Evangeline

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The dozen red roses in my kitchen can only mean trouble.

I turn to my housekeeper, who's busy mopping the Calacatta Borghini floors, and calmly ask, "Luci, did security say which company delivered the flowers?"

Luciana pauses her mopping, purses her lips, and looks to the ceiling like she's deep in thought. Luciana has been working for my family in some form or other for almost eight years, and although she can't stand my parents, she's always been kind and fiercely loyal toward me—a side effect of treating your staff like actual human beings. "Mm, I think Deluxe Flowers."

"Thank you." With heavy steps, I walk to the front door and swing it open, half-expecting to see the flower delivery van still parked in my driveway. But the driveway is empty, and my overdramatic plan to interrogate the driver who delivered them disintegrates.

I return to the kitchen and face the bouquet. It's stunning—twelve red roses, each petal as flawless and beautiful as the last. I run my thumb along one of the soft petals, almost wishing I could find some flaw or imperfection, but they're perfect.

Obviously, they're from Kat. She's the only person I know who would be this thoughtful, and we've been leaving each other little notes or gifts since we became best friends at thirteen. Or maybe they're from my father—a sorry for abandoning you and ruining your life parting gift. Or maybe I'm just delusional. Exhaling slowly, I flip over the note attached.

Missed me, E?

My address.

This bastard knows my address.

I don't know how long I stand here before self-preservation kicks in, reminding me that I live in a gated neighborhood on a mountainside. There's no way anyone can get past the gates, which means I'm no worse off than I was last night. And with two bodyguards watching my every move—one infuriatingly handsome and the other Stu—how could anyone get close?

"Nice flowers," Stu's booming voice startles me, and I whirl around to see he's back from the Coffee Lounge and holding two large caramel lattes. "Who are they from?"

I grip the card tighter, willing myself to tell him everything, but one look into those crinkled blue eyes stops me. If he ever found out about my stalker, the first thing he'd do is increase my security, followed by convincing me to stay inside indefinitely.

My mother would be worse. One mention of a stalker, and she'd sell this house, pack everything up, and whisk me off to her Calabasas home faster than I could say goodbye, freedom. Neither option is particularly practical, and both scare me to death.

"They're from Kat," I say, slipping the note into my pocket. "Is that for me?"

"Of course, it's for you." Stu hands me the latte, glancing at my shaking hand as I take a much-needed sip. It's still hot and made with an extra shot of caramel, which is why I adore Stu so much. It's not his job to do nice things, and I would never ask, but he takes care of me anyway.

"You, Stu Morelli," I say, "are a good man."

"Mm," he grunts, adjusting his suit. "Tell that to my wife." His gaze shifts to my all-black attire, softening at my oversized sunglasses, which dutifully cover my dark circles. After scrolling through headlines all night, I look less like the perfect influencer from my socials and more like the living dead. "Hey, chin up, kiddo," he says softly. "This will blow over soon."

"I know," I say, fixing my lipgloss. "I'm not worried about my father." I have no doubt that he'll escape this charge or be found not guilty. Some people always seem to get what they want, and my father is one of them.

"Then what are you worried about?"

I hesitate. As a sixty-year-old father of three daughters, Stu can't help but slip into father mode whenever I'm upset. And with my own non-existent relationship with my father, I'm usually more than okay with it. But right now, I just want to get through today the way I get through everything: by pretending I'm fine.

"Nothing, I just didn't get much sleep." Running my thumb over the note in my pocket, I fight to keep my nerves steady as Stu calls for the car.

Yes, my stalker knows my home address. Yes, my father has been charged with tax evasion. And yes, I'm saddled with yet another bodyguard, my freedom in jeopardy once again, but that doesn't mean I need to panic. I'll find a way out of this mess, somehow.

I always do.

"Finish your coffee," Stu says, nodding to my half-full cup, "the car should be here soon to take you to the interview."

Right, the interview. They say the devil works hard, but my mother works harder. By seven a.m. this morning, I had six missed calls from her overworked assistant, two photoshoots booked, and a last-minute interview today at ten a.m. In other words, damage control.

It's a well-known Hollywood secret that a timely leaked story can boost a celebrity's following or, in our case, bury bad press. And it's not the first time I've been used to divert attention from my father's mistakes. Whenever something happens, my mother's Crisis Management team puts together an agenda involving photoshoots, appearances and meet-and-greets—anything to push me further into the limelight and keep the attention away from my father. Not out of loyalty to him but because the harder we protect him, the easier it is to protect ourselves.

My father has secrets that could ruin us.

Reluctant to think about him right now, I turn to Stu. "I think I'm going to get some fresh air. Let me know when the car arrives." I step outside and am immediately greeted by one of the most stunning views I've ever seen, easily the best feature of this house. Nestled in the hills of Santa Monica, I'm surrounded by rolling mountains, and on clear days, I can see all the way to the ocean.

