The Superstar's Obsession: My Unwanted Husband

The hotel room was too dark. The air in the corner felt too thin to breathe.

Bridie's chest heaved. Her back hit the cold, textured wallpaper.

A tall shadow closed in on her. The heavy, aggressive scent of cedar and mint completely swallowed her.

Evander's long, cold fingers clamped around her jaw. He forced her head up.

"You will take responsibility for that night," he whispered.

His low, raspy voice scraped against her eardrums. It was thick with a dark, undeniable obsession.

A violent shiver ripped down Bridie's spine.

She slapped his hand away with a sharp smack.

The dark room shattered.

Bridie gasped loudly. Her eyes snapped open to the blinding California morning sun.

She sat up, her lungs burning as she sucked in the air. Sweat coated her forehead.

She reached out with a trembling hand and grabbed the glass of ice water on her nightstand. She downed it in three massive gulps. The freezing water hit her stomach, finally dulling the frantic pounding in her chest.

Rapid footsteps echoed in the hallway. High heels clicked hard against the hardwood floor.

Without a single knock, the bedroom door flew open.

Her assistant, Pax, stood in the doorway. She held two iced Americanos and looked like she had just seen a ghost.

"Bridie," Pax gasped, marching straight to the bed.

She slammed the coffees onto the nightstand.

Pax pulled a thick, luxurious gold-stamped envelope from the folder under her arm. She shoved it right into Bridie's face.

Bridie's eyes focused on the heavy paper. The exclusive crest of the Byers family gleamed in the sunlight.

Her heart completely stopped. A cold sweat broke out across her neck.

"I found this in your mailbox!" Pax shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the envelope. "It's an engagement invitation for Evander Byers!"

Pax read the name on the card, her eyebrows pulling together in deep confusion. "Why does the bride have your exact name? Bridie Isabella Ortega?"

Bridie's stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. Her brain spun frantically, searching for an escape route.

She snatched the envelope out of Pax's hands. She forced her facial muscles to relax and glanced at it with fake boredom.

A loud, exaggerated scoff left her lips. She tossed the heavy envelope onto her duvet.

"It's a prank," Bridie said, her teeth grinding together. "Some psycho hater made it."

She looked up at Pax, keeping her voice flat. "I'm a D-list actress, Pax. I got a box of dead rats last week. You think a fake invitation is a stretch?"

Pax frowned, staring down at the bed. "But the gold foil... it looks so expensive. And how would a hater know your middle name is Isabella? That's never been public."

Bridie's pulse hammered against her throat. She had to kill this suspicion right now. "My info was leaked months ago, remember? The same psycho who sent the dead rats probably dug up my birth certificate."

She threw the covers off and jumped out of bed.

She grabbed the invitation, her knuckles turning white from how hard she gripped it. She marched to her vanity and grabbed her heavy silver lighter.

Without a second of hesitation, Bridie held the priceless family document over her metal wastebasket and flicked the lighter.

The flame roared to life, catching the thick paper instantly. The fire chewed the expensive gold foil into black, curling ash.

"Wait!" Pax gasped, reaching out. "You're going to set off the smoke alarm!"

Bridie turned around. She clapped her hands together, brushing off the imaginary dust.

"Go prep my schedule for the red carpet today," Bridie ordered, her voice completely steady.

Pax blinked, her attention successfully diverted. She nodded and turned around, flipping through her folder as she walked out of the bedroom.

The second the door clicked shut, Bridie's knees gave out.

She slumped against the wall, her breathing shallow and ragged. She stared down at the pile of burnt ash in the metal bin, her hands shaking violently.

Bridie pushed off the wall. Her legs felt like lead.

She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down at the endless stream of Los Angeles traffic.

The harsh morning sun stung her eyes. It dragged her mind violently back to Las Vegas, exactly one month ago.

The memory hit her like a physical blow.

The Bellagio penthouse suite was dim. The air smelled like stale alcohol and bad decisions.

Empty liquor bottles littered the expensive carpet. Bridie woke up on a massive king-sized bed, her head splitting open with a massive hangover.

Her lower back ached with a dull, heavy soreness.

She turned her head. Her eyes locked onto the cold, god-like face of Evander Byers.

He was shirtless. Suspicious red marks painted his collarbones. His dark eyes stared right into hers, deep and unreadable.

Bridie let out a blood-curdling scream. She yanked the thick duvet up to her chin, her eyes darting around the room for her scattered clothes.

Evander sat up slowly. He didn't bother to cover himself.

"You drank five Long Island Iced Teas," he stated, his voice flat. "You were very... enthusiastic."

Before Bridie could process the horror, the electronic lock on the suite door beeped.

The door swung open.

Mr. Ortega and Mrs. Byers marched into the room, flanked by a terrifying wall of corporate lawyers.

Bridie's father stopped dead in his tracks. His face turned purple. He screamed at Bridie, clutching his chest as if she had just given him a heart attack.

Mrs. Byers, however, beamed. She rushed to the bed, grabbed Bridie's hand, and called her her future daughter-in-law.

"No!" Bridie shook her head frantically. "It was the alcohol! It's a mistake!"

