CHAPTER ONE
1309 Words
Lyara McKinley wasn't born for the spotlight. She grew up in a town so small it didn't have a movie theater, which was why she spent most of her teenage years staring at a tiny laptop screen. That was where she first found Mikael Roosevelt.
For three years, her bedroom walls were a shrine to him. She had saved every magazine clipping and memorized every interview. When she moved to Los Angeles to try modeling, she didn't just want a career—she wanted to be in his world. She had spent a year going to every event he might attend, standing at the back of crowds just to catch a glimpse of his hair or the way he walked. She was a fan girl in the truest sense; she believed he was a good man because his characters were heroes.
Now, a year later, she was finally in the same room as him. But she wasn't behind a barricade. She was wearing a silver dress that cost more than her mother’s car, standing on the other side of the velvet rope.
The air backstage was thick with the smell of hairspray, expensive perfume, and nervous sweat. Lyara stood shivering in the thin, silver slip dress. To the rest of the world, she was a rising star—the "newbie" with high cheekbones and eyes the photographers loved. But inside, she felt like a little girl playing dress-up.
"Shoulders back, Lyara! Stop looking at the floor!" the director barked, snapping his fingers in her face.
Lyara nodded quickly, fixing her posture. She walked toward the edge of the curtain. Her heart was racing, but not because of the runway. It was because of him.
Mikael Roosevelt was sitting in the front row. He was the guest of honor. Lyara’s heart hammered against her ribs as she waited for her cue. This is it, she thought. This is the moment he finally sees me.
"Go!" a hand shoved her shoulder.
Lyara stepped out onto the long, white runway. The music was a deep, thumping bass that shook her chest. The lights were so bright she could barely see, but halfway down, her eyes found him.
Mikael was leaning back, a glass of champagne in his hand. He looked like a king. For a split second, Lyara thought his eyes met hers. Her breath hitched, and she almost stumbled, but she caught herself just in time.
She finished her walk, her adrenaline spiking. The second she got backstage, she didn't even change. She had to try. She had to speak to him.
"Where are you going?" her agent asked, grabbing her arm.
"I’ll be right back!" Lyara promised, slipping away.
She hurried toward the VIP lounge. She saw him standing near a tall window, surrounded by people in expensive suits. He was laughing—that famous, charming laugh she had heard in a thousand movies.
Lyara took a deep breath. Just say hello, she told herself. Tell him you've followed his work for years.
She stepped forward. "Mr. Roosevelt? Hi, I'm Lyara. I was the model in the—"
Suddenly, two giant men in black suits stepped in front of her. They were like stone walls.
"Back off," one of them said, his voice cold.
"Oh, I just... I wanted to say hi," Lyara stammered, her face turning bright red.
Mikael didn't even turn around. He kept talking to a beautiful woman in a red dress, acting like Lyara didn't exist. He didn't see her. He didn't hear her. The guards pushed her back, and a wave of shame washed over her.
She stood there for five minutes, frozen, watching him happily chit-chat with the woman. He didn't look like a hero. He looked like a stranger who couldn't care less if she lived or died.
The silence in the VIP lounge felt heavier than the loud music in the auditorium. The shame was a physical heat that burned from her chest to her ears. She looked down at her shaking hands. Five minutes ago, the silver dress made her feel like a star. Now, it just felt like cheap tin foil.
"Lyara! Get back here!" Sarah, her agent, appeared, looking panicked. "The final walk starts in sixty seconds! If you aren't in line, you’re finished!"
Lyara didn't answer. She just walked past Sarah.
She reached the backstage area just as the bass of the finale music began to shake the floor. The other models were lining up, faces blank and professional. Usually, Lyara would be checking her makeup.
Not tonight.
Something inside her had snapped. The "crush" she had carried for years—the posters, the dreams—it all turned cold and hard. She wasn't a fan anymore. She was just a girl who had been humiliated.
"Line up! Let's go!" the director shouted.
Lyara took her place at the very end. As the curtains parted, the lights hit her. But this time, they didn't blind her. She felt a fierce clarity. She didn't care about the cameras or the man in the front row.
She stepped out onto the runway.
Her walk was different now. It wasn't the soft, bouncy stride of a girl trying to be liked. It was sharp. Every step sounded like a hammer hitting the floor. Her jaw was set, her eyes narrow and cold.
As she marched toward the end of the stage, the crowd went quiet. She looked dangerous.
She reached the edge of the stage, right in front of Mikael.
For the first time that night, Mikael actually stopped talking. He set his champagne glass down. He leaned forward, his blue eyes finally focusing on her. He looked intrigued. He looked like he was seeing something he wanted to own.
Lyara saw him looking. A year ago, she would have smiled. Instead, she looked right through him. She treated him like he was a piece of furniture. She didn't pause. She turned on her heel with a snap and walked back toward the curtain.
She didn't look back.
Backstage, she didn't wait for the applause. She walked to her dressing area, unzipped the expensive dress, and let it fall to the floor in a heap. She put on her old jeans and a hoodie. She wiped the glitter off her face with a paper towel until her skin was red.
"Lyara! Wait!" Sarah ran in. "Mikael Roosevelt just asked for your name! He wants you at the after-party! Your career is made!"
Lyara stopped at the door. She felt a sharp, bitter pain in her chest. A heartbreak that felt like fire.
He only noticed her when she stopped caring.
"Tell him I went home," Lyara said.
"What? You can't say no to him!"
"I just did."
She walked out the back exit into the freezing night. She started walking toward the bus stop, her head down. She was heartbroken, yes. But as a limousine sped past her, she felt a tiny spark of power.
She had been a "nobody" to him all night. Now, he was a "nobody" to her.
But when she reached her tiny apartment and locked the door, she didn't feel like a winner. She slumped against the door and finally cried. She had lost her idol. She had lost her dream.
She didn't know that three floors below, a black SUV was idling in the dark.
Inside, Mikael Roosevelt was looking at a tablet. It was Lyara’s modeling portfolio. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb.
"She has fire," Mikael murmured. "I like things that burn. It makes it more fun when you finally put them out."
"Should I arrange a meeting, sir?" the driver asked.
"No," Mikael smirked, his eyes turning cold. "Don't ask her. Just buy the agency she works for. I want her on my desk by Monday morning."
- Writer
