The Billionaire’s Star

Olivia's POV "And... cut! That is a wrap on Forever After! Brilliant work, everyone!" The director’s voice boomed through the speakers. I stood on the altar of the faux-cathedral, my hand still tucked into the crook of my co-star’s elbow. The lace of the vintage designer gown was itching the skin off my collarbones. Fake rose petals drifted down from the rafters, sticking to my lip gloss. "You okay, Liv?" Liam, my on-screen groom, whispered. He smelled like peppermint and desperation. "I’m spectacular," I said, flashing the million-watt smile that had funded my parents' early retirement. I let go of his arm and turned away before he could see my eyes twitch. My phone was vibrating against my thigh, tucked into a hidden pocket in the tulle. I already knew what it was. Or rather, what it wasn't. It wasn't an apology from Justin. It was just another notification from the universe reminding me that after seven years, I had been traded in for a twenty-two-year-old yoga instructor named

Olivia's POV I stood in the foyer of my penthouse, still wearing Gabriel’s oversized white shirt under my leather jacket. The air felt stale, carrying the scent of expensive lilies and the lingering trace of Justin’s sandalwood candles that I hadn’t thrown away yet. Gracie was sitting on my white velvet sofa. She didn’t look up from her tablet when the door clicked shut. Her heels were already kicked off, and a half-empty espresso cup sat on the marble coffee table. "You’re four hours late for the wardrobe fitting," Gracie said. She finally looked up, her eyes scanning me from my messy hair down to my bare legs. Her gaze stopped on the men's shirt. She stood up slowly. "Where have you been? And whose shirt is that?" I dropped my keys on the console table and walked toward the kitchen. My head was still thudding, a dull rhythm behind my eyes. "I stayed at a friend's house." "You don't have friends who wear bespoke cotton and stay out of the tabloids, Olivia," Gracie said, following

Olivia's POV The following week was a blur of strategically leaked "candid" shots and frantic phone calls from my label. Gabriel was a man of his word, which meant he was a man of very few words and very high expectations. He had dictated the terms of our first public appearance like he was brokering a peace treaty. No club. No tequila. Just a "quiet" dinner at a restaurant so exclusive it didn't even have a sign on the door. I sat in the back of his town car, smoothing the skirt of my dress. It was silk, the color of a bruised plum, and clung to every curve. I had traded the leather jacket for a tailored cashmere coat. I looked like a woman who knew the difference between a salad fork and a fish fork, even if I usually used neither. Gabriel sat next to me, his laptop open on his knees. He hadn't looked at me since I climbed in. "You know, usually when a man picks up a woman for a date, he tells her she looks nice," I said, leaning over to peek at his screen. "Or at least acknowl

Olivia's POV I woke up to forty-three texts from my publicist and a very formal email from someone named “Margot Blanchet, Personal Assistant to Mr. Gabriel Moreau.” Before I could open it, my phone kept vibrating. The first text was from Sasha.Sasha: Livvie. You and Gabriel Moreau??? Please tell me this is real. I need details and emotional support snacks. The second was from Pedro.Pedro: Remember when you said you wanted a challenge? Congratulations. You picked the final boss. Jolie Seraphine is trending and I regret every warning I ever gave you. I scrolled, waiting for one more name to pop up. Nothing. Of course. Brittany wasn’t a morning person. She never was. Then I finally opened the email. It was three sentences long. "Miss Rayne, a selection of appropriate gala attire will arrive at 2 PM. Please be ready for hair and makeup at 4 PM. Mr. Moreau will collect you at 6:30 PM sharp." I read it three times, looking for a single word that wasn't dipped in frost. There was

Olivia's POV I was on my third glass of champagne when Marguerite appeared beside me. She hoisted herself onto the barstool with surprising agility for someone her age, waving away the bartender's attempt to help. "That woman is a leech," she announced. I didn't have to ask who she meant. I could still see Gabriel and Jolie on the dance floor, her hand on his chest, his face carved from stone. "She's known him longer than I have," I said. The champagne was making my words looser than I wanted. "She has history." "History is just another word for baggage that should have been thrown out years ago," Marguerite said. She snapped her fingers at the bartender. "Cognac. The 1952. Do not pretend you do not have it." The bartender's eyes widened. He disappeared into the back room. Marguerite turned to me, her sharp eyes scanning my face. "You are upset." "I'm fine." "You are a terrible liar. For an actress, that is concerning." I let out a breath that was half laugh, half something