My possessive actor husband

Choosing Her

Henry The sprawling estate sat on the edge of the jagged cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean, hidden behind towering security gates and rows of perfectly maintained cypress trees. From the outside, it looked less like a home and more like a private resort built for someone who never wanted to be found. Which, in Henry’s case, was entirely true. The morning sun spilled across the property, turning the floor-to-ceiling windows into sheets of reflective gold. Beyond the patio stretched an infinity pool that seemed to merge seamlessly with the ocean below. Most people would have called it paradise, but Henry simply called it quiet, and lately, quiet was all he wanted. The water rippled as he cut through it in a smooth dive, disappearing beneath the surface. For a few precious seconds, the chaotic world vanished: no cameras, no interviews, no demanding directors, and no superficial producers asking for favors. There were no reporters digging through his personal life, and no opportunistic women trying to become the next headline attached to his name. Just silence. The cool water wrapped around him like a shield, muting the noise above. Down here, nobody expected anything from Henry Cage. He pushed harder, swimming from one end of the pool to the other and back again, welcoming the familiar burn in his muscles. Physical exhaustion was simple; mental exhaustion wasn't. Outside those gates, Henry belonged to everyone. Movie studios owned his schedule, publicists owned his image, and the media owned his mistakes. According to the tabloids, every beautiful woman in Hollywood owned a rumor about dating him. At twenty-nine, Henry had become as famous for his relationships as he was for his box-office hits, a singer one month, an actress the next, and a model after that. Sometimes the stories were true, but most of the time, a single business dinner became a secret romance, and a passing smile became an engagement rumor. The reality was far less exciting. Most women weren't interested in Henry the person; they were interested in Henry Cage the celebrity. They loved the version of him they had created in their heads, rarely caring about the man underneath. Henry surfaced, dragging in a deep breath and pushing his wet hair back. That was when he noticed Tessa standing at the edge of the pool, arms crossed, watching him. "Don't even think about dragging me in there," she warned immediately. "I bought these sneakers yesterday." A faint smirk appeared on his face as she took a cautious step backward. Smart woman. "You're no fun." "According to every magazine in the country, that's a lie." Henry barked out a laugh. "Those magazines also think I'm dating three women at the same time." "Are you?" "No. I barely have the energy for one." Tessa rolled her eyes as Henry climbed out of the pool and reached for a towel. "How was the shoot?" she asked. "The same. The same exhausting Tessa nodded knowingly. She understood the routine: the fake smiles, the endless interviews, and the co-stars who flirted because they knew photographers were watching. Everyone assumed fame made life easier, but Henry knew it just made life louder. They walked inside the house, entering an enormous living room flooded with sunlight. It was beautiful, expensive, and entirely empty. Henry dropped onto the couch while Tessa sat opposite him, reaching into her bag to pull out a stack of manila folders. Henry groaned immediately. "No." "Yes. You need an assistant, Henry. Your last one quit." Henry let out a cynical laugh. "She didn't just quit, Tessa. An assistant is supposed to assist, but she spent more time trying to sleep with me than doing her actual job." The memory still irritated him. At first, she had seemed perfect, professional, and efficient. Then came the lingering touches, the personal questions, and the manufactured excuses to be alone with him. Henry had ignored it, fame seemed to convince people that normal boundaries no longer applied, but his silence had only encouraged her. "She was obsessed with you," Tessa muttered. "She was obsessed with Henry Cage," he corrected. "There's a difference." The breaking point had come during a private gathering at his home, when his security team caught her tampering with his drink. It was enough to end her employment immediately and destroy whatever trust he had left. Every person who entered his life wanted something: access, connections, money, or attention. Very few wanted nothing. "I hate this part of it," Henry said quietly. "The part where I can't tell who's real and who's not." Tessa's expression softened, and she pushed the files toward him. "Just pick someone." Henry sighed, flipping through the resumes. Perfect credentials, perfect references, too perfect. He set them aside one by one until his eyes landed on a photograph of a woman named Vivienne Shepherd. The name felt ordinary, grounded. Unlike the others, she wasn't flashing a practiced smile. She looked slightly uncomfortable, as though she’d rather be anywhere else. Before he could read further, Tessa snatched the file away. "Not her. She's not right for this. She won't last." Henry leaned back, his interest piqued. "Everyone else is trying too hard." "She's unsure." "Exactly." Henry looked at Vivienne’s photograph again. He didn't want polish, and he definitely didn't want another assistant who saw him as a shortcut into a glamorous lifestyle. He wanted someone normal who saw a paycheck instead of a fantasy. "I want someone who doesn't look at me like I'm a prize." "Or someone who doesn't care about you at all?" Tessa asked. A genuine laugh escaped him. "Honestly? That sounds refreshing." Tessa shook her head in resignation. "You're going to regret this." Maybe, but for the first time in months, Henry felt a spark of curiosity. He took the file back. "Call her." "Henry—" "Call her." Tessa stared at him for a few seconds before giving up. "You are impossible." "Yet you're still here." "I hate you," she sighed, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah. I know." His eyes settled back on Vivienne's picture. For the first time that day, things felt a little lighter. Maybe this choice would be different. Maybe, for once, someone would walk into his life wanting nothing more than a job.