Celebrity

The airport roared. Announcements crackled overhead. Wheels clattered on tile. People pushed, dragged suitcases, argued at check-in counters. Chloe parked Daisy’s borrowed car in short-term and posted up by the Arrivals doors. She checked her phone. 10:28. Flight LS-446 from Heathrow: Landed. A stampede of girls rushed past her, squealing, nearly taking her out. Posters, phones, light sticks. The air filled with perfume and excitement. “Blaze! Blaze! Over here!” Chloe stumbled, caught herself on a pillar. Dusting off her dress, the memory hit her hard. This used to be her. Cameras flashing. Fans chanting her name when she touched down from a shoot in Morocco, in Tokyo. Security forming a wall while she signed hats, napkins, phone cases. Daisy yelling, “One minute, ladies, she’s tired!” Now she was just… Mrs. Reigns. Clause 4: _Party B shall relinquish her career and all professional titles._ She swallowed. When would she reclaim her lost glory? _If_ she ever could. She sighed, watching the mob. “Whoever came back must be huge. Probably a male idol, with that many fangirls.” Then she saw it. Two high school girls held a glittery sign: *WELCOME HOME BLAZE REIGNS ♡* Chloe froze. Then smacked her palm to her forehead. “Stupid, stupid Chloe.” She’d been so deep in dread about Liam, she hadn’t even asked the _name_ of who she was picking up. Thank heavens for fangirls. Blaze Reigns. Liam’s brother. It clicked. The award-winning actor based in London. BAFTA, Oscar nom. Face of a luxury watch brand. Boyfriend to half the city’s daughters. Rose never mentioned her fiancé had a famous brother. Then again, Rose never mentioned a lot of things. Chloe leaned against the hood of Daisy’s car, one hand under her chin, the other on her hip. She faced Arrivals, thinking. So that was Liam’s game? Make her chauffeur his celebrity brother? Clause 1: _Party B shall adhere to all directives given by Party A._ The noise swelled. Shutters fired like gunshots. Phones rose in a sea of arms. He was here. Chloe straightened, smoothed her bodycon dress, and shook out her chocolate-brown curls. She’d dressed nice “just in case of paparazzi.” Habit. Or armor. She wasn’t sure anymore. Time to introduce herself. Time to play the dutiful wife. --- Blaze Reigns knew the drill. White sneakers, black joggers, oversized tee with his own face on it — stylist’s idea of “off-duty.” Rolling carry-on. Six-hour flight from London. Jet lag chewing at his bones. He was used to this. The screaming. The reaching hands. The way his name turned into a chant. He flashed them the smile — the one that sold magazines and broke hearts. Dimples. Teeth. Practiced charm. “Blaze! I love you!” “Sign my poster, please!” “Blaze, look here!” His phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, wedging between two girls to answer. “Yo, Richie. Nice hearing from you again, man.” Richard. Liam’s secretary. Liam’s shadow. Liam’s _everything_. “Nice hearing from you too, Mr. Reigns. A pickup is waiting for you outside Arrivals.” Blaze stopped walking. The crowd pressed closer. “Wait. Liam sent someone? After ghosting me for three years? He remembers he has a brother now?” “Yes, sir.” A laugh burst out of him, sharp and disbelieving. “Woah. That’s… nice of him.” He hung up and picked up his pace, dragging his suitcase faster. Home. Finally. Maybe Liam was ready to talk. Maybe— “Blaze, just one signature!” “Blaze, I named my cat after you!” The circle tightened. Pens thrust at him. He signed three, then five, then ten. His arm ached. His head pounded. _This is the downside of fame,_ he thought. _No managers, no security, because I wanted to “travel light” like an idiot._ He was seconds from collapsing. From telling them all to back off, fame be damned. --- Chloe saw it before it happened. The silhouette first — tall, broad, moving through the crowd like a man underwater. Then the face. D*mn. Blaze Reigns was sin in sneakers. Sharp jaw, messy dark hair, dimples when he smiled for the cameras. His body was lean, built for magazine covers. But not Liam. Her traitorous brain supplied it before she could stop: Liam was bigger. Broader shoulders. Cut abs she’d felt under her palms last night when he— _No._ She shut that down. Blaze looked wrecked. That face — she knew that face. She’d worn it. After 14-hour shoots. After red-eyes from LA to Seoul. When your body screamed for a shower and bed, but your fans screamed louder for you. Normally, her manager would step in. Daisy would bark, “She’s done!” and drag her away. Blaze had no one. He signed another poster, his smile fraying at the edges. He was going to drop. Right here. In front of TMZ and TikTok and his rabid fanbase. And it wouldn’t be good. For him. For the Reigns name. For _her_, because clause 7: _Party B shall remain out of public view._ An idea sparked. Dangerous. Stupid. But Chloe Adams had never been good at standing still. She straightened her dress — emerald, hugging every curve Liam now owned — and tossed her curls over her shoulder. Thank God she’d picked glam over grief this morning. Time to rescue a Reigns. And maybe, just maybe, use him to save herself.