The Ice Queen's Secret Superstar Husband

The Maybach left the bright lights of the city and began the steep climb up the dark, winding roads of the Hollywood Hills.

Katy stared at the iPad screen. The hashtag was gone. Completely erased from the trending list.

The tension holding her spine straight finally snapped. Her shoulders slumped. She let out a long, shaky exhale.

She tossed the iPad onto the front seat. She leaned her head back against the soft leather headrest and turned her face toward the window.

The dark trees blurred past the glass. Her own reflection stared back at her. She looked exhausted, but the panic was fading, replaced by a heavy wave of nostalgia.

Her mind drifted back ten years.

She wasn't Katy Riddle, the A-list actress, back then. She was just Katy, living in a suffocating, windowless basement apartment in the Valley.

She remembered the smell of damp concrete. She remembered sitting on a mattress on the floor, soaked from the rain, staring at a tiny, broken television screen.

Arther's first indie movie was playing.

She remembered watching his eyes on the screen. The raw, violent emotion he poured into the camera had reached through the glass and grabbed her by the throat. He was the only thing that made her feel alive in that dark room.

She remembered buying a used laptop. She remembered typing the name 'Chi-Chi' and sending her first tweet. She spent her days getting rejected at auditions and her nights fighting online battles to defend his name.

The Maybach swerved sharply.

Katy's head hit the window. She snapped out of her memories.

"Sorry, Miss Riddle," the driver called out. "We are approaching the French restaurant, but Isabella's yellow Porsche is parked out front."

Katy's stomach churned. She had zero energy to deal with Isabella's fake smiles and toxic insults tonight.

"Turn around," Katy ordered, knocking her knuckles against the glass partition. "Cancel the reservation."

Paige turned around in her seat. "You haven't eaten anything all day. Should I find another place?"

"No," Katy said. "Take me to the private club on Mulholland. The one with the underground garage."

The Maybach executed a sharp U-turn and sped in the opposite direction.

Katy pulled her burner phone out of her clutch. She logged into the Chi-Chi account.

Her direct messages were exploding. Hundreds of fans were sending her links to the deleted video.

Did you see her looking at him?!

Katy Riddle is totally trying to steal our man!

Chi-Chi, say something!

Katy stared at the glowing screen. A bitter, absurd laugh bubbled up in her throat.

She took a deep breath. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard. She drafted a tweet using Chi-Chi's aggressive, protective tone.

Katy Riddle is a plastic, talentless hack. She is trying to use Arther for clout. She doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as him. Stop spreading that garbage video.

She hit send.

She watched her own words appear on the timeline. Her chest ached. It felt like swallowing glass.

She knew exactly why she had clawed her way to the top of Hollywood. She did it so she wouldn't just be a faceless fan in the crowd. She did it so she could stand next to him as an equal.

The Maybach rolled down a steep ramp and parked in the dark, silent underground garage of the private club.

Katy put on a pair of oversized black sunglasses. She pushed the car door open and stepped out. Her heels clicked against the concrete as she walked toward the private elevator.

The metal doors slid shut, locking her inside the small metal box.

Katy leaned her back against the cold wall. She closed her eyes. Arther's dark, intense gaze from the hallway flashed in her mind.

She dug her thumbnail into her index finger.

She had to see him again. She couldn't stay away. She would go to the fan meet tomorrow.

The elevator chimed. The doors opened. Katy opened her eyes, her gaze sharp and determined, and walked out.