Bound By Contract: The Superstar's Secret Wife

The screen of the phone almost cracked under the pressure of Allyson's thumb.

She sat in the back of the stretched Lincoln, the leather seat cold against her bare thighs. Her eyes were locked on the Twitter trending page. Joanne Whitney's name sat at the number one spot, accompanied by a pristine photo of her smiling like America's sweetheart.

A sharp ache bloomed behind Allyson's ribs. That S-tier role was supposed to be hers. She had auditioned four times, only for Joanne to return to Hollywood and snatch it away with a single phone call.

Allyson bit hard into the soft flesh inside her cheek. The metallic taste of blood grounded her.

She quickly switched to her anonymous burner account. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out the words she couldn't say in public: Some people forget who was actually there for him during the tough times. Joanne is a joke.

She hit send.

Three seconds later, her notifications exploded. Hundreds of replies flooded in, vicious and immediate.

Stop clinging to a megastar, you plastic vase.

Delusional.

Get out of Hollywood, Allyson.

A hand suddenly snatched the phone from her grip.

"Are you out of your mind?" Hollie, her manager, glared at her, the screen light reflecting in her furious eyes. "Do not cause trouble right now. You are already drowning in bad press."

"I didn't do anything," Allyson muttered, looking away.

The limo hit a sudden pothole. Allyson jerked forward. A sickening rip echoed in the quiet cabin.

She gasped, her hands flying to the side of her cheap, sponsored gown. The cheap fabric had given way at the seam, exposing an inch of her waist. She frantically tried to pull the fabric together, her fingertips turning white.

Hollie stared at the torn dress and let out a heavy sigh. "If Joanne hadn't stolen your role, you wouldn't be wearing a dress that falls apart if you breathe too hard."

Allyson swallowed the heavy lump in her throat. She turned to the tinted window, staring at her own reflection. She forced the corners of her mouth up, practicing a flawless, impenetrable smile.

The limo rolled to a stop at the start of the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The red carpet stretched out like a river of blood. Flashbulbs exploded like lightning storms outside the glass.

A security guard pulled the door open. The deafening roar of the crowd hit Allyson like a physical blow. But they weren't screaming for her. They were chanting Byron's name.

Allyson grabbed the hem of her dress, her knuckles white, and stepped out. The cold night air bit into her exposed skin, making her shiver.

She took two steps onto the plush carpet. Just ahead, Joanne stood in a custom haute couture gown, posing perfectly for the wall of cameras.

Joanne shifted her gaze. Her eyes locked onto Allyson. A slow, mocking smirk curled Joanne's lips, dripping with pure contempt.

The paparazzi noticed Allyson. A collective chorus of boos rippled through the press pit. Photographers literally lowered their cameras, refusing to waste a single frame on her.

Then, the crowd at the far end of the carpet erupted into a sound that vibrated the ground.

Byron Estes stepped out of his vehicle.

He was flanked by a wall of bodyguards. He wore a tailored black suit that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly. His expression was cold, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the cameras.

Joanne immediately adjusted her posture, tilting her body toward Byron's path, desperate to manufacture a romantic frame for the press.

Allyson's stomach twisted. She sped up, moving toward the edge of the carpet to get away from Joanne and the humiliating lack of flashes.

She walked too fast. Her stiletto heel caught hard in the overly long, cheap lace of her hem.

The fabric tore completely. Allyson's ankle twisted with a sharp spike of pain. Her balance vanished. A spike of blinding agony shot up from her ankle, instantly stealing her breath. The world violently tilted, the hard ground rushing up to meet her face.

A collective gasp sucked the air out of the venue. The paparazzi instantly raised their cameras, hungry for the shot of the hated actress eating dirt.

Allyson squeezed her eyes shut, throwing her hands out to brace for the impact.

The impact never came.

Instead, she crashed into a solid, unyielding wall of muscle. The crisp, clean scent of cedar and mint flooded her lungs.

A strong, heavy arm wrapped around her waist, catching her mid-fall. The grip was iron-clad, lifting her effortlessly until her feet were back on the ground.

