Todos os capítulos de Breaking The Spotlight: Capítulo 121 - Capítulo 130

The Beverly Grand Ballroom glittered like a cathedral to power. Golden chandeliers cascaded down like frozen fireworks, velvet drapes soaked in light, and tables filled with Hollywood’s most formidable names, studio heads, CEOs, powerhouse producers, journalists, and the women who had clawed, bled, and fought for every inch of their place in this world.Tonight wasn’t about premieres or awards. It wasn’t about glamour for glamour’s sake. Tonight was about power, who held it, who controlled it, and who dared to redefine it.At the heart of it, on the stage where history often stumbled into performance, Celeste Laurent was about to speak.She hadn’t been asked to sit on a panel. Not to offer a polite anecdote or a brief comment. No, the committee had chosen her, the actress who had survived the smears, the woman branded a “replacement,” the scandal magnet turned industry disruptor, to deliver the keynote address.Everyone knew it wasn’t just an invitation. It was a challenge.Backstage,

About two days later, they were settled on the couch of their beach home, Damien had just gotten off the phone and poured them each a glass of wine, Celeste was curled into the corner of the couch, her fingers pressed to her temple.“Headache again?” Damien’s voice was low, cautious.She nodded, forcing a small smile. “It’s just the adrenaline crashing. I’ll be fine.”But he didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered on the untouched wine glass in her hand, and then shifted to the way she seemed smaller somehow, folded in on herself. Damien Sinclair had built empires by noticing the smallest cracks before anyone else did, and he was noticing something now.He sat beside her, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. “You’ve been off the last two days. Dizzy spells, skipping meals, sleeping at odd hours, and now...” he glanced at the glass she hadn’t lifted, "the wine doesn’t even tempt you. Talk to me, Celeste.”Her throat tightened. She had been trying to brush it off, to chalk it up to

The night air was crisp along the Beverly Hills boulevard, and the flashing lights of cameras turned the street into a river of molten stars. Velvet ropes delineated the sacred walkway of the Red Carpet Gala, a yearly convergence of Hollywood’s most powerful, ambitious, and storied figures. This year, though, there was a quiet undercurrent, an energy that suggested a shift, a passing of momentum, even as old kings and queens held their thrones.Celeste Laurent adjusted the sleek folds of her white gown, its subtle shimmer catching the flashes without screaming for attention. She didn’t need to. Every step she took exuded authority, confidence, and a quiet assurance she had earned through years of battles, public and private. Damien Sinclair, always at her side, exuded a calm strength in his tailored black suit. He was the eye in the storm of glitter, the anchor Celeste relied on without question.“I still can’t believe anyone would try to challenge you here,” Damien murmured, scanning

The roar of applause still hung in the rafters like smoke.Adrian Cross remained at the edge of the wings, arms folded, watching as Luna Reyes walked offstage, breathless and trembling. Her sequined gown shimmered under the dim backstage lights, but the bravado of the costume had given way to something far more human, shoulders shaking, eyes wet, chest heaving as though she’d just sprinted through fire.She had faltered, yes. She had missed lines, faltered on pitch, stumbled in a way the world would dissect mercilessly by morning. But then, God, then she had clawed her way back. Her voice had broken open into something raw, something alive. The last chorus still echoed in his bones.She hadn’t just finished the song. She had survived it. Owned it.Most people in that ballroom would remember her stumbles. Adrian would remember the fire.He stayed in the shadows as her handlers swarmed, stylists dabbing at her cheeks, managers whispering crisis strategies, an assistant pressing a water

Luna sat at the edge of the couch, her sequined gown from last night discarded in favor of something softer, a simple silk robe clinging lightly to her frame. Her hands trembled slightly as she scrolled through the latest headlines, though she had long since stopped reading. They all said the same thing: broken, unstable, past her prime.The words pressed down on her like weights she could neither shrug off nor ignore. She had clawed her way back last night, she had reclaimed the song, the stage, the moment, and still, the world wanted to reduce her to a hashtag.“You shouldn’t do this to yourself,” came Adrian’s voice from the doorway, calm, precise, unwavering.Luna looked up, meeting his eyes, and for a moment the tumult outside didn’t exist. He was leaning against the frame, one hand tucked casually into his trouser pocket, the other brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The contrast between him and the storm of her life was jarring. He was composed, untouchable, a man who