Chapter3
1120 Words
A scandal can ruin a career.
But walking into Adrian Blackwood’s penthouse? That might ruin her soul.
The car pulls up to the towering gates like it's delivering her to the devil’s lair. Celeste stares at the building, its sleek metal frame and towering glass walls reflecting back every ounce of fear she’s trying to suppress.
“We’re here, ma’am,” the driver announces, killing the engine.
Ava leans forward in her seat, tossing her hair. “Please tell me you parked legally. We can’t afford another parking ticket—I’m not bailing your car out of hostage again.”
The driver gives a short, clipped nod. Ava turns to Celeste, expression softening when she sees her friend gripping her Versace bag like it’s a life preserver.
“You’ve sung in front of fifty thousand fans,” she says. “Why is one man making your heartbeat like a remix?”
Celeste swallows hard. Again. Her throat is desert-dry. “Because I have no idea what version of hell is waiting for me behind those doors.”
Helen turns from the front seat, practically glowing with unhelpful energy. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We came prepared.”
She holds out a scarf and a pair of sunglasses like she’s handing over a superhero disguise.
Celeste blinks. “Is this a joke?”
“You’re still trending worldwide,” Ava says. “You either go in like a secret agent or end up on TMZ again.”
Without another word, Celeste grabs the disguise. She wraps the black scarf tightly over her head, pulls the oversized shades down over her eyes, and steps out of the car like she’s heading into a mission—not a meeting.
Two suited guards wait at the gate, stone-faced. One scans her face under the scarf, then nods.
“Mr. Blackwood is expecting you. This way.”
She’s led through marble-floored halls that gleam like a museum exhibit. Every step echoes. Every wall screams money. But there’s no warmth. No soul. Just silence and status.
As she walks, staff turn and gawk—maids pause mid-dusting, a chef peeks from a polished kitchen, even the elevator guard raises a brow. Everyone recognizes her. No one speaks.
Her feet feel heavier with each step.
The guard stops at a massive door, opens it, and gestures. “Inside.”
The door shuts behind her with a soft click. But to Celeste, it sounds like a vault sealing shut.
The room is soaked in luxury—velvet cushions, gold detailing, walls so pristine they could reflect guilt. And then she sees him.
Adrian Blackwood stands at the window, a tall shadow carved from granite and ego. The sunlight frames him like a portrait no one’s allowed to touch.
“If you’re just going to stare, you could’ve sent flowers instead,” he says without turning.
His voice sent a chill down her spine. Celeste grits her teeth and steps forward, heels clicking with defiance.
Adrian turns.
His presence is a slap of cold water—clean-cut in a navy button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, jaw sharp enough to slice headlines. His stare lands on her like a silent verdict.
“You finally get to meet your fictional lover,” he says, voice smooth but laced with barbed amusement.
“You’re standing too close,” she shoots back. “Move.”
His brow arches. “Charming. No wonder your PR team had to resort to blackmail.”
“I didn’t blackmail you.” She bit her lip.
“No,” he replies. “You just let the world believe we’re in bed together. Much classier.”
Her fists clench. “You don’t know what I’m dealing with.”
“I don’t care,” Adrian says. He gestures toward a velvet sofa. “Sit. Let’s talk business.”
She sits, spine straight, face blank.
Adrian sinks into the opposite couch and tosses a folder onto the table. “Six-month contract. Fake relationship. Mutual benefit. My hotel gets buzz. Your career gets CPR.”
Celeste doesn’t even blink. “You rehearsed that?”
“I pitch to investors every day,” he replies coolly. “This is no different.”
She picks up the folder and flips through it. Legal jargon blurs on the page—confidentiality clauses, public appearance schedules, damage control measures. It’s airtight.
She cleared her throat, “You’re confident I’ll sign.”
“I read the headlines,” he says. “You will.”
She pauses, hand hovering over the signature line.
“If we’re going to fool the world,” she murmurs, “you’ll need to act like you don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” he says, deadpan. “I just don’t decorate lies with flowers.”
“You’re very full of yourself.”
“I have room. I’m single.”
Celeste snatches the pen from the table and signs with the practiced flick of a celebrity used to autographs.
She leans back, voice flat. “I’ll play the part. But I’m not your prop. Try to screw me over, and I’ll make sure you bleed publicly.”
Adrian offers his hand. “Welcome aboard.”
They shake. His grip is firm. Hers is ice.
Just as she rises to leave, he says casually, “First public appearance is tomorrow. Wear red. Smile like you adore me.”
Celeste snorts. “I don’t fall in love.”
“Neither do I.”
She turns to leave, but pauses. “You said there was a gift.”
Adrian stands. “I had my legal team look into the source of the leaked video.”
She stiffens.
“They found a lead. An anonymous IP address connected to an agency in LA. Might be worth suing.”
Her mask cracks for half a second. “That’s… unexpected.”
“I don’t like being used,” he says. “But I don’t enjoy watching people get dragged through hell either. Not unless I’m the one lighting the fire.”
She stares at him, unsure whether to thank him or slap him.
“I can handle my own problems, Mr. Blackwood,” she says quietly.
Then she walks away—head high, heels sharp, back unbothered.
Adrian watches her leave, expression unreadable.
The door clicks shut.
He exhales slowly and mutters under his breath.
“Annoying woman.”
But he doesn’t stop staring at the door.
Then his phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number flashes on the screen:
“You’re playing with fire, Mr. Blackwood. Back off Celeste, or you’ll burn with her.”
Adrian’s brows furrowed, his jaw tightens.
He dials his head of security.
“Track this number. Now.”
- Writer
