“The tabloid bullshit. The ‘Samuel Bennett might be straight’ rumors. And the photos of you and Chandra, the speculation, all of it.” She lifted her chin, defiant. “I’ve been feeding stories to the gossip sites for six months.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. “You... what?”
“You’re more popular than ever, Sam! Your social media following has doubled! The show’s ratings are up nine percent! People are talking about you, and in this business, that’s all that matters!” She spread her hands as if she were presenting me with a gift. “Controversy sells. Mystery sells. And a gay actor who might be straight? That’s catnip for the tabloids.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. My mind was a blank white screen of rage and disbelief.
“I did this for you,” Sabrina continued, and she actually sounded like she believed it. “To keep you relevant and make you more valuable. To ensure that when contract negotiations came around, the network would be desperate to keep you. And it worked, Sam! They’re offering you double! You should be thanking me!”
“Thanking you?” My voice came out strangled. “You’ve been spreading lies about my sexuality. You’ve been—” I had to stop, had to take a breath before I said something I couldn’t take back. “Get out.”
“Samuel—”
“GET OUT!” I pointed at the door, my hand shaking. “Get out of my dressing room and don’t contact me until I’m back from Virginia. Actually, you know what? Don’t contact me at all. I’ll call you when I’ve decided if you’re still my agent.”
Sabrina’s face went pale, then red. “You’re making a mistake.”
“The only mistake I made was trusting you.”
For a moment, I thought she was going to argue. But something in my expression must have convinced her I was serious. She grabbed her portfolio, tucked it under her arm, and walked to the door.
“You’ll change your mind,” she said from the doorway. “When you’ve calmed down, you’ll realize I was right.”
The door closed behind her, and I was alone.
I sank back into my chair, my reflection staring back at me—half Dr. Brock Blaze, half Samuel Bennett, and I wasn’t sure which half was real anymore.
My fucking agent had been sabotaging my personal life to boost my career, which coincidentally boosted her pay since she got 15% of my earnings. The tabloids thought I was a closetedstraight guy. My co-star Chandra was having two secret affairs. And tomorrow, I was getting on a plane to hide in the mountains of Virginia like some kind of emotional fugitive.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up my email, finding the confirmation for the cabin rental. Ashford Gap, Virginia.
One month. Complete privacy.
The listing had promised a “luxurious mountain retreat with stunning views, modern amenities, and the perfect escape from the pressures of everyday life.” The photos had shown a sprawling deck overlooking misty peaks, a stone fireplace, and windows that seemed to bring the forest inside. It looked like paradise—the kind of place where a person could find themselves again.
One month to figure out who the hell I was when I wasn’t Dr. Brock Blaze.
One month to decide if I was brave enough to walk away from everything I’d built.
One month to find something real in a life that had become nothing but performance.
I stared at my reflection one more time, at the tired eyes and the fake smile and the face that belonged to someone else.
“What if I get there and realize I don’t know who I am without all of this?” I muttered aloud.
The question hung in the air, unanswered, as I reached for my jacket and prepared to leave the studio for the last time in thirty days.
What if the person I found in those mountains was someone I didn’t recognize at all?
Chapter Two
Farley
The release party for Savannah Flores'sFlowering Hearts of Desirewas everything a bestselling romance author deserved: champagne towers that caught the light like liquid gold, a string quartet playing in the corner of the Tribeca loft, and enough floral arrangements to make a funeral director weep with envy. White roses and peonies cascaded from every available surface, their scent mixing with expensive perfume and the sharp tang of success.
I stood near the entrance with my clipboard—yes, an actual clipboard, because my phone had died twenty minutes ago and I was nothing if not prepared—and checked off arrivals against my meticulously organized guest list.
Agents: 15/18 confirmed.
