Chapter 1 : Say Cheese, Superstar!

Olivia's POV 

If one more person screamed my name, I was going to throw my mic straight into the crowd. 

“OLIVIAAAAA! I LOVE YOU!” someone yelled, waving banners and homemade signs. 

I forced a smile, waved, and tried not to roll my eyes. “Love you too,” I said into the mic, all teeth, no soul. Flashlights popped like fireworks, and I did what I’d been trained to do: pretend the world wasn’t crumbling behind the glitter. 

Seven years with Justin, gone. Just like that. 

“Okay, everyone, one last round of photos!” my manager, Grace Caldwell, chirped through her megaphone voice, the kind that could shatter glass and good moods. “Olivia, sweetheart, smile! We’ve got two more minutes before we head to set!” 

Sweetheart. 

Sure. 

I turned to the fans—sorry, Livers. That’s what they called themselves. Yeah, Livers, like the organ. Don’t ask who came up with it. My PR team said it meant “Olivia + believers.” 

I said it sounded like something you'd find in a biology textbook. Guess who lost that argument? 

“Okay, everyone!” I said, striking a pose. “Be good, don’t faint, and don’t start a war in my comments again, okay?” 

The crowd screamed harder. I kept smiling until my cheeks hurt, then turned around and let my face drop the second the camera lights went off. 

“Ugh,” I muttered under my breath, pulling off my in-ear. “If I hear my name one more time today, I’m legally changing it.” 

Grace was beside me in two seconds, clutching her tablet like her life depended on it. “You can’t, sweetheart. The name is the brand, and today’s the final wedding scene for Forever After. You need to get ready. We’re leaving for the set soon.” 

Right. Forever After. The film that ends with a perfect kiss, a white dress, and a happily ever after. How poetic, considering my own story had just gone up in flames an hour ago. 

Grace jabbed a finger at the tablet like she was directing a missile strike. “Okay, Olivia, let’s focus. Hair, makeup, costume fitting, everything needs to be perfect. You have a full hour, then we leave for the set.” 

I threw her a look that could melt diamonds, or shatter them. “Grace, you do realize I’m a human being, right? Not a hologram made for your obsessive spreadsheets?” 

“Human beings can smile on command, Olivia. Remember, you’re the face of the franchise, the star. The world is watching. And yes, I have timed spreadsheets for human smiles. Very efficient.” 

I groaned, letting myself sink into the chair like a deflated balloon. “Ah yes, spreadsheets for my facial expressions. Naturally. Because God forbid I have a real reaction when my boyfriend of seven years is gone. Poof. Just like that.” 

Grace waved a manicured hand. “Well, lucky for you, your personal life is not part of the script. Your job is to look fabulous, act like the love of the century, and kiss the ridiculously hot guy convincingly on camera.” 

I lifted a brow. “Oh, fantastic. So not only do I get dumped in real life, I also get paid to fake a happily ever after? This is like cruel, cinematic karma.” 

Grace clucked her tongue. “Don’t roll your eyes, Olivia. And speaking of karma, makeup is waiting. Now, up we go.” 

I trailed behind her, dragging my own feet like a zombie auditioning for a glam-rock band. “Seriously, Grace, if I end up fainting in the dress, just promise me you’ll catch me like a decent human being. Not like those paparazzi vultures outside.” 

Grace smirked, clearly savoring her control over my life. “Oh, I’ll catch you alright. But probably with a perfectly timed PixGram post. #FaintedButFabulous.” 

I groaned so loudly I almost startled the stylist. “Please tell me you’re joking.” 

“Never,” Grace said, completely deadpan. 

By the time I got to the hair and makeup room, my mood had settled somewhere between 'wounded cat' and 'exhausted supermodel who’s been emotionally betrayed by life itself.' 

The stylist, a hyper-efficient woman named Maia, clamped a curling iron in my hand. “You’re going for romantic elegance, Olivia. Think: ethereal, angelic… totally believable as the bride who’s about to be swept off her feet.” 

I gave her my best ‘are-you-insane’ stare. “Ethereal? Angelic? Maia, I just survived a breakup from hell. If my aura could scream ‘hot mess,’ it would be trending worldwide right now.” 

Maia didn’t flinch. “Perfect. We’ll capture that intensity and channel it into a tearful gaze. Trust me. The camera loves pain. It sells love better.” 

Grace peeked in at the doorway, smirking like she knew every humiliating thought I had. “See, Olivia? Look on the bright side. Your heartbreak is valuable content. The fans will eat it up. And speaking of fans, remember that the wedding scene is live-streamed for press coverage. Two million eyes watching. No pressure.” 

Two million. Eyes. Watching. My stomach did that weird, nauseating flip that only public humiliation can induce. 

“Grace, remind me again why I didn’t just run away and become a barista in some tiny town where no one knows me?” 

Grace gasped in mock horror. “Sacrilege! That is exactly why the script calls for a huge romantic climax. Olivia, honey, you’re meant to glow. And you will. Now, hold still while I fix that stray curl.” 

By the time Maia and her team were done, I barely recognized myself. Hair perfectly curled, makeup flawless, skin glowing like a filtered PixGram post, but inside I still felt like someone had left me in the rain without an umbrella. 

“Alright,” Grace said, flinging a clipboard into my hands. “Script for the scene. Read it, memorize it. And remember, don’t think about your real life. Only the character. Only the story.” 

I muttered under my breath, “Easier said than done when my entire real life is screaming at me from the back row.” 

Grace clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Now, dress. And remember, Olivia, fake it till you make it.” 