She whipped her head toward Evander. She shot him a desperate glare, silently begging him to clear this up.

Evander suddenly slumped forward. He pressed a hand to his stomach. His eyebrows pulled together in a picture-perfect display of weakness.

"Mom," Evander whispered, his voice thick with fake vulnerability. "She dragged me in here last night. I couldn't stop her."

Bridie's jaw dropped. Her lungs forgot how to work.

This untouchable, ice-cold superstar was sitting here playing the victim.

The lawyers didn't waste a single second. They pulled thick stacks of prenuptial agreements from their briefcases.

Mrs. Byers slammed the pen onto the nightstand. She demanded Bridie sign it to protect Evander's pure reputation.

Mr. Ortega leaned over. He quietly threatened to freeze Bridie's bank accounts and take her car keys if she brought a scandal to the family name.

Under the crushing weight of the lawyers, her father's threat, and Evander's hidden, mocking smirk, Bridie picked up the pen. She signed her life away.

The memory faded. Bridie stood in her LA apartment, her blood boiling.

She pulled her fist back and slammed it into the thick glass of the window.

The glass vibrated with a dull thud. Her knuckles instantly flared red.

She spun around and marched into the bathroom. She cranked the faucet to the coldest setting.

She scooped up the freezing water and splashed it violently onto her face.

She looked up at the mirror. Her face was flushed red with pure rage. She sucked in a deep breath, her chest expanding.

She grabbed her electric toothbrush and jammed it into her mouth. She scrubbed her teeth viciously, imagining she was scrubbing the smirk off Evander's face.

"Bridie!" Pax yelled from the living room. "Fifteen minutes until we leave for the styling salon!"

Bridie spit the foam into the sink. She wiped her mouth raw with a towel.

She stared at her reflection and pulled her lips into a sharp, dangerous smile. She would rather die than bow down to this garbage marriage contract.

She ripped open the bathroom door and marched toward her walk-in closet. It was time to go to war.

Bridie pushed open the heavy glass door of the Beverly Hills styling salon.

She walked into the private VIP room, her heels clicking aggressively against the tiles.

Her manager, Harriet Chandler, stood in the center of the room. Harriet gripped an iPad, her forehead wrinkled with extreme stress as she scrolled through the red carpet schedule.

"You are three minutes late," Harriet snapped, grabbing Bridie by the shoulders and shoving her into the makeup chair.

The makeup artist and hairstylist swarmed Bridie instantly. Cold primer hit her skin. Hot irons clamped down on her hair.

In the corner of the room, a large flat-screen TV played a live broadcast of the Coachella music festival.

The camera panned over a massive, screaming crowd. The noise from the TV speakers filled the small room.

Evander Byers stepped into the spotlight. He held a black electric guitar. He wore a distressed black leather jacket. His eyes were cold and indifferent.

The makeup artist gasped. She dropped her brush and clutched her hands over her heart, staring at the screen.

"He is literally a god," the hairstylist sighed, her eyes glued to the TV. "Not a single scandal in nine years. He's so pure."

Bridie stared at the man on the screen. She rolled her eyes so hard they actually hurt.

"He's a hypocritical male fox spirit," Bridie muttered under her breath.

Harriet's head snapped up. She pointed a warning finger at Bridie.

"Shut your mouth," Harriet hissed. "You have three hundred thousand anti-fans right now. If you piss off Evander's fanbase, they will bury you alive."

Bridie pressed her lips together. She let out a frustrated breath through her nose while the makeup artist drew a sharp, aggressive cat-eye on her eyelid.

On the TV, Evander's long, pale fingers moved rapidly over the guitar strings. He hit a complex solo, and the crowd lost their minds.

Bridie stared at those hands.

Without warning, her brain flashed back to the feeling of those exact fingers gripping her bare waist in the dark.

A sudden, intense heat rushed up her neck. Her ears burned. Her heart skipped a beat and started thumping rapidly against her ribs.

Panic seized her. She grabbed the glass of ice water from the counter and took a massive gulp. She choked, coughing loudly.

Harriet handed her a tissue. Harriet's eyes narrowed, staring directly at Bridie's bright red ears.

"Why is it so hot in here?" Bridie yelled, fanning her face with her hand. "Turn the AC down!"

The makeup artist scrambled to find the remote. She dropped the temperature while applying a thick layer of matte red lipstick to Bridie's mouth.

Twenty minutes later, Bridie stood up. She wore a custom, plunging V-neck black sequin gown that clung to every curve of her body.

Harriet nodded in approval. She shoved a tiny silver clutch into Bridie's hand.

Pax burst into the room, out of breath. "The stretch Lincoln is downstairs!"

On the TV, the live broadcast ended. Evander gave the camera a cold, expressionless bow and walked off the stage.

Bridie shot the screen one last look of pure disgust. She turned on her twelve-centimeter red-bottom heels and walked out.

They moved quickly through the hallway and took the private elevator down to the underground garage.

The driver pulled open the heavy door of the Lincoln. Bridie bent down and slid into the spacious leather backseat.

Harriet climbed in after her. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the garage.

The car pulled out into the sunlight, heading straight for the TCL Chinese Theatre.