Allyson's breath hitched. She snapped her eyes open.

She was staring directly into Byron's dark, bottomless eyes.

The entire red carpet went dead silent. For one agonizing second, the world stopped spinning.

Then, thousands of flashbulbs erupted simultaneously, blindingly bright.

Joanne's sweet smile shattered, her eyes widening in pure disbelief.

Allyson's brain flatlined. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought it might break them.

On the live Twitter feed, the comments section exploded into a blur of rage, accusing Allyson of faking the fall to seduce the untouchable star.

Behind the barricade, Hollie slapped a hand over her mouth, looking like she was about to pass out.

Panic flooded Allyson's veins. The non-disclosure agreement flashed in her mind. She pushed her hands against Byron's chest, trying to scramble backward.

But the large hand on her waist didn't let go. Instead, Byron's fingers flexed, pulling her half an inch closer, locking her against his body.

Allyson's palms were pressed flat against the hard plane of Byron's chest. She could feel the steady, heavy thud of his heartbeat through his dress shirt.

Her face burned. The heat radiated down her neck.

The rapid-fire clicking of the cameras sounded like a firing squad. They were capturing every millimeter of this disaster.

"Let me go," Allyson whispered, her voice trembling.

Byron looked down at her. A dark, suppressed emotion flickered in the depths of his eyes. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly under his skin.

Slowly, agonizingly, his fingers uncurled from her waist.

Allyson took a step back. A sudden gust of wind swept across the carpet.

The broken zipper on the back of her cheap dress finally gave out completely. The cold air hit her bare spine. She shivered violently, her hands flying to her back to hold the fabric together.

Byron's eyebrows pulled together in a sharp frown.

Without a single second of hesitation, he reached up and shrugged off his custom, priceless suit jacket.

The crowd gasped, the sound loud and sharp.

Byron stepped forward and draped the heavy jacket over Allyson's trembling shoulders. The fabric was still warm from his body. The scent of cedar wrapped around her like a physical embrace.

Joanne stood ten feet away, her perfectly manicured nails digging so hard into her palms that they nearly drew blood. Her face was a mask of pure jealousy.

The reporters surged forward like sharks smelling blood in the water. They shoved their microphones over the velvet ropes, practically hitting Allyson in the face.

"Allyson! Was this a calculated stunt to get his attention?" a reporter screamed, his voice dripping with venom.

All the blood drained from Allyson's face. The multi-million dollar penalty clause of their secret marriage contract screamed in her head. If she exposed them, she would be ruined forever.

She forced her lips to stretch into a wide, painfully fake smile. She took another half-step back, creating a physical distance between her and Byron.

She bowed deeply to the cameras. "Not at all. Mr. Estes is just a highly respected senior colleague who was kind enough to help a clumsy junior."

The air around Byron instantly dropped ten degrees.

He didn't say a word to contradict her. He just slowly turned his head and locked his eyes on the reporter who had asked the question.

The look in Byron's eyes was lethal. It was a silent, suffocating threat.

The reporter swallowed hard and instinctively took a step back, the microphone lowering in his shaking hand.

Byron's security team finally broke through the chaos, forming a physical wall between the stars and the press.

Allyson pulled the oversized jacket tighter around herself. She kept her head down and practically ran toward the end of the carpet, fleeing the flashing lights.

Byron stood perfectly still, watching her retreating figure until she disappeared into the shadows. Only then did he turn and walk into the venue.

As soon as Allyson reached the dark corner near the exit, Hollie grabbed her arm and yanked her into the waiting Lincoln.

The heavy car door slammed shut. The silence inside the cabin was deafening. Allyson let out a shaky breath, her chest heaving.

Hollie stared at the men's jacket draped over Allyson. Her eyes scanned the fabric like an x-ray machine.

"Do you have any idea what you just did?" Hollie grabbed her own hair, looking crazed. "This PR nightmare is going to end your career!"

