Gabe

_________________

I'm in Hell. 

We've been stuck in the holding area for what feels like forever, waiting for Evangeline's time with the fans. I shift uncomfortably, trying to ignore the pressing thought that I don't belong here and definitely don't belong with her.

Ahead of us is Derek O'Hara, the famous movie director, with his model wife on his arm. Behind us stands a dark-haired, sharp-eyed reporter whose name escapes me, but whose reputation for taking down Hollywood's elite is infamous. Hollywood dislikes her for that very reason, though by the looks of things, she's as much a part of this world as the people she targets. But by the cool, unbothered look in her eyes as she poses for the cameras, she couldn't care less. And here I am, caught between them all, feeling more out of place than ever.

In the distance, cameras go off like fireworks. Everything I've ever hated about my clients is concentrated in this one place—the privilege, the drama, the pretenses. I always knew Hollywood was a stage, but being here tonight, forced into the spotlight instead of standing in the shadows, it has never felt more apparent.

She's the only reason I'm doing this. The only one who could make me play dress-up and attend some premiere with Hollywood's elite. And that realization hits me harder than I expected—it means I'm in more trouble than I thought.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters. After Miami, I'm walking away, and I'm not looking back, even if it's one of the hardest things I'll ever have to do.

I have to protect her.

My eyes continue to scan the crowd for potential threats, needing to feel useful even though Stu and the others have everything under control. Piccola stays close, nestled against my side as we wait for our turn in the spotlight, playing the role of the doting girlfriend a little too well. She fits perfectly against me, and every time her hand squeezes mine that little bit harder, it takes everything in me to remember this isn't real.

To think my father idolized all of this. There was nothing he wanted more than to be in the spotlight, to be standing right where I'm standing now, with cameras flashing around him and people adoring him. It was his dream, the thing he chased after with everything he had. The funny thing? There's nothing I want less.

Finally, the event attendant waves us forward. I feel Piccola's fingers tighten around mine as we're ushered toward the crowd. I keep my eyes on her, waiting for her to reach for her earring—our typical signal that she's in trouble. But instead, she's sticking it out, toying with her necklace and flashing that award-winning smile, even though it's clear she'd rather be anywhere else.

That makes two of us.

"You're worried," I say when I think no one's listening. We're moving through the line, the crowd and cameras creating a buzzing energy around us, but all I can focus on is her. "Is it because of the premiere or something else?"

Her eyebrow arches ever so subtly. She's still giving me the cold shoulder, and I can't blame her. Admitting I was wrong isn't easy for me, but I know I should have handled things differently. I should have waited, pulled her aside, and explained the plan instead of blindsiding her in front of everyone. I should have listened.

"What makes you think I'm worried?" she finally asks, but that easy, lilted tone doesn't work on me. Never has. "I've never felt better."

I smirk faintly, keeping my voice low as we inch through the line. "You think I don't know when you're worried?" I lean closer as we pause, waiting for the attendant to signal us to move forward. "You get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're distracted," I say, my eyes scanning the crowd before returning to her, "and you start playing with your jewelry. Normally it's a bracelet, but since you're not wearing one tonight, it's your necklace. When it's your earring"—her eyes meet mine, flashing with something electric—"well, then I know we're in trouble."

She's silent for a few seconds, staring straight ahead at the line of fans waiting for us. But her eyes—her eyes say everything. They flicker from surprise to confusion to something I can't place. I've never seen eyes so expressive.

"I wasn't aware you paid that much attention to me," she says, smiling as the attendant ushers forward.

"All I do is pay attention." My fingers graze her back, tracing small patterns along her soft, exposed skin, needing to be touching her.

"Interesting. What else do you know about me?"

"I know you're protective of the people closest to you," I murmur as we finally reach the first line of fans behind the barrier. Evangeline flashes a bright smile at them all, taking a little girl's pen and paper to sign her name, but I know she's still listening to me. I press my mouth right over her ear, making sure she still hears me above the crowd. "The first thing you do when you go anywhere is grab Kat's hand and keep her close."

I pause as some asshole thrusts a phone at her, resisting the urge to shove him back behind the barrier. Tonight, I'm here as her date, not her bodyguard, but that doesn't change the fact that all I can think about is keeping her safe.

Piccola leans forward without a second thought, leaving my side to snap a quick selfie before returning to me. I instinctively pull her closer, not wanting her out of my grasp for a second longer than necessary.

"What else?" she asks as we move down the line, her thumb moving back and forth across my knuckles, a subtle gesture that sends a pulse of warmth through me.

