บททั้งหมดของ Breaking The Spotlight: บทที่ 91 - บทที่ 100

Celeste paused at the threshold of Damien’s study, fingers brushing the frame. He didn’t see her at first, he was too focused on the screen, the soft glow lighting up the hard line of his jaw.She knocked lightly. “You’re hiding in here again.”Damien looked up, just a flicker of surprise before that easy smile slid into place. “I’m working.”“On what?” She stepped inside, barefoot on the warm wood floor. The city stretched behind him in a dusk haze, all gold edges and distant noise.“Just cleaning up some contracts,” he said, minimizing a window too quickly.Celeste raised a brow. “You haven’t touched my new scripts for two days. Did my manager quit already?”He leaned back, stretching his arms. “Never. You’re my highest maintenance client.” He let out a low chuckle.“Damien.” Her tone softened, but she didn’t look away. “What are you building?”He hesitated, which told her more than any answer. “It’s not finished. I wanted to surprise you.”Celeste crossed her arms. “Try me.”He stu

The email arrived in the soft hush of dawn, when the penthouse was still dim and LA’s chaos hadn’t yet clawed at the windows. Celeste sat on the edge of their bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering above the glowing subject line: INTERNATIONAL CINEMA GUILD — NOMINATION.Behind her, Damien stirred but didn’t wake. She could hear his even breathing, feel the warmth of him under the sheets, and for a moment, she almost didn’t open it. But curiosity, that old, half-buried reflex, won.She scanned the message twice before she let the phone drop to her knee.Best Lead Actress. An indie drama that had nearly died on the festival circuit, resurrected now by critics who suddenly remembered she could act when the scandal smoke cleared.A nomination for an award that once would have set her entire team buzzing, her phone blowing up with stylists, brand deals, photographers.She exhaled, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes until her vision danced with stars.Down the hall, she could hear the

They’d woken late, still tangled in the quiet aftermath of the dinner, the string lights from the terrace barely cool when dawn crept over the city. Celeste had drifted back to sleep after Damien slid out of bed to make coffee, this time not the programmable kind, but by hand, something ritualistic in the press and pour.When she finally wandered barefoot into the kitchen, the scent of dark roast and toasted bread met her first. Damien was at the counter, sleeves pushed up, phone tucked between shoulder and jaw, murmuring something in that even tone he reserved for early calls.She lingered in the doorway, just watching him: the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the clipped way he said "Understood" before ending the call. He placed the phone down face-first on the marble island and didn’t immediately look at her.She knew that look. The one he’d worn when headlines blindsided them. When Veronica’s claws were at their deepest. When survival meant fighting battles at breakfast.

The studio was colder than she expected, one of those glass-box sets they used for high-profile “special interviews,” polished within an inch of its life, but still smelling faintly of coffee, nerves, and old wiring.Celeste sat alone at first, the countdown clock blinking red in the corner, a quiet pulse in her periphery. Across from her, the single chair Arthur Fielding would occupy sat empty, its leather seat gleaming under the ring lights.She rested her hands on her knees, fingers smoothing the fabric of her pale silk blouse. Jade had picked it, something soft but serious, no statement pieces, no sharp shoulder pads, just Celeste, clean and unarmored.Damien stood behind the cameras, just outside the cone of lights. His arms folded, expression unreadable except for the subtle clench of his jaw every time a floor manager moved too close to her line of sight. He didn’t need to say it: One wrong word and I’ll burn this building down.The host, a seasoned journalist named Priya Anand

They didn’t book some cold hotel conference room for their first official meeting. Instead, they took over Marisol’s converted loft downtown, high ceilings, old brick walls, windows that let the late spring sun pour through like liquid gold.Celeste stood at the edge of the makeshift “war room”: a giant reclaimed wood table covered in legal pads, laptops, empty coffee cups. Damien, for once, wasn’t wearing his armor of suit and tie. He’d rolled his sleeves up, top buttons undone, leaning back in a battered chair that looked out of place under the skylight.Aisha had her hair piled high and was tapping at her phone between scribbles on a whiteboard. Quinn sat cross-legged on the floor with a legal pad, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. Marisol paced, barefoot, balancing a cup of espresso on her palm. It felt raw and real. Celeste loved it immediately.She leaned in, elbows braced on the table. “Okay, we know the pitch. We know the stakes. Where do we bleed first?”Quinn look