Stuck With Mr A-Lister

Leo’s POV I knew I was screwed the second I saw my agent’s face. It wasn’t the usual you’ve done something stupid again frown. This was worse. This was career-ending crisis mode, and I’d only seen it once before—when I accidentally tweeted my ex’s breakup text instead of sending it to my best friend. "Leo," David said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was physically in pain. "Do you have any idea how bad this is?" I leaned back on the couch, pretending I wasn’t still half-drunk from the night before. "That depends. Are we talking cancelled movie bad, or exiled to reality TV bad? David threw a folder onto the coffee table. It landed with a thud, spilling a stack of glossy photos across the surface. I picked one up, my own furious face staring back at me, frozen mid-shout. Shit. I grabbed another. There I was again, this time pushing a paparazzo’s camera out of my face—hard. The next? The guy stumbling backward, tripping over the curb, camera flying. "Tell me you didn’t actually hit him," Mark said. I stared at the pictures. I wanted to say no. But the honest answer? I didn’t know. It had been a bad night—one drink turned into five, then ten, then some asshole with a camera got in my face, shouting crap about my ex, and… I lost it. "He was harassing me," I said instead. "I told him to back off, he didn’t." "Yeah, well, congratulations." David tossed another paper at me, this time folded in half. I opened it, my stomach sinking. Legal Notice Leo Hawthorne, you have been served. David sighed. "He’s suing. For assault, damages, emotional distress. And—because the universe hates me—someone recorded the whole thing. It’s already got two million views." I closed my eyes. "Jesus." "Not Jesus, Leo. You. You did this." He stood, pacing across my penthouse. "Do you even realize what this means? Your studio deal? Dead in the water. That rom-com with Sophia King? She’s out. No one wants their America’s Sweetheart co-starring with an ‘unhinged Hollywood nightmare.’ Their words, by the way. Not mine." I clenched my jaw. "I didn’t hit him." "Doesn’t matter. You look like you did, and perception is reality, my friend." He stopped pacing, fixing me with the kind of look that usually ended in me signing a very expensive NDA. "We need damage control. Fast." I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. "So what’s the plan? Tearful apology on a late-night show? A fake rehab stint?" David didn’t smile. That scared me more than the lawsuit. "No," he said. "You’re going away." I frowned. "Like… a ‘finding myself’ trip? A humanitarian mission? Pap shots of me building houses for orphans?" "Worse." He grabbed another paper—seriously, where did he keep all these?—and handed it to me. I skimmed the heading. Last Will and Testament of Eleanor Montgomery. I blinked. "Ellie? My dad's stepmom?" Mark nodded. "She left you something." I laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "I barely talk to her this days. What, did she leave me a porcelain cat or something?" "Not quite." David sat down, his expression unreadable. "She left you an estate. A massive one. And a condition." I glanced up. "A condition?" "You have to live there. For a full year." I snorted. "Yeah, no. Sell it, donate it, I don’t care—" "You don’t have a choice." His voice was quiet but firm. "If you don’t do this, the lawsuit, the PR disaster, your career—" He spread his hands. "Over." I exhaled slowly, my head pounding. "And what if I agree?" He hesitated. "There’s… one more thing," he said. "You won’t be alone." I frowned. "What?" He slid one last document across the table. I picked it up, reading the name scrawled beneath mine in Eleanor Montgomery’s will. Sienna Clarke. I froze. No. No. Not her. Of all the people in the world, of all the people Ellie could have tied me to—she picked the one woman who hated me more than anyone else on the planet. I groaned, dropping my head back against the couch. I was going to die on that estate. Or worse… fall in love.