The dress was a pristine white marvel, layers of silk and lace that felt like wearing a cloud. Honestly, it should have made me feel like a princess. Instead, it made me feel like a mannequin in a tragic rom-com. 

As I struggled into it, my phone buzzed. I grabbed it, half expecting a text from Justin, some petty apology or half-hearted attempt to fix things. But it wasn't him. It was just notifications: work, fans, reminders I couldn’t ignore. 

I groaned. “Oh, come on. Universe, you really hate me, don’t you?” 

Grace swooped in, peeking over my shoulder like a hawk. “Everything okay?” 

I waved her off, my eyes still glued to the blank screen. “Yeah… just… nothing. He’s… not texting. And you know what that means this time, right? This isn’t one of our stupid fights. This… this might actually be it.” 

“Don’t start that spiral, sweetheart. Nothing from the past today. The world doesn’t care about your heartbreak; it wants your glow.” 

I tossed the phone onto the vanity, feeling the weight of it like a stone. “Fine. But if I end up crying on camera, it’s totally because my dress is emotionally manipulative. Not… you know… anything else.” 

Grace gave me a pointed look, but her voice softened. “Save the emotion for the scene, Olivia. And remember, kiss with conviction. Whatever you are feeling right now can help the performance. Just channel it. Two hours, and you are free from this hell.” 

I sighed, letting the words ‘free from this hell’ echo sarcastically in my head as we walked to the set. 

The crew buzzed around, cameras rolling, lights flashing. Everything was picture-perfect, polished, and impossible. 

And there he was, my scene partner, Damian Cole. Tall, easy smile, already in character. I acknowledged him with a small nod and stepped into character. 

“Places,” the director barked. “And… action!” 

I forced my shoulders back, chin up, and met Damian’s gaze. 

“Claire,” Damian said softly, the perfect line from the script. “I can’t imagine my life without you.” 

I smiled. Smiled, for real this time. The kind of smile that was supposed to melt hearts and sell tickets. 

The cameras rolled, the scene unfolded, and somewhere between the perfect scripted kiss and the lingering eye contact, I realized something terrifying: I was good at faking happily ever after. Too good. 

The director yelled, “Cut! That’s a wrap, everyone!” and just like that, the world shifted from scripted perfection to chaos. 

Applause erupted. People were clapping, hugging, high-fiving, the crew buzzing around like bees on espresso. 

I smiled, waved, said all the right words—“thank you, everyone, you’re amazing”—while my brain tried to catch up with my body. The cameras were finally off, but my performance wasn’t. 

Somewhere between the fake laughter and the sound of champagne popping, I noticed it. A change. A hush that didn’t belong in celebration. Voices dropped. Eyes darted toward me, then away. Phones lit up like fireflies. 

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Post-scene adrenaline, maybe. But then the weight in the room shifted, like the air itself knew something I didn’t. 

I turned, forcing a half-smile. “What?” 

No one answered. 

Then a production assistant, poor kid, probably twenty at most, walked up, clutching her tablet like it might explode. “Uh, Miss Rayne? You might… wanna check this.” 

“Check what?” My voice was flat. Too calm. The kind of calm that made Grace’s head snap up from across the room. 

The PA bit her lip. “It’s… trending.” 

My stomach dipped. “Trending what?” 

She hesitated, then finally turned the screen toward me. 

It was a photo. Crisp, perfect lighting. Justin, my Justin, hand-in-hand with some model whose name I didn’t even need to know to hate her. They were laughing, eyes locked like they’d just discovered the secret to eternal happiness. 

The caption read: 

New Couple Alert: Justin Harrington Moves On From Olivia Rayne. 

Everything in me went still. Like someone had hit pause on my entire existence. 

Grace’s heels clicked closer behind me. I didn’t turn. 

“Sweetheart,” she started gently. 

“Don’t,” I said. My voice barely a whisper, but it stopped her cold. 

For a second, the set noises blurred. Voices faded into a distant hum. My own world quietly tilted off its axis. 

“He didn’t even wait,” I murmured, still staring at the screen. “Seven years, and he didn’t even wait a week.” 

Grace exhaled softly. “Olivia, listen—” 

“No,” I said again, sharper this time. “Don’t try to spin it. Don’t tell me he’s confused or rebelling or whatever PR-friendly garbage you’ve got ready. He’s fine. Look at him.” 

I handed the tablet back, my hands steady even though my chest felt like it was caving in. 

Grace reached out like she might touch my arm, but I stepped back. “Just… don’t. Not right now.” 

“Olivia, please,” Grace tried again, quieter now, “you don’t have to do this alone.” 

I gave her a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “Grace, that’s literally all I’ve ever done.” 

Then I turned and walked. 

No yelling. No dramatic storm-out. Just quiet footsteps on the soundstage floor, the faint rustle of silk as I reached the dressing room. 

Inside, I peeled the dress off with all the enthusiasm of someone taking out the trash. The zipper snagged my hair and I almost laughed. Of course it did. 

The white fabric pooled at my feet, and I stood there for a second, staring at it. It was supposed to mean something. Love. Forever. Happy endings. 

It looked ridiculous now. 

I grabbed the nearest hoodie, pulled it over my head, and tied my hair into a messy knot. Jeans. Sneakers. Real clothes. 

My phone buzzed nonstop from the vanity table, notifications, articles, DMs, the world spinning without me. 

I picked it up, glanced at Justin’s face one last time, locked the screen, and shoved it into my pocket. 

Outside, the city air hit me like a bucket of cold water. Loud, imperfect, alive. And maybe that was the first real thing I’d felt all day.