I close my eyes and tighten my grip on my latte, inhaling the scent of lavender from the hedge nearby. As pathetic as it sounds, standing on my patio and feeling the breeze on my skin is the only time I feel free.

Growing up in a big house with a revolving door of nannies and bodyguards, I never had what most would call a stable childhood. My parents were too busy battling fame and their own demons to really be there for me, so aside from Kat, who I bonded with in seventh grade over our love of old Hollywood films, I never really had anyone consistent to turn to––probably why I learned to keep everything inside.

I wish I could resent my parents for it, but I don't. At least, not my mother. She was only sixteen when she was plucked from her small town to become a model, and from what I can tell, her mother cared more about the paychecks she sent home than about protecting her from Hollywood.

She never stood a chance.

I've had to watch my parents' entire relationship play out in the headlines—cheating scandals, bankruptcy, emotional abuse—but my mother refused to leave him, convinced that what was best for me was growing up with two parents, something she never had. Like most leading men, my father happily took the best years of her life, only to follow the clichéd actor's path and trade her in for a younger model once she hit forty.

In other words, she sacrificed everything to keep this family together, and even though it's a debt I didn't choose or want, it's one I have to repay.

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, feeling the burn of tears. I hate crying, but the events of last night must finally be catching up with me because I'm seconds from ruining fresh makeup. I fight the tears back, blinking a few times until the haze finally clears.

A knock on the patio door kicks me into gear. Setting down my cup, I steal one last glance at my reflection in the mirrored door and smooth my hair. Kat teases me about my mirror-checking habit, but she doesn't understand the pressure I face to look perfect.

The one time I left the house without makeup, the media jumped on it, plastering my bare, imperfect face all over their magazines. Since then, I've vowed to never leave the house looking anything less than perfect. You're selling the dream, my mother would say, and dreams are beautiful.

"Car's here, Eva," Stu says, appearing in the doorway. "Are you ready?"

"Ready as ever." I pull down my sunglasses, turn away from the impressive view, and follow Stu to the car.

The morning LA traffic means the drive to Studio 48 takes forever. As soon as we pull outside, a swarm of paparazzi appear, pressing their cameras to the blacked-out windows. I keep my expression composed as they attempt to follow us into the underground parking lot, but security keeps them back as the shutters close behind us. Pushing down the wave of nausea, I follow Stu out of the car, linking my arm through his as my other hand plays with my necklace.

Stu notices my unease and reassuringly squeezes my arm before looking ahead. Even now, with an important job to do, he takes the time to make me feel safe and cared for. That's why I'll never need anyone else—especially not him.

Though, clearly, fate has other ideas. I glance toward the elevator and see Gabe Loretto stepping into view alongside several security personnel.

While it kills me to admit it, he looks like he's walked straight off a GQ shoot in his crisp white shirt and black jeans. He towers above the others, his dark hair tousled, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned, bulging forearms, and exuding a quiet confidence that I begrudgingly find attractive.

Too bad he's a royal asshole.

It's as I'm taking him in that his dark eyes find mine, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Heat pools in my stomach as I succumb to his gaze, my heart beating so erratically that it's clearly forgotten how much I dislike him.

It's reminded a second later when, with absolute indifference, his eyes glaze over before he promptly makes his way to Stu. The pair talk quietly, too quietly for me to hear, but from Stu's stance—arms crossed and expression hard—it's clear he's unimpressed by Gabe's bravado.

That makes two of us.

Finally, Stu returns, looking agitated, with Gabe close behind. "Eva, Gabe will take over from here. I'll see you tonight. If you need anything before then, just call me, okay?"

I look between them, sensing animosity. Squeezing Stu's arm, I say, "I'll be fine. Tell Angela I said hi, and get some rest."

Stu's blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. "I can't promise anything."

Gabe waits until Stu is out of sight before stepping forward, towering over me just as he had when he swooped in to rescue me from the paparazzi swarm. Except now I know he's not just a good Samaritan but someone my mother paid to protect me. And worst of all? He's doing a terrible job.

"Good morning, Piccola," he says, a mocking gleam in his eye, his tone all professional as if it'll erase how he treated me last night.

"Not for you," I say sweetly. "I plan on speaking to my mother later about releasing you from your duties."

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze drops to my lips, and I press them together. Something intense, not entirely unpleasant, passes between us. Just as I'm waiting for a cutting remark, he arrogantly places his hand on my back and leads me toward the elevator.

Watching someone as big as Gabe squeeze into a tiny service elevator is amusing, to say the least. His arm brushes mine as he forces himself in after me, his broad shoulders barely fitting through the door. Muttering something under his breath, he presses for the lobby and turns to the front, trying not to brush me with his shoulder.

I bet he's a gym fanatic—the type who's obsessed with it, follows a strict routine, and avoids indulgences. He screams, I have to always be in control. It's my way or the highway. But that was before he met me.

