How Much Can Celebrities Manipulate?!?
1821 Words
GWEN
I don’t look toward the exit. I don’t look toward the street.
I look at Jason—hulking, sprinting, closing distance fast—and I do the only thing my body seems capable of doing:
I run.
But not out of Target.
Further into it.
My feet slap the glossy tile. My heartbeat thunders against my ribs. The fluorescent lights blur overhead as I cut between aisles, weaving through racks of clothing and displays of seasonal crap, ducking low when I think I hear footsteps behind me.
I refuse to be a pawn again.
I refuse to be dragged back into contracts and lies and forced apologies.
I refuse to disappear into someone else’s PR plan.
A hand shoots out from between two jackets—thick fingers grasping for my arm. I gasp and twist just in time, barreling away before it can close around me.
They knew.
They knew I’d try to bolt the moment my memory snapped back.
Of course they did.
I sprint deeper into the maze of red shelves and endcaps until my lungs burn. I skid around a corner too fast and nearly collide with an older woman pushing a cart. She jumps; I mutter some frantic apology I don’t even process.
The second exit is ahead.
Wide. Unmanned.
Almost glowing like a miracle.
But Jay is already there—breathless, panicked, scanning the crowd.
His eyes snap toward me.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I pivot left without thinking, stumbling toward the escalators. The stairs are packed, so I drop to my hands and knees and crawl underneath the railing, pressing my body as low as I can. My palms scrape against metal ridges as I climb the underbelly, hidden from sight.
My heart pounds so loudly I swear it echoes off the machinery.
Please don’t hear me.
Please don’t look down.
Please don’t—
I pop out at the top floor like a deranged Jack-in-the-box, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
No one sees me.
The second-floor exit is right there.
Right. There.
I force myself to walk—not run—because running draws eyes. I smooth my hair. Try to look normal. Like a girl shopping for shampoo or throw pillows or normal-person bullshit.
Push through the doors.
Out onto the sidewalk.
Into the noise and bustle of the city.
And it hits me like oxygen.
Freedom.
“Freedom at last,” I whisper, barely able to believe it.
I melt into the moving bodies: mothers with kids, teens with iced coffees, tourists gawking at everything. The anonymity wraps around me like a blanket. No one stares. No one reaches. No one tries to drag me anywhere.
I flag a taxi. One stops.
A miracle.
The ride is silent, the city blurring past my window like smeared watercolor. My fingers tremble against my lap. Part trauma, part adrenaline, part… victory.
For the first time in days, I feel like me.
---------------
JAY
I lose her for three seconds.
Three.
That’s all it takes for my world to crack apart like cheap glass.
Jason snarls something into his comm—something about “north escalator” and “containment,” and I pretend I don’t hear the word contain like she’s some kind of dangerous animal.
I’m already running.
My lungs burn, but not from the sprint. From panic. From guilt.
From love.
God, do I love her.
In a way that’s too big, too messy, too wrong.
Family love?
Romantic love?
Something in-between, twisted by grief and survival and the things we did for each other years ago?
I don’t know.
I’ve never known.
But she mattered more than Caleb. More than TSI. More than the contract they dangled in front of me like a pair of golden handcuffs they’d unlock if I just—
“Help us bring Gwen in.”
That’s what they said.
Bring her in, and I’d finally be free.
Free of Caleb’s staged kisses.
Free of being the “pretty boyfriend” he parades on tour.
Free of the humiliation, the cameras, the leash.
Freedom.
All I have to do is sell out the only person I’ve ever actually cared about.
I see her head appear at the top of the escalator, just for a second. She’s crawling. Smart. Small profile, low silhouette, harder for surveillance to track. She always learned fast.
My heart lunges before my body does.
“Gwen—” I breathe it more than say it.
But she disappears again, slipping through a second-floor exit like smoke.
And I stop.
Not because I can’t chase her.
Because some part of me refuses to.
I reach the top of the escalator and stare at the empty corridor where she was seconds ago. The automatic doors slide shut with a soft hiss, slicing off the last trace of her.
Jason’s voice crackles through my earpiece:
“She’s outside. East entrance. Move!”
I don’t move.
For the first time in months, maybe years, I choose something for myself.
I let her go.
Even if it ruins me.
Even if TSI punishes me.
Even if Caleb hears about it and tears apart what’s left of my life.
She deserves a chance at freedom.
Even if I never get mine.
---------------
GWEN
At the airport, I buy the fastest ticket out of LA without caring where it lands me. I just need distance—actual physical miles—from everyone who thinks they own pieces of me.
When I board the plane, relief slams into me so forcefully I almost collapse into my seat. My muscles give out. My brain goes soft. My eyes drift closed.
I’m safe.
I’m leaving.
