Tales From A Not-so-glam Tv Star Mga Nobela at Kwento

She smiles at the rancour she's causing in the world and she sighs happily and contentedly. But was she really content? But beneath the glitz and glamour, there was a darker side to Alicia’s rise to fame, obviously, all of the directors and producers that she had