I catch his reflection in the mirrored doors, towering over my five-foot-four frame like I could fit in his pocket. He's all cold eyes and sharp edges, the gun on his holster a constant reminder that he's my personal prison guard, and I'm the polished, perfectly packaged prisoner at his mercy.

He doesn't look at me, doesn't speak. I'm not expecting the red carpet treatment, but after last night, you'd think he'd at least make an effort. "Unbelievable."

His gaze flits down to mine lightning-fast. "Did you say something, Princess?"

I snap my head up to meet his gaze, a dangerous flutter stirring in my stomach. He makes "princess" sound like a dirty word. Brushing back my hair, I force myself to remember he stands for everything I hate: extra security, lack of freedom, being babied. The sooner he's fired, the better. "Nothing. I just think for someone whose job is hanging by a thread, you'd try and make a little more effort. And don't call me Princess."

His lips twitch, hinting at a smile or maybe a laugh, both equally insulting. He leans closer, his mouth almost touching my ear as he speaks. "I know things are a little different with Stu, so let me make this clear. I'm not your slave, I'm not your boyfriend, and I'm not here to handhold you. I'm here to protect you, Piccola."

His warning comes as a breathless whisper, scolding me. I was right. He thinks he's in control here, that he gets to call the shots, and one way or another, I'm determined to prove him wrong.

I'm still plotting how I can make him suffer when the doors open. Gabe strides past me, looking around the busy lobby before motioning for me to proceed. Ignoring his gesture, I waltz past him, feeling the weight of several eyes on me.

I spot a familiar face across the room: Adrianna Torrence – Hollywood's biggest threat. You wouldn't know it to look at her. She's got that black hair, blue-eyed, innocent Disney princess look down to a fine art, but behind that polished exterior is a cutthroat reporter determined to expose Hollywood's corruption one scandal at a time.

Starting with my father. 

I breeze by as if their stares don't matter, but deep down, I'm self-conscious. I want to fix my hair, or check my teeth in my compact, or run to the bathroom, but that would be bowing to their pressure, something I only do at home.

Gabe walks up behind me as an enthusiastic PA rushes over to lead us into my dressing room. It's empty inside, and I breathe in relief. All I need is a moment alone to collect myself.

Then I look at Gabe and remember I can't even have that. He strides past me, scanning the room before taking his place against the far wall. Sighing, I settle for pretending he's not here and sink into the makeup chair.

Waiting for me on the vanity table is a glass of champagne and chocolates. Ignoring the chocolates—I'm on a strict diet—I reach for the champagne, noticing the stack of papers by the mirror, signed by Lilith Altaite, my mother's Crisis Management team.

I scoop it up, trying not to scowl as I briefly flick through it. It's worse than I thought—much worse. Not just interviews and photoshoots but compulsory attendance to the First Choice gala, staged pap shots, and dates with high-profile celebrities. This is excessive even for my mother's standards.

When I glance up, Gabe's eyes are trained on mine, deliberating something. I can't help but wonder if he'll be there, witnessing my humiliation during some staged date for the paparazzi. Watching as I allow myself to be used the way my ex used me. I close my eyes briefly. God, the thought of getting through the next few months feels unbearable.

"Princess," Gabe's low voice breaks through the thoughts. "Are you alright?"

He's towering over me now, a dark brow arched, waiting for my answer. It's not a question I get often, except maybe from Stu. I'm usually pretty good at keeping up appearances, at hiding what I'm really feeling, but Gabe seems to see right through me."I know you get off on my suffering," I say, "but I'm fine."

"You have no idea," he says with the faintest smirk, "what I get off on."

The same heat I felt the night we first met suddenly rushes between my thighs. I squeeze them together, wishing this exchange wasn't happening moments before I'm to walk on a stage. "Kicking puppies. Satanic rituals. Manhandling women. Am I close?"

"Punishing spoiled princesses," he murmurs under his breath.

My mouth suddenly feels dry as I stare into those liquid black eyes. There's something unbelievably hypnotizing about his voice. It's gruff, American, but with a hint of an Italian accent suggesting he's lived abroad at some point. I let my mind wander to all the places he's been as he angles his head toward mine. 

Suddenly, the door to my dressing room flies open, and my entire hair and makeup team floods in. I smile warmly and greet each of them, ignoring Gabe's presence as I turn to the mirror, noticing my flushed cheeks.

For the next thirty minutes, I throw on the charm for my stylists while they try to create the perfect, polished version of myself—the version that isn't real, no matter how much I wish it were. Gabe remains silent, guarding the door like a damn German Shepherd, refusing to acknowledge me.

Good.

When I'm ready, I'm hurried out of the dressing room toward the studio. Gabe follows closely, resting a palm on my arm as he guides me through the crowd, his touch hot against my skin. I take a deep breath as I pull on my Cartier bracelet, feeling like I'm struggling to breathe.

"Alright, Evangeline," the PA says, pushing me toward the stage. "They're ready. You look perfect."

I flash a smile as I'm ushered forward, but it doesn't reach my eyes. That's the problem, I think.

I'm not.