I’m—
The plane lurches violently on landing, jerking me awake.
I blink against the overhead lights, stretching, groggy but calmer.
Until I look out the window.
No.
No.
No.
That’s…
That’s the same terminal.
The same palm trees.
The same runway.
We’re still in LA.
The intercom crackles.
The flight attendant’s voice is too cheerful. Too smooth.
“We are so sorry for the inconvenience, folks! It looks like we’re experiencing some unexpected technical issues, so we’ll be deplaning here and getting everyone on a different aircraft shortly.”
Bullshit.
There is no scramble of engineers.
No broken machinery.
No panic among the crew.
Just calm.
Controlled calm.
“And if there is a Gwen Elwell on board,” the attendant adds, “we’d like to speak with you before you board the next flight.”
My entire bloodstream freezes.
They found me.
I walk with the group, keeping my head down, face partially covered by my hoodie. Don’t panic. Don’t breathe weird. Don’t look guilty.
At the new terminal, they’ve rolled out an absurdly fancy plane—too fancy—for a suddenly rerouted flight.
When it’s my turn, the flight attendant scans my ticket.
She hesitates.
Looks at her watch.
Looks at me again.
“Excuse me, ma’am… could I speak with you in private?”
“No. Whatever you have to say, you can say right here.”
She swallows. Uneasy.
“Ma’am… please. It’s important.”
I cross my arms. “I said no.”
Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Your husband, Jason, called. He begged us to hold you here. He said he would kill himself if you didn’t come home.”
The laugh that erupts from me is sharp and humorless.
People stare.
Let them.
“I don’t have a husband. I’ve been single for four years. Please let me on the plane.”
She keeps checking her watch like someone’s timing her. Or threatening her.
My stomach twists.
“Ma’am,” she says, voice trembling, “I really—”
“I am getting onto this plane.”
Finally—reluctantly—she scans the ticket and steps aside.
Is it really that easy for celebrities to track ordinary nobodies like me?
To intercept flights?
To alter manifests?
The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
Inside the luxury cabin, the TVs flicker on automatically, screens glowing with breaking entertainment news.
Caleb and Jay have officially split.
I feel… something.
Relief?
Validation?
Confusion?
Jay hadn’t lied to me.
But trusting him still feels like touching a hot stove I’ve been burned on before.
Then the next headline rolls across the screen.
My face.
A photo I didn’t know anyone had taken.
MISSING.
REWARD OFFERED.
A chill bolts through me.
And then—
The final punch.
Sara’s next show is in New York.
Tonight.
“Unexpected schedule changes.”
God.
Damn.
It.
When I land in New York, I sprint straight to the ticket counter.
“Any flight out,” I plead. “Anywhere. Doesn’t matter.”
But each time they type my name—
Every destination becomes “canceled.”
Every flight is suddenly unavailable.
And the staff won’t meet my eyes.
They whisper.
Stare.
Check their monitors like they’re waiting for orders.
When I spot the security guards heading toward me, I don’t need to see their jackets to know.
But the jackets confirm it anyway:
Talent Stardom Industries.
I run.
I shove through automatic doors, down sidewalks slick with rain, waving desperately at any passing taxi—
One slows.
Sees my face.
Speeds away.
I scream after it, raw frustration ripping up my throat.
Then I feel the air shift.
Three men surround me silently.
I exhale a shaking, defeated breath.
“Well,” I mutter, “take me wherever she wants me, I guess.”
No reaction.
Just movement.
Two bracket me.
One leads.
They escort me into the parking garage where a black limo waits.
Sleek. Intimidating.
Of course.
When I’m inside, the door slams behind me, sealing me into plush leather and cold panic.
No guards follow.
No handlers.
Just me.
And then—
The intercom clicks on.
“For someone who’s supposedly a no-one,” a familiar voice drawls, “you’re really hard to catch.”
My spine straightens.
The divider hums and rolls down.
Jason sits in the driver’s seat, one hand draped lazily over the wheel.
“Jason!” The excitement bursts out before I can stop it. I clear my throat, dialing it back. “I mean—of course it’s you. Lucky me. Kidnapped again.”
He smirks.
Infuriatingly calm.
“I didn’t kidnap you,” he says. “You voluntarily stepped into my limo while escorted by my bodyguards. Standard security precautions for the significant others of our talent.”
He raises one eyebrow.
Smug.
Knowing.
My cheeks burn—even though I don’t believe a word he’s saying.
Before I can snap something back, he presses a button, and the divider slides up again.
I cross my arms.
Glare out the window.
Try to ignore the tiny, traitorous smile tugging at my lips.
Because he’s lying.
And I know it.
But for the first time since landing in this nightmare—
I’m not alone.
- Writer
