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 Sunshine. 

Sunshine... 

I wanted to set a forest on fire. 

"Liv, honey, we have the press line in twenty minutes." Gracie Cadwell, my manager, appeared out of the fog machine haze. She was holding a green juice in one hand and my schedule in the other. "Then the wrap party, then the flight to London for the album promo." 

"No," I said, unzipping the back of the dress myself. The heavy fabric slumped to my hips. 

Gracie blinked. "No? Olivia, we discussed this. The narrative is 'Stronger Than Ever.' We need you seen, smiling, and wearing the diamond necklace Justin gave you for your anniversary." 

"The necklace is in the garbage disposal, Gracie," I said, stepping out of the puddle of lace in my silk slip. "And I am not going to a wrap party to drink lukewarm champagne and talk to producers who breathe through their mouths. I’m going out." 

"Out? Where?" 

"To remind myself that I am Olivia Rayne," I snapped, grabbing a leather jacket from my chair. "And that I am very, very single." 

The club was called Obsidian. It was the kind of place where the air tasted like expensive perfume and poor decisions. I was tucked into a velvet booth in the VIP section, flanked by the three people I tolerated because they made me look even better by comparison. 

"He’s a loser, babe," Sasha Marquez said, tossing her hair. She was a socialite whose only talent was being photographed while holding a salad. "Justin’s career is going to tank without you. You were the only interesting thing about him." 

"Agreed," Pedro chimed in, adjusting his silk scarf. He hadn't looked up from his own reflection in his phone screen once. "He’s a mid-tier influencer at best. You’re a goddess." 

"Look at that guy," Brittany Vale said, pointing a manicured finger toward the bar. "The one in the flannel. He’s cute in a 'I live in a van' kind of way. Go reclaim your throne." 

I took a long, burning sip of my martini. "Too easy. I need a challenge. I need something that doesn’t look like it wants my autograph." 

The three of them went silent. Their eyes shifted toward a corner booth, far away from the pulsating strobe lights. 

"Not him," Sasha whispered, her voice dropping an octave. 

"Who?" I leaned forward, squinting through the gloom. 

"Gabriel Moreau," Pedro said. He actually put his phone down. "The wine magnate. His family owns half of France and all of Napa. He’s... well, he’s the Great Wall of China. Unbreakable. He doesn’t do bars. He doesn’t do scandals. He definitely doesn't do actresses." 

"He looks like he’s judging the air for not being high-quality enough," Brittany added. 

I looked. Gabriel was sitting alone, a glass of dark red liquid in front of him. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my first car. His hair was dark, his jawline looked like it had been carved out of granite, and his eyes were fixed on a tablet. Every few moments, he lifted his gaze to the door, scanning the room as if he were expecting someone. 

In a club full of half-naked people grinding to house music, he looked like he was presiding over a board meeting. 

"He’s perfect," I said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across my face. 

"Liv, don't," Sasha laughed. "He’ll eat you alive. He doesn't even look at women who aren't... you know, poised. Royal. Not messy." 

"Watch me," I said. 

I stood up, smoothed down my micro-mini skirt, and downed the rest of my martini. I walked toward him with the practiced sway of a woman who knew every eye in the room was a camera lens. 

I stopped at his table and leaned over, placing my palms on the mahogany. "You look like you're waiting for a funeral to start. Or a hostile takeover. Which one is it?" 

Gabriel didn't look up immediately. He finished reading a sentence, then slowly, agonizingly slowly, raised his gaze. His eyes were a deep, cool brown. He didn't look impressed. He didn't even look surprised. 

"I am working, Miss Rayne," he said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone. 

"You know who I am?" I tilted my head, letting a lock of blonde hair fall over my eye. "I’m flattered." 

"It is difficult not to know who you are when your face is on every billboard between here and the airport," Gabriel said. He tapped his tablet screen to turn it off. "And currently, you are obstructing my light." 

I blinked. I wasn't used to people telling me I was in the way. Usually, they were busy clearing the way for me. 

"I thought you might be lonely," I said, sliding into the booth across from him without an invitation. "I’m Olivia. But you knew that. And you’re Gabriel. You make wine. I drink wine. We have so much in common." 

"I make wine for people who appreciate the craft," Gabriel said, his expression completely neutral. "You look like someone who drinks it to forget where she parked her car." 

I gasped, a hand flying to my chest. "How dare you. I have a driver. I never forget where my car is." 

Gabriel stared at me. He didn't blink. He just watched me, his head tilted slightly. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a full smile, but it was a crack in the ice. 

"You are very loud," he noted. 

"And you are very quiet," I countered. "It’s a match made in heaven. Come on, Gabriel. Give me a smile. One tiny one. I just finished filming a wedding. I’ve been 'happy' for fourteen hours straight. I need someone to be miserable with me." 

"I am not miserable," Gabriel said, leaning back. "I am disciplined. There is a difference." 

"Discipline is just misery with a better wardrobe," I said. I reached out, my fingers hovering near his sleeve. "Come dance with me. Just one song. Break a rule. I promise it won't kill you." 

"No," Gabriel said. It was the polite kind of 'no' that felt like a slammed door. "I think you should go back to your friends, Miss Rayne. You’ve had enough to drink, and I have no desire to be the subject of a tabloid headline tomorrow morning." 

I felt the sting of it, the rejection. It was sharp and cold. I stood up, my face flushing. "Fine. Stay here with your tablet. I hope you two are very happy together." 

I marched back to my booth, but my friends were gone. Well, not gone, just occupied. Brittany was practically eating some guy’s face in the corner. Pedro was nowhere to be seen. Sasha was deep in conversation with a promoter. 

I felt a wave of sudden, crushing loneliness. I turned to the bar and ordered a double tequila. Then another. 

The room started to tilt. The music got louder, thumping against my ribs. I tried to find the exit, but the hallway felt like it was stretching. A hand suddenly clamped onto my arm. 

"Hey, beautiful," a voice rasped. A guy with greasy hair and a shirt unbuttoned too far was grinning at me. "You look like you need a friend. Or a ride." 

"I'm fine," I said, trying to pull away. My legs felt like jelly. "Let go." 

"Come on, don't be like that. I saw you over there with the suit. He didn't want you. I do." He pulled me closer, his breath smelling of cigarettes and cheap gin. He leaned in, his lips heading for my neck. 

"I said, get off!" I pushed at his chest, but he was heavy. 

Suddenly, the pressure on my arm vanished. There was a sickening thud and a sharp yelp. 

I stumbled back, blinking my blurred vision into focus. Gabriel Moreau was standing there. He had the guy by the collar of his shirt, his knuckles white. His face wasn't neutral anymore. It was terrifying. 

"The lady asked you to move," Gabriel said, his voice like sliding steel. He shoved the guy back so hard he hit a high-top table. 

Gabriel didn't look at him again. He turned to me, his eyes scanning my face. 

"You," he said, his voice dropping. "Are a disaster." 

“I’m a major award nominee,” I whispered, and then my stomach did a somersault. 

I grabbed the front of his expensive charcoal suit just as my knees gave out.