"You're kind to everyone." My voice is barely a whisper in her ear, but somehow, she still catches it. Her head tilts slightly as if she's processing my words. "Whether it's your makeup artist or your housekeeper. Everyone except me, of course."

A faint smile tugs at her lips as she glances at me. "What do you expect," she says as we pause between the two holding areas, "when you keep doing things that make me want to fight you?"

I lean closer, breathing in the scent of her perfume. "I expect you to fight me, Piccola. It's what you do best."

She narrows her eyes at me, but there's no real anger there, just a playful spark that I've come to recognize. "Then you'll love the fight we're going to have later," she says, her low voice doing something dangerous to me.

"I look forward to it."

A sudden rush of warmth colors her cheeks as she tries to avoid my gaze. "Stop talking to me. That girl from TikTok is going to lipread everything we're saying."

We move forward again, and Piccola is back to smiling and waving, her public persona firmly in place, but I don't miss the way her hand clings to mine.

A tall guy in the back catches my eye, his gaze fixed on Evangeline with an intensity that sets me on edge. My entire body tenses as I lock eyes with him, silently warning him to back off. But instead of heeding it, he leans forward, his mouth twitching like he's itching to say something.

Evangeline, oblivious to the guy in the crowd, continues to sign autographs, but I don't take my eyes off him. Not for a second.

"Let's keep moving," I say under my breath, gently urging her forward. She follows my lead, but I can tell she's sensed the shift in my mood.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure." He pushes through a crowd of girls toward us. "Do you recognize that guy?"

He's tall, at least six-two, and in his early twenties, maybe older. There's something in the way he stares at her—intense, almost predatory—that sends a ripple of unease through me.

My hand instinctively tightens around her waist, pulling her closer as she turns to look at him, frowning before she signs another autograph.

"I don't think so, but"––she suddenly meets my gaze, looking scared––"there's something I need to tell you. I got another message. It said, 'See you tonight.'"

I don't need to ask from who. My jaw hardens as I locate the guy, ready to act, when he suddenly shoves a little girl aside, forcing his way to the barrier, just a foot away from Piccola. "This talentless bitch shouldn't even be here," he sneers, reaching out toward her. "Your family are fucking scum."

I'm already stepping in front of her, blocking him from view, seconds from grabbing him by the front of his shirt. A security guard appears next to me and shouts for the crowd to stay back. Evangeline tugs at my arm, pulling me away before I can do anything I'll regret. Her grip is tight, her steps quick and urgent, as if she's desperate to put as much distance between us and that asshole as possible. I let her lead, matching her pace, fighting the urge to go back there.

Talentless bitch. The phrase echoes in my head—I've seen it before in one of the older messages from her stalker.

Into my earpiece, I hiss to the others, "I've got eyes on a potential stalker in Fan Bay 3. White male, early twenties, six-foot-two, medium build. Black hoodie, blue jeans, and white sneakers. Find him."

"Copy that," Jack says.

I glance at Piccola. Her face is pale, her hand still gripping mine tightly. Stu will have heard everything over the frequency, but right now, I don't care. My priority is her. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she says, her voice shaky. We follow Lilith's instructions to bypass the red carpet interviews, guiding her straight to the photo op area instead. "I'm sorry, Gabe," she whispers, squeezing my fingers. "I should have told you about the message. I don't know why I didn't."

My gaze softens. It's not her fault she didn't want to tell me; it's mine. "You don't need to apologize." I slide my hand around her waist, pulling her closer to my side as we turn to face the cameras.

The flashbulbs go off in rapid succession, and I'm starting to grasp why Lilith wanted us to avoid the press pit. The less a celebrity engages with reporters, the fewer chances they have to twist their words into some sensational headline.

At one point, my eyes flit down to Piccola, but she's staring straight ahead, smiling and posing for the cameras. I can tell she's rattled, even if she doesn't want to admit it, and as much as every instinct in me wants to turn back and find that asshole, the best thing I can do for her right now is stay with her. Jack will handle the rest.

When the photographers finally lower their cameras, we're moved forward once again. It's not at all like the movies––everything is timed and synchronized, like we're cattle being herded from one section to the next.

We're just steps away from the entrance to the theater when Evangeline suddenly stops dead in her tracks. Her entire body goes rigid, and her gaze locks onto something behind us.

I follow her line of sight and spot the couple standing a few feet away, commanding everyone's attention. The guy's arms are wrapped around a pretty blonde who's practically devouring his ear. I'm about to look away when it suddenly clicks.

Kael.

Her ex.

A flash of jealousy hits me. I place a protective hand on Piccola's back, ready to lead her away.

It's too late. Kael sees her and smiles smugly, shifting his hand from the blonde's ass to her waist, tugging her along as they make their way over.

