Chapter 1: The Talk Show Brawl
The air backstage tasted like cheap whiskey and cheaper perfume. Lily dragged it into her lungs, the sharp chemical burn a welcome distraction from the afterimage of a thousand flashbulbs still seared behind her eyes. The studio audience’s laughter echoed in her skull, a hollow, tinny record of the past hour’s performative banter. She could still feel the heat of the spotlight, heavy as a wool blanket.And she could feel him. Nicholas Yamales, a solid, irritating presence a step behind her, his cologne—something expensive and woodsy—cutting through the whiskey-stink of the hallway.
“You’re walking like you’re heading to a firing squad,” his voice came, smooth and laced with that signature mockery. “The hard part’s over, Kuran. We smiled, we joked, we pretended we don’t want to strangle each other with a microphone cord.Standard promo.”
She didn’t break stride. The heels of her boots clicked a furious tempo against the concrete floor, past gold-framed posters of smiling celebrities who looked nothing like their tired, hungry shadows haunting these halls at one in the morning. “You shoved me during the ‘hilarious’ anecdote about the stunt double.”
“It was a nudge. For comedic timing. You’re too stiff.”
“I’m not a prop you can manhandle for a punchline, Nic.”
He caught up, falling into step beside her. The corridor narrowed, the buzzing fluorescents overhead casting a sickly green hue on his sharp jaw.“Right, right. You’re a global icon.A multi-hyphenate mogul. Forgot I was in the presence of royalty.”
“You forget a lot of things.” She shot him a look, her own signature smirk feeling brittle on her face. “Like your lines, half the time.”
“I improvise.It’s called acting, not recitation.You should try it. Might loosen you up.” His dark eyes scanned her, a quick, professional assessment that still somehow felt invasive. “Though you were plenty loose with that ‘childhood inspiration’ story.Very touching. Real tearjerker.”
Something cold tightened in her gut. “It’s the truth.”
“Is it?” He stopped walking, forcing her to turn and face him. They were in a dimmer stretch, near a fire exit, the red glow of the sign painting one side of his face in hellish light.The air conditioning hummed, a low mechanical wheeze. “The orphaned heroine, pulling her siblings from the ashes.The self-made billionaire.It’s a great story. Oscar-worthy, really.”
Her fingers twitched at her sides. “What’s your point?”
“My point is you lean on it.” He took a sip from a water bottle he’d snagged from a production assistant, his gaze never leaving hers.“Like a crutch. Every interview, it’s the same three beats: tragedy, struggle, triumph. You’re selling a narrative, Lily. And you’re so deep in the sell you’ve started believing it’s the only thing about you that matters.”
The cold in her gut ignited. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” He took a step closer. The space between them evaporated, charged with the residual adrenaline of the show and a thousand unresolved arguments from a six-month shoot. “I spent twelve hours a day with you for half a year. I watched you run a multi-billion dollar empire from your phone between takes. I saw you bite the head off a producer for suggesting your sister didn’t need a personal driver. You’re the farthest thing from a victim I’ve ever seen.Except when the cameras roll. Then you trot out the past and play it for sympathy.”
Play the victim.
The words, the implication, slithered through her defenses and struck bone.It wasn’t the criticism; she’d heard worse. It was the source. It was him, with his easy charm and unearned cynicism, reducing her life, her family, to a tactic.Logic shut down.Her body moved before her mind engaged.
She shoved him, hard, both palms slamming into his chest. He stumbled back, the plastic water bottle flying, hitting the sticky concrete with a crack. His shoulders hit the rough wall beside the fire exit with a dull thud.The surprise on his face lasted a half-second. Then it hardened.Before he could speak, before he could smirk, her fist connected with his jaw. It wasn’t a clean punch—she was too close, too angry—but it landed with a solid, satisfying smack of flesh on bone.His head snapped to the side. He pushed off the wall.Then his hands were on her, not with violence, but with a terrifying, efficient speed. He caught her wrist as she drew back for another swing, his other arm hooking around her waist. Her world pivoted, a dizzying blur of chrome and neon and red light. The air left her lungs in a sharp whoosh as her back hit the floor. The impact shuddered up her spine.
He was on her instantly, his knees pinning her thighs, his weight solid and unmovable.He trapped her wrists above her head, one large hand encircling both. She bucked, thrashed, but he just leaned down, his face inches from hers. His breath was warm, his lip already swelling where she’d hit him.
“You fucking crazy—” he started, his voice a low growl.
“Get off me!” She jerked against his hold, but he might as well have been steel cable. The reality of her position—pinned, helpless—fueled a fresh, frantic rage. “I swear to God, Nic, I will end you!”
He laughed, a short, breathless sound. A trickle of blood welled at the corner of his mouth.“Yeah? How’s that working out for you so far?”
She spat a curse at him, raw and blistering.Her heart hammered against her ribs, a trapped bird. She could feel the heat of him through their clothes, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching hers.The sharp, coppery smell of his blood mixed with his cologne. His dark eyes were unreadable, but his hold didn’t loosen. That infuriating smirk was gone, replaced by something more intense, more focused.
They were both panting, the sounds harsh in the silent hallway.The only other noise was the relentless buzz of the lights.
“Done?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost intimate in the dim space.
“Go to hell.”
“Been there. It’s a backlot in July.” He studied her face, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to her mouth before snapping back to her eyes. “You hit me.”
“You asked for it.”
“Maybe.” He shifted his weight slightly, and for a crazy, fleeting moment, she thought he was going to let her up. Instead, he leaned closer, his mouth nearly brushing her ear.His voice dropped to a whisper. “But you’re the one on the floor, Lee.Remember that. The moment you think your story, your money, your reputation makes you untouchable…” He finally released her wrists, pushing himself up and off her in one fluid motion. He stood, looking down at her as she lay there, stunned and furious. He wiped the blood from his lip with his thumb. “That’s the moment you’re most vulnerable.”
He turned and walked away, not toward the green room, but toward the emergency exit. He shoved the bar, setting off a muted, internal alarm, and disappeared into the dark parking lot, leaving the door to swing slowly shut behind him.Lily pushed herself up onto her elbows, then to her feet. Her body ached.Her knuckles were throbbing. She stared at the heavy metal door, her breath still coming in hard gusts.
From the far end of the corridor, a studio intern peered around a corner, eyes wide.Lily’s glare sent them scrambling back into the shadows.
She smoothed her hands over her clothes, a useless, automatic gesture. Her fingers came away smudged with dirt from the floor.She looked at them, then at the closed exit door.
That’s the moment you’re most vulnerable.He was wrong.He had to be.
But the chill in the room had nothing to do with the air conditioning.