บททั้งหมดของ Breaking The Spotlight: บทที่ 81 - บทที่ 90

The noise hadn’t gone anywhere, it just changed shape. Now it echoed in the rustle of fabric, the murmur of press lines, the rhythmic snapping of camera shutters. It shimmered off the polished marble entrance of the Avalon Theater, rolled down the velvet carpet in bright waves, and coiled around every corner of the night like smoke.Celeste stepped out of the black car, her heels sinking briefly into the plush scarlet. The crowd’s low hum swelled. For a second, she paused, letting it all come into focus, the lights, the voices, the gold-lettered banners announcing The International Artists Guild Awards.She’d been here before, but never like this. This time, she wasn’t nominated for the hottest breakout, or the most bankable star. She wasn’t here to sell a brand, a studio, or a version of herself designed for mass appeal.This time, she was here because they couldn’t look away. Not because of the scandals, but because of the survival. Because she’d stood back up, dusted off the wrecka

The world, of course, didn’t stay quiet for long.By the time Celeste and Damien returned from the villa, sun-kissed and calmer than they’d been in years, the headlines had already begun to shift. What once read like scandal and survival now dripped with fascination and carefully angled awe.FROM TARNISHED STARLET TO TRIUMPHANT ICON: CELESTE LAURENT REDEFINES THE SPOTLIGHT.DAMIEN SINCLAIR & CELESTE LAURENT: THE REBUILDING OF HOLLYWOOD ROYALTY.INSIDE THE COMEBACK LOVE STORY THAT HAS EVERYONE TALKING.Celeste scrolled through them half-amused, half-exhausted. She sat curled sideways on the living room sofa, hair still damp from her shower, her phone glowing against her knee as the late afternoon sun streamed through the penthouse windows.Damien sat across from her at the low marble coffee table, sleeves rolled, glasses perched low on his nose as he skimmed an email on his tablet. A fresh stack of manila envelopes, scripts, proposals, god knows what else, sat untouched beside him.“Li

The villa’s sunroom smelled faintly of old books and fresh citrus. Celeste sat cross-legged on the low couch, a loose linen wrap knotted at her waist, hair pulled back with a clip that kept slipping free. The breeze rustled the sheer curtains behind her as she flipped through the second draft of Still Life.Across from her, Mara Lorusso, aged twenty-eight year old, hair pinned up messily with a pen, sleeves rolled to the elbows of a faded linen shirt, watched her like she might flinch at any second. She’d flown in from Rome that morning, half breathless, still clutching her laptop like armor.“You wrote this whole thing in three weeks?” Celeste asked, flipping a page with a fingertip.Mara’s voice was soft but quick. “Yes. Well. The first bones of it. I had the idea for a year, but… the voice only came after I saw your old interview. The one you did for The Artist’s Table.”Celeste frowned. “That was seven years ago.”“I know,” Mara said, eyes shining. “You said something about truth

Morning broke soft and gold over the villa. Celeste woke to find Damien’s arm draped across her hip, his breath steady against her shoulder. For a moment she just lay there, listening to the cicadas, the muted sound of the sea brushing the cliffs below.She shifted carefully, turning enough to watch him sleep, the tiny lines at the corner of his eyes, the faint stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave off because, for once, they hadn’t needed to look perfect for anyone.When he stirred, eyes blinking open, he found her smiling down at him.“What?” he rasped, voice hoarse with sleep.“You snore,” she lied.He huffed a soft laugh and pulled her closer, burying his face against her neck. “Liar.”She slipped out of bed not long after, wrapping herself in one of his old shirts, the tiny flame-shaped pendant resting warm against her collarbone. In the bathroom mirror, she caught the shape of it, a reminder, a promise to herself more than anything else.Outside, the courtyard was already alive wi

They stayed in the kitchen long after the tea went cold. The letter sat between them on the marble island, edges smoothed and re-smoothed under Celeste’s fingers until the paper looked worn in the way secrets always did.Damien stood across from her, sleeves pushed up, eyes steady, no businessman’s armor now, just the man who’d watched her break and rebuild too many times to count.Celeste pushed her mug away, leaned her elbows on the counter, and let out a breath. “You know what bothers me most? That Lila thought she had to disappear to be safe.”Damien’s brow creased, but he didn’t interrupt.She pressed on, voice low but gaining its edge. “I keep thinking about all the ones who never even wrote the letter. How many are out there, carrying it like it’s their shame. Ghosts in this business. I can’t stand it.”“You won’t let it stand,” he said. Not a question, a quiet certainty.She looked at him the same way she had the first time she’d trusted him with the ugliest parts of her story