Celeste Armand stands at the far end, one slender hand propped against the wall, phone loose in her grip. She’s luminous in that way women like her always are: cheekbones sharp enough to cut, silver-blonde hair in a sleek knot, lipspainted the sort of red that never bleeds. She looks carved from the same marble as the models staring down from the billboards outside: untouchable, cold, perfect.
She doesn’t startle when she sees me. Instead, she lifts her chin, mouth curling in a half smile, eyes flicking over me like she’s already cataloged every bruise, every smudge, every flaw.
“Sweetheart,” she murmurs, voice velvet and knives. “I was looking for you.”
I swallow, spine straightening by instinct. “I don’t need an audience.”
Celeste pushes off the wall, slow, deliberate, heels silent on the polished floor. Her perfume floods the air—a bitter floral that makes me want to gag.
“I thought you might want a friend. Someone who knows how the industry works.” She tilts her head, a lock of silver hair escaping to frame her face. “But maybe that’s not what you need at all. Maybe you need the truth.”
The air feels thick, my nerves thrumming. “If you came to tell me it’ll blow over, don’t bother. I know what happens to girls like me.”
She laughs softly, the sound clipped at the edges. “No, darling. This won’t blow over. Not unless you understand what you’re up against.” Her gaze sharpens. “This wasn’t random. The industry can be cruel, yes, but not surgical. Not like this.”
I grit my teeth. “So what, I’m supposed to believe it’s personal?”
She steps closer, voice dropping. “It is personal. Very. Someone orchestrated this. Someone powerful enough to destroy you without a trace.” Her lips part, teeth flashing. “Do you know the name Nikola Sharov?”
The syllables hit me like a stone. “Should I?”
Her eyes narrow, studying my face for cracks. “Russian. He’s the kind of man who makes problems disappear. Bratva blood. He’s a strategist, a puppet master.” She leans in, her whisper brushing my ear. “You caught his attention. I don’t know how, and frankly, I don’t want to. But men like that? They don’t act without motive.”
I jerk back, shoulders rigid. “Why would he care about me? I’ve never—”
“Doesn’t matter,” she cuts in. “What matters is that he’s marked you. You’re not just a casualty of gossip, Elara. You’re a target.” Her mouth softens, the performance perfect—sympathy veiling the steel beneath. “He’s ruined careers for less. And the way he moves? No one even realizes he’s there until they’re already bleeding.”
She lets the words settle, lets me taste them. The hallway suddenly feels too narrow, too bright. I’m hot all over, sweat prickling at my temples, shame warping into something that feels a little like fury.
“I’m telling you this as a warning, not a threat,” Celeste murmurs, voice thick with false kindness. “Don’t trust anyone who comes offering to ‘fix’ this. Don’t play the wounded bird. If you want to survive, you have to know whose game you’re playing.”
I study her face, looking for cracks. Except she’s flawless—every word is smooth, every gesture practiced. Her eyes flick to my hands, clenched so tight my nails leave crescents in my palm.
“Why are you helping me?” My voice sounds thin, brittle. “If he’s so dangerous, why risk telling me?”
Celeste shrugs. “Because you deserve to know what’s coming. Because no one deserves to be taken apart for sport.”She pauses, gaze suddenly cold. “Because sometimes the only way to win is to know who the real enemy is.”
The seed settles deep. I feel it take root—the idea of a singular enemy, a face I can fight instead of a thousand faceless leeches. Something to blame. Someone to destroy. I let it fill the space where my dignity used to live.
Celeste slips her phone into her purse, turns away as if nothing monumental has happened. She glances back once, just long enough for me to see the satisfaction in her eyes. “Good luck, Elara. You’ll need it.”
She disappears around the corner, heels clicking out a rhythm I can’t quite shake.
I’m alone again. No one in the corridor, no one looking out for me except women who deal poison like candy and men who watch from behind curtains, pulling strings with hands I’ll never see. I want to scream. Instead, I swallow it, force my legs to carry me out into the bitter night.
Back at the hotel, the lobby is empty. The doorman doesn’t meet my eyes. I ride the elevator with my reflection, face ghosted on mirrored walls, mascara streaked, lips chewed raw.
The suite is cold, untouched. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, a relentless chorus of notifications—texts from my manager, my mother, a few friends with sympathy sharp enough to draw blood.
I silence it. Strip off my dress, let it puddle on the carpet. It feels like I’m peeling off a layer of myself, the last scrap of armor gone.
I stand at the window, city lights fractured and far away, and see my own reflection—washed out, hollow-eyed, nothing left but the outlines of a girl I used to know. My dignityis shredded, my name smeared across the world, and yet something in me refuses to lay down and die.
Maybe it’s Celeste’s words, looping in my skull. Maybe it’s the raw, ugly need to wrestle some piece of power back into my hands. I picture Nikola Sharov is a stranger, a phantom, a monster with my life in his fist. My rage hardens into something sharp. I don’t want to be a victim. I will not vanish.
I walk to the mirror, stare myself down. “You’re not prey,” I whisper. “Not tonight.”
So I make a decision that feels, for a moment, like reclaiming control. I will find him. I will demand answers. I will tear the truth from his lips if I have to. I will not disappear quietly.
