The Heiress's Revenge: Get Ready to be Ruined, Superstar

"I think we're ready," Julian murmured.

His palm slid down my bare arm. The bedroom's dim gold lamp cast long shadows over his face. Three nights ago, a touch like that would have melted my spine. Tonight, I just felt managed. Handled.

"Ready for what?" I asked, keeping my voice flat.

"For more." He leaned in, his lips brushing my collarbone. "I want to be with you, Wren. All the way."

The shape of his request settled heavy in my chest. A cold knot twisted beneath my ribs, completely ignoring the heat of his mouth against my skin.

I shifted back, putting an inch of space between us. "Can we wait a little longer?"

"Wait?" He paused, his hand stalling on my elbow. "Why?"

"I just want to be sure." I met his gaze. "About us. About everything going on right now."

For exactly half a second, his jaw turned to stone.

If I hadn't been watching him like a hawk, I would have missed it. His entire frame went rigid. A tiny muscle in his left cheek flexed. Then, the tension vanished, replaced by a mask of practiced, easy patience.

"Of course," he said.

His smile arrived a fraction of a heartbeat too late.

"Whatever you need." He kissed the center of my forehead. "I've got you."

He rolled over, pulling the duvet up to his shoulders. Within three minutes, his breathing dropped into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.

I lay awake for hours. I stared at the broad curve of his back. I hated how much that half-second delay cost me, wishing I could un-know the exact moment my boyfriend became a stranger.

***

"Hey, did you get the drive link?"

My phone buzzed on the desk with a text from Julian's assistant, Mark.

"Just sent it to the group chain," the next message read. "Raw dailies and the blooper reel for the wrap party."

"Got it," I typed back.

I clicked the link out of pure muscle memory. I kept one eye on my inbox and let the video play on my phone screen. Slapstick mistakes. Missed marks. Actors tripping over cables.

Then the scene cut.

"And... action," the director's voice echoed through the tiny speaker.

Scarlett stood next to Julian. The camera rolled, capturing a quiet moment between takes. Her fingers rested lightly on his forearm.

One second passed. Then two. Then three.

"You missed your cue," Scarlett whispered.

Her voice barely registered over the background noise, but the mic caught it.

Julian didn't step back. He didn't shake off her touch. Instead, he let out a low, private chuckle. It was a sound he hadn't made around me in weeks.

"Cut! Let's reset," the director yelled.

They still didn't separate.

I hit replay.

I watched her fingers grip his arm again. I listened to that intimate, secret laugh. My hands turned to ice. My teeth ground together so hard my temples throbbed.

My thumb hovered over the share icon. I wanted to send it to him. I wanted to demand an explanation. Then my thumb drifted to the trash bin icon.

I tapped neither.

I locked the screen and shoved the phone across the desk.

"It's nothing," I told the empty room. "They're costars. It's chemistry."

I repeated the lie out loud, hoping the sound of my own voice would make it true.

***

"Julian, where is your phone charger?" I shouted down the hallway.

"Should be on the nightstand!" he called back from the kitchen.

It was Thursday night. He had a 4:00 AM call time two towns over, and I was packing his canvas overnight bag. It was a domestic chore I usually loved. Tonight, it felt like a trap.

I unzipped the interior pocket to check for his spare battery pack. My knuckles brushed against folded paper.

I pulled it out.

Cream stationery. The exact same heavy paper that had tumbled out of his jacket days ago. The same sharp, slanted handwriting.

*Room 1408. Don't be late. — S.*

I stopped breathing. I stood frozen on the bedroom rug. I stared at the dark ink until the numbers blurred together. My pulse hammered a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. A weird buzzing noise filled my ears, drowning out the distant hum of the refrigerator.

I read the words again. The message didn't change.

I marched down the hall.

Julian leaned against the granite counter, scrolling through his phone.

"Explain this," I said.

I shoved the paper right under his nose. I watched his eyes track the ink. I waited for the flinch. I waited for the half-second delay.

He barely even blinked.

"That?" He grabbed the note from my fingers. "That's from the location scout."

"A location scout named S?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

"Sarah," he answered without missing a beat. "She handles the room blocks."

"And Sarah leaves handwritten notes in your bags?"

"She handed it to me on set, Wren. I shoved it in there." He crumpled the thick paper into a tight ball. "Half the crew is staying at that hotel."

He tossed it toward the trash can. It went right in.

"The note says 'don't be late'," I pointed out.

"To the morning briefing," he shot back, his tone dipping into annoyance. "We have a twenty-person crew meeting at dawn."

He leaned forward, planting both hands on the granite counter.

"You're being weird, babe."

The accusation hit me right in the chest. It stung worse than a slap.

"Okay," I said.

I swallowed the rest of my questions. Fighting meant digging my hands into a wound I wasn't ready to open. Pushing him meant forcing a confession I didn't want to hear.

"I'll finish packing your bag," I muttered, turning my back on him.

***

The front door clicked shut at 3:30 AM.

Julian was gone.

I sat alone at the kitchen table. The glow of my laptop illuminated the dark room. My hands were freezing. My jaw ached from clenching it all night.

"Let's see," I whispered to the empty apartment.

I pulled up my own production schedule. My off-Broadway show was currently filming promotional spots just three blocks from his scheduled hotel.

I opened my email. I typed *hotel confirmation* into the search bar.

"Come on," I muttered, tapping the trackpad.

An old receipt popped up. Three months ago, Julian had booked a surprise anniversary trip. He canceled it when a sudden reshoot hit his schedule.

Or so he claimed.

I clicked the original booking link. The webpage loaded.

*Status: Active.*

The room had never been refunded. It was still sitting there, reserved under my name.

I stared at the glowing green letters. I checked my recent messages with him on my phone.

*Me: Miss you.*

*Him: Crazy busy today. Call you later.*

That was four days ago. The constant stream of morning texts had completely dried up.

The last shred of naive hope fractured inside my chest, replaced by a cold, sharp resolve.

"Fine," I said softly. "Let's just see."

I picked up my phone. I opened the clock app. I set an alarm for 6:00 AM.

Tomorrow morning, I was going to Room 1408.