The champagne flute shattered at my feet, glass spraying like frozen tears across the marble. I didn’t even realize I’d thrown it until the room went silent. There they were—Jason and Lila—grinning on the cover of Vogue, ‘Couple of the Year,’ arms wrapped around each other like they hadn’t ripped my life apart. My agent dropped the call three hours ago: ‘You’re toxic, Gabrielle. No brand wants drama.’

Then he appeared—Kyle Wright, all charcoal suits and unreadable eyes, pulling me through the crowd before the paparazzi swarmed. ‘Come with me,’ he said, not asking. And when the cameras followed, I did the unthinkable. I kissed him. Not sweetly. Not softly. I kissed him like I wanted to erase every memory of Jason, of Lila, of the girl who believed in forever.

Now his driver’s waiting downstairs. Kyle offered me a job—his personal assistant. One year. Full immunity. Total secrecy. But his mother already called me a gold-digging distraction. And Julian, his CFO, smirked when he said, ‘She won’t last a month.’

My suitcase is packed. The contract’s on the table. Do I run back to obscurity, or walk straight into the fire?