had destroyed something precious.

He had broken her.

And now, she was gone.