Allyson slowly slid the jacket off her shoulders. She hugged it to her chest, her fingertips mindlessly stroking the expensive wool.

Hollie leaned in close, her eyes narrowing. "You signed that NDA three years ago. Who the hell is this secret husband of yours? Is he a mobster? A politician?"

Allyson's heart skipped a beat. She looked at Hollie, a bitter, reckless urge rising in her chest.

She offered a casual shrug. "Actually, my secret husband is Byron Estes. The guy on the red carpet."

Hollie stared at her for two full seconds.

Then, Hollie threw her head back and let out a loud, barking laugh. "Right. And I'm married to the President. Stop making sick jokes and help me draft an apology statement."

Allyson watched her manager laugh. She forced a bitter smile onto her own lips and turned her head to look out the dark window.

The next morning, Allyson sat cross-legged on her faded living room rug, a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

She stared at her phone. The hashtag AllysonGetOut was trending at number one.

Hollie's phone vibrated violently on the coffee table. Hollie snatched it up, her face tight with stress. As she listened to the person on the other end, her expression morphed from anger to utter shock.

Hollie slowly lowered the phone. She turned around, staring at Allyson, who was dry-swallowing a spoonful of cheap cereal.

"That was Dexter Finch," Hollie said, her voice hollow. "The executive producer of the reality show Heartbeat Rules."

Allyson choked on her cereal, coughing into her fist. Dexter Finch was the king of reality TV.

"He wants you on the new season," Hollie continued, tossing a thick contract onto the table. "But don't get excited. He wants you because of the hate traffic from last night."

Allyson picked up the contract.

"He wants you to play the villain," Hollie explained, her tone grim. "The desperate, clingy woman who tries to ruin everyone else's romance. And worse... Byron and Joanne are the headline guests."

Hollie sat down heavily. "Don't do it, Allyson. If you go on there and act like a stepping stone for Joanne, the internet will bully you into quitting the industry."

Allyson flipped to the last page of the contract. Her eyes locked onto the payment figure. It was a number with an obscene amount of zeros.

Her breathing sped up. This was exactly the amount she needed to pay the termination fee to her bloodsucking agency.

Without a word, Allyson grabbed a pen and signed her name on the dotted line.

Hollie buried her face in her hands, groaning in despair.

An hour later, Allyson pushed open the door of a dusty, rundown bookstore on the corner of her street. The bell above the door jingled weakly.

She navigated through the narrow aisles, her eyes scanning the self-help and romance sections. She needed material. She needed to be the most obnoxious, clingy villain reality TV had ever seen.

Her eyes landed on a bright pink spine tucked in the bottom corner.

100 Cheesy Pickup Lines to Make Him Yours.

She pulled it out and flipped to a random page. The words printed there were so incredibly cringe-inducing that a physical shudder ran down her spine. Goosebumps erupted on her arms.

It was perfect.

She walked to the counter and slapped a five-dollar bill down. The old man behind the register glanced at the garish pink cover, raised a single, judgmental eyebrow for a fraction of a second, and then wordlessly took her money. Allyson pulled her baseball cap lower and practically ran out of the store.

Back in her apartment, she sat on the floor, forcing herself to memorize the terrible lines.

She looked in the mirror, attempting to wink seductively. She ended up gagging at her own reflection.

Her phone buzzed on the floor.

A text message from "B".

Are you really going on that show?

Allyson's heart missed a beat. She stared at the screen, her stomach tying itself into a tight knot. He was probably terrified she would slip up and ruin his pristine reputation.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed her reply.

Don't worry. I will strictly follow the NDA. We are strangers. I won't implicate you.

She hit send.

She sat there for twenty minutes, watching the screen. The read receipt appeared, but no typing bubble followed.

The silence from his end felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. A sharp pang of disappointment flared inside her, but she quickly shoved it down.

She slapped her own cheeks hard, the sting waking her up. She grabbed the pink book and shoved it into her suitcase. She was going to use these lines to make Joanne sick to her stomach, and maybe test just how much Byron could tolerate.