"Evie," Kael says, his eyes raking over with a polished Hollywood grin. "I had no idea you were coming tonight. How are you doing?" He pauses, feigning concern. "I was sorry to hear about your dad. Didn't his trial start today?"

Evangeline doesn't miss a beat. "It did, but I've been hearing so many great things about your movie that we couldn't not stop by." She turns slightly, glancing up at me with a smile that's almost too perfect, her lips stretching just a bit wider. "Where are my manners? Gabe, this is Kael, the leading man himself. Kael, this is my boyfriend, Gabe."

I meet Kael's gaze, giving him a curt nod as I extend my hand. His smile falters slightly as he shakes it, the grip a little too firm, like he's trying to size me up.

"Nice to meet you," Kael says, already losing interest. He looks into the distance where someone is waving him over. "Well, Delilah and I better get inside. Enjoy the movie, Evie."

Evangeline's smile stays perfectly in place as Kael and the blonde walk away, but as soon as they're out of earshot, she lets out the tiniest breath.

I frown and tighten my grip on her arm, pulling her closer as we make our way toward the theater. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she replies, but she doesn't sound fine. She sounds pissed. "I don't know what I was expecting. It's not like he was going to apologize to me in the middle of his premiere, but I guess I just thought there'd be... I don't know, some acknowledgement or something. He really was just using me."

Fuck, I hate seeing her like this. I reach out to brush a stray lock of hair away from her face. The softness of her skin beneath my fingers sends a pang of something—regret, guilt—straight through me. "His loss, Piccola."

For a second, she just stares at me. Really stares at me, like she can see straight into me, and somehow, against the odds, she likes what she sees. I clear my throat and guide her to the theater doors, seconds away from freedom when a reporter seizes the moment to corner us, thrusting a microphone into Evangeline's face.

"Miss Ryder," the blonde reporter chirps, pleased with herself. "You're a hard woman to track down."

"Apparently, not that hard," Evangeline says, turning to the reporter with a smile.

The reporter chuckles, her green eyes cutting straight past me. It seems that even if you make it to a premiere, you're not worthy of a glance unless you're famous.

"You look absolutely stunning tonight, as always," the reporter says. "Who are you wearing?"

Evangeline's hand glides down her hips, drawing attention to the flawless lines of the gown. "You have Vera Wang to thank for this beautiful custom," she says, the intricate sequins catching in the light. "I'm fortunate to be wearing it tonight."

"Very fortunate," the reporter agrees. "Now, I have to ask: we've all heard the TMZ rumors that you've been estranged from your father for years. What made you decide to come here tonight instead of attending your father's trial this morning?"

Evangeline pauses just long enough for the weight of the question to settle in. "It wasn't an easy decision," she admits, "but tonight is about supporting my dear friend Kael and his incredible work. I would hate for anything to overshadow the movie he and all of his cast members have worked so hard to make."

"Of course," the reporter says, stepping in a little closer, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Tonight is all about Kael, who has clearly come a long way since his modeling days. Did you always know he wanted to break into acting? And do you think dating the daughter of a movie star had any influence on that decision?"

Piccola hesitates, the seconds stretching out as the reporter waits for her response. I glance down at her, searching her expression, but her face is carefully blank.

"Yes," she says carefully, "I believe my father played an important part in Kael's decision to become an actor. In fact, it was my father who introduced him to the great Peter Gariette at my request. I believe he had been overlooked for the role previously."

The reporter's eyebrows fly up, disappearing into her hairline. "Are you saying Kael may not have gotten this part without your father's involvement?"

"Who can say?" Evangeline replies, a dangerous glint in her eye. "That's the beauty of Hollywood—you never really know how much is talent and how much is about who you know. Now, if you'll excuse us, we've got a movie to catch."

That's my cue. I keep my hand firmly around hers, guiding her away from the reporter and into the theater. The lights dim as we find our seats, and for the first time tonight, I see her smile fade as she settles into the chair. I won't pretend to understand the politics of Hollywood, but I know enough to know whatever just happened in that interview wasn't good.

"Gabe." Jack's voice comes low in my ear, forcing me to look away from her. "We found him. I'm questioning him now."

"Good. I'll catch up with you later." I lean back in my seat as Kael's face fills the screen, but I'm not paying attention to the movie. My eyes are on Piccola. She's more uncomfortable than I've ever seen her, tapping her foot and playing with her necklace as she crosses and uncrosses her legs. I reach out to grab her hand, wanting to reassure her, but before I can, she lifts it to touch what I assume will be her hair.

Instead, her fingers find her earring.