THE FORBIDDEN SPOTLIGHT: Bad Idea, Great Kisses

Daniel's house is nestled at the end of a quiet -cul-de-sac, surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns and tall trees that sway gently in the evening breeze. It's the kind of house that stands out, not just because of its size but because of the unique traditional design that seems out of place for a modern city like Brooklyn. Floor-to-ceiling windows gleam under the last rays of daylight, reflecting the carefully landscaped garden that his mother takes so much pride in caring for. A winding driveway leads to a sleek dark front door that opens into a spacious entryway. Beautiful sight. Quiet. Hushed. Ideal for a cynical and distrustful journalist in Brooklyn City with no need for friends, overbearing neighbours and extended families.

His mum, Sarah Reyes just barely survived an accident, leaving him broke and penniless. Guess life matters more, after all. “Everything will eventually fall in place at the right time.”He keeps affirming these words of inspiration in his heart.

A heavy rain swelled the Brooklyn neighbourhood, known for a low temperature of about 67-68oF; the clouds were always heavy, ready to pour down their content on the already damped neighbourhood.

The ding of his phone was almost drowned out by the rain battering his apartment window, a relentless downpour that had been going on since midnight. Daniel Reyes barely glanced up from his laptop, fingers still hammering out the last lines of his latest article—another savaging takedown of some notorious band that thought they were the next big thing. The screen's blue glow was the only light in the cramped Park Slope studio, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and the lingering ghost of cigarette smoke despite him quitting six months ago. His third attempt.  

Then his phone buzzed again.  

And again.  

With a grunt, he snatched it up, thumb-swiping open the latest notification. The cracked screen distorted the image slightly, but there was no mistaking what he was seeing.  

**Unknown Number.**  

Attached was a single image that made his pulse stutter.  

It was Luca Moretti.  

Oscar-winning, golden-boy, Hollywood's-own-darling Luca Moretti.  

And he wasn't alone.  

The photo was grainy, taken from a bad angle in what looked like a hotel hallway, but there was no mistaking it—Luca, his back pressed against the wall, his fingers tangled in the collar of another man's shirt. Their faces were inches apart. Luca's lips were parted, his expression something raw and unguarded, nothing like the polished charm he wore in interviews.

 The timestamp in the corner read  12th June at 3:14 AM. Last night.  

The text beneath it was simple:  

“You're welcome.”

Daniel's pulse kicked hard against his ribs. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. He felt an unfamiliar flattering in his stomach, a dull ache of disbelief blooming in his chest

“Who is this?”

The reply came instantly.  

“ Doesn't matter. What matters is that The Brooklyn Independent just got its biggest scoop of the year”.

A bitter taste filled Daniel's mouth. He knew exactly what this was—leverage. The kind that could make or break careers. The kind that had broken his relationship two years ago.  

His phone rang, the shrill tone cutting through the heavy silence of his apartment. Marisol's name flashed across the cracked screen.  

He exhaled through his nose before answering. "Reyes," he said, voice rough from too much coffee and not enough sleep.  

"Tell me you're not still in that shabby hoodie I told you to burn last month," came Marisol's voice, sharp as the heels she always wore into the office.  

Daniel glanced down at the aforementioned hoodie—threadbare, coffee-stained, and perfectly broken in. "It's not shabby," he muttered, rubbing at his temple where a headache was forming.  

"God, you're hopeless." A pause. "Check your email."  

Daniel didn't move.  

"Now, Reyes."  

With a sigh, he pulled up his inbox, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear. The newest message was from Marisol, marked urgent.  

Subject: URGENT – Luca Moretti profile

His stomach dropped. "No."  

"Yes," Marisol shot back. "His PR team wants full recompense and damage assessment after that incident at the awards show. They requested I get a competent journalist, one that can withstand the press and media pressure, so trust me, you came highly recommended”.

“What do they really want? “ Daniel asked, his eyes sparkling with intense curiosity.

 “They want a fluff piece. A drunken mistake narrative."  

Daniel's grip on the phone tightened. "I don't do fluff."  

"You do now."  

"Marisol—"  

"This is your in, Reyes," she cuts in, voice dropping to that tone that meant business. "You get the interview. You get the money. You get the truth. And then you bury him."  

Daniel's gaze flicked back to the photo still glowing on his screen. Luca's expression—unguarded, real—burned into his retinas.  

For a second, he was back in that shitty LA bar two years ago, watching his ex Sophia laugh into a reporter's mic, their private jokes turned into tabloid fodder.  

"Daniel? Oh, he's obsessed with me. He couldn't handle the spotlight that's why he broke up with me”.

The memory tasted like bile in his throat.  

"Reyes?" Marisol's voice snapped him back to the present.  

Daniel exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I'll think about it."  

He hung up before she could argue, tossing his phone onto the couch with more force than necessary.  

The rain outside grew louder, the wind rattling the loose windowpane in its frame. His apartment felt suddenly too small, the walls closing in.  

His phone buzzed again.  

“Well?’

Daniel stared at the photo, at the way Luca's fingers curled into the other man's shirt like he was afraid to let go.  

“What do you want?”  

The reply was instant.  

“ I want you to ruin him, his career, everything he stands for in Brooklyn.”

A humourless laugh escaped him. Of course. Everyone wanted something.

He locked his phone and set it facedown on the coffee table, but the image was already seared into his brain.

Outside, Brooklyn stretched out under the storm, dark and unrelenting. And in the dim light of his apartment, the ghost of Luca Moretti's secret stared back at him.  

“Celebrity PR are all cover-ups, true personalities buried in a mask with dark secrets.” He sighs.

“But who could be interested in ruining Brooklyn's dreamboat and hero, His foes or rather die-hard fans, so to say?”.So many thoughts ran through his mind. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and stands up from his comfortable reading nook, filled with stacks of books, newspapers and magazines. He switches off his light.

“What a hectic day it has been with a twist of an interesting night. Let's see how this goes.” He mutters to himself.