1

The glare of the vanity lights always gave me a headache by hour fourteen, but I didn't let it show. I stood just outside the frame of the cameras, a clipboard pressed against my ribs, watching the monitor as the director called action for the fifth time that evening.

On screen, Sean McGregor looked flawless. The camera loved the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw, the intense, brooding depth of his dark eyes, and the effortless way he commanded a room. 

At thirty years old, he was Hollywood royalty, a billionaire twice over from his production company, and a man adored by millions.

To the world, he was an untouchable icon. To me, he was the man who forgot to eat unless I placed a protein bar directly into his hand, the man whose schedules I had orchestrated down to the minute for the last five years.

For five years, I was the invisible force behind Sean McGregor.

I scheduled his life. I anticipated his needs before he even knew he had them. And, in the quiet, treacherous corners of my own heart, I loved him. 

It was a hopeless, unrequited thing, a secret I guarded more fiercely than his private phone number. I had never expected him to look my way. Not when he was a happily married man, and certainly not now.

"Cut! Print that. Great job, everyone," the director’s voice boomed over the speakers.

The heavy tension on the soundstage evaporated instantly. Makeup artists and hair stylists swarmed Sean the second he stepped off the mark, but his eyes swept over the crowd, searching. 

When his gaze locked onto mine, he gave a curt nod, dismissive of the crew around him, and began walking straight toward me.

My heart did that familiar, foolish stutter it always did, even after half a decade.

"The car is waiting in the back, Sean," I said smoothly as he approached, falling into step half a pace behind him as we navigated the maze of wires and set pieces. 

"You have a 7:00 AM call for wardrobe tomorrow, and the legal briefs from the studio’s acquisition are already on your tablet."

"Cancel the wardrobe call. Push it to nine," Sean muttered, his voice rough with exhaustion. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and for a fleeting second, the immaculate superstar facade slipped, revealing the hollow, shadowed valleys under his eyes.

He hadn't slept a full night in eight months. None of us had.

Eight months ago, a tragic car accident had shattered Sean’s perfect world, claiming the life of his wife, Valerie. 

Sean had survived, but the wreckage had left a permanent scar on his life, specifically in the form of his four-year-old son, Leo. Leo had been in the backseat. 

He had survived the physical crash, but the trauma had stolen his voice, leaving him completely mute and terrified of the world.

"I can't push it to nine, Sean," I replied gently, keeping my tone strictly professional despite the ache in my chest at the sight of his exhaustion. 

"If we push wardrobe, the entire shooting schedule collapses, and the director will lose his mind. I did, however, have the chef prepare that chamomile and valerian root blend you liked last week. It’s in your thermos."

Sean stopped abruptly in the dim corridor leading to the dressing rooms. He turned to face me, towering over me, his scent, something sharp, expensive, and distinctly him, wrapping around my senses.

He looked down at me, his dark eyes intense, scanning my face with a strange, heavy scrutiny that made my breath hitch. 

For years, his gaze had passed over me like I was a highly efficient piece of machinery. But tonight, there was a calculated, deliberate weight to the way he was looking at me.

"You always know exactly what's needed, Lyka," he said, his voice dropping an octave. It wasn't a compliment; it sounded like an observation. Like a man suddenly realizing a tool he owned was capable of doing a different job.

"It's what you pay me for," I managed to say, offering a polite, practiced assistant’s smile to mask the sudden racing of my pulse.

"No," Sean said softly, stepping closer, his shadow completely enveloping me in the quiet hallway. 

"I pay you to manage my life. But right now, my life is falling apart, and Leo is the one paying the price." He paused, his jaw tightening as he made a decision that would change everything. 

"Come back to the estate with me tonight. We need to talk about a new arrangement. A permanent one."

I stared at him, my throat suddenly dry. He wasn't looking at me as a man looks at a woman he desires. There was no romance in his eyes. There was only a desperate, calculating father looking for a lifeline.

I gripped my clipboard a little tighter, papers rustling against my tablet, balancing his favorite travel mug in my other hand as I frowned up at him. "What is this all about? Are you firing me?"

He stopped, his dark eyes sweeping over me, really looking at me for the first time in what felt like months. Then, he let out a low, nonchalant chuckle. "Do you think I’d survive a day without you doing everything?"

"Don't underestimate your brooding attitude, Sean. You'd survive without me for sure," I countered, falling into step as we made our way toward his massive, luxurious RV parked in the secure lot. "So you aren't firing me? Because you look incredibly serious."

I knew this man from head to toe. I knew the subtle twitch of his jaw when he was stressed, the slight crease between his brows when he was thinking, and the exact tone of his voice when he was genuinely worried versus when he was just trying to mess with me. 

Five years of being his personal assistant had made him so readable that I sometimes joked to myself that I had developed the psychic ability to read his mind.

He didn't fire back with his usual dry wit. Instead, he just sighed heavily and looked down at his phone screen. I caught a glimpse of his wallpaper, a candid photo of Leo, his bright eyes now replaced by a haunted, vacant stare.

"It's Leo," Sean said, his voice cracking slightly under a weight no billionaire’s fortune could lighten. 

"I don't know what is going on anymore, Lyka. I've tried everything. He won't listen to me. He won't listen to his tutors, or the child psychologists. I'm trying my best. Where did I go wrong?"