Se connecterThree years ago, Roman Reed was the boy I would have died for. Then he broke my heart and disappeared, leaving me to piece my life back together while I climbed to Hollywood stardom. Now I am the nation's rising star, and my mother has finally found her happy ending with a tech billionaire. But when I walk into our new Malibu estate, the man standing there is not a stranger. It is Roman. My ex-lover. My new stepbrother. At Northcrest, he is the Blacklisted King. Cold, ruthless, and feared. He hates my fame, he hates my face, and he tells me to stay out of his sight. But under the same roof, the air between us changes. He watches me from the shadows. He judges my red-carpet gowns with a dark possessiveness that feels like a threat. He warns me, "Do not start something you cannot finish, Scarlett." The paparazzi wait for me to slip. My parents watch our every move. As the hate begins to melt back into the fire that once burned us, the biggest scandal is not my past. It is the man I am living with.
Voir plusRoman didn’t take me to a hotel. He didn’t even take me to a place with windows. He led me down a set of rusted metal stairs behind a dumpster in an alleyway I didn't recognize. My designer shoes were clicking against the concrete, and the smell of damp earth and old oil was making my nose wrinkle."Roman, what is this? I’m not sleeping in a basement," I said, my voice echoing in the narrow stairwell."It’s not a basement. It’s a lead-lined storage vault," he said, not even looking back at me. He was carrying the duffel bag like it weighed nothing. "Signal can't get in. Signal can't get out. No drones, no eyes. It's just us."He kicked open a heavy steel door, and a single flickering light bulb hummed to life. The room was tiny—barely bigger than the walk-in closet in my old apartment. There was a cot in the corner with a thin gray blanket, a stack of crates, and a single chair. It was cramped. It was suffocating.And the second he shut the door, the silence hit me like a physical wei
Three Years AgoThe air in Roman’s room was thick with the smell of rain and that woodsy cologne he always wore. We were supposed to be finishing our history project, but the textbooks were currently face-down on the floor, forgotten.I was pinned under him on the duvet, my face aching from laughing so hard."Stop! Roman, I’m serious, I’m going to pee!" I gasped, twisting my hips to get away from his hands. He was relentless, his fingers digging into my ribs in that one spot he knew I couldn't handle."Say it," he grinned, his hair messy and falling into his eyes. "Say my car is faster. I’m not stopping until you admit you almost stalled at the light.""I did not stall! The light was yellow!" I shrieked, finally catching his wrists and pinning them to the mattress.He stopped, but he didn't pull away. The laughter died out, replaced by a sudden, heavy heat that made my heart hammer against my ribs. He looked down at me, his gaze dropping to my mouth, and for a second, the rest of the
The rain wasn't just falling; it was hammering against the windshield of Roman’s SUV like it was trying to break in. The second we cleared the Northcrest gates, I expected him to head toward the coast, back to the mansion. Instead, he yanked the wheel the other way, pointing us toward the messy, neon glow of downtown LA."Roman, where are we going?" I asked, my voice tight. I was gripping the door handle so hard my fingers were starting to go numb. "My mom’s going to freak out if I’m not back for dinner. Marcus already has that PR guy coming over to scrub my reputation.""Let them freak out," he muttered. He wasn't even looking at me. He had this look on his face—this quiet, focused kind of anger that was way scarier than when he was actually yelling. "You aren't going back there, Scarlett. Think about it. If there were cameras in the theater and the fitting room, you really think your bedroom is safe? Every move you make is probably being watched by some creep."I felt a wave of naus
The high of walking away with Zane Miller lasted exactly forty-two minutes. It died the second I reached my locker in the junior wing of Northcrest Academy.I was still smiling at a joke Zane had made—something about the school cafeteria’s "organic, hand-picked kale" being a front for a money-laundering scheme—when I twisted the combination lock. The metallic click echoed in the hallway, which was starting to thin out as students headed to their elective blocks. I pulled the heavy locker door open, expecting to find my history textbook and perhaps a stray script for my upcoming table read.Instead, a single slip of glossy paper fluttered out from the vents of the locker door, dancing through the air before landing face-down on the linoleum.I reached down, my brow furrowing. I expected a flyer for the winter formal or maybe a handwritten note from a fan—the kind of thing my manager, Chloe, usually intercepted before it reached my hands. But Chloe wasn't here. I was alone in a hallway












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