The first crack wasn’t loud, it was a whisper,a missed call, a carefully edited social media post and a quote in a trade magazine that sounded just enough like shade.
It started small. Almost forgettable. But Celeste Laurent had learned long ago that in their world, power didn’t collapse in explosions, it unraveled in silken threads, and someone had started tugging.
She sat in the private lounge of Sinclair Studios, long legs crossed beneath a floor-length navy coat, the collar turned up like armor. Her phone buzzed again, it was another message from her publicist, Katya, and another silence from her stylist of six years, Lena, who hadn’t answered any of her texts in three days. Not even a heart emoji. Nothing.
Damien walked in without knocking, as always. He didn’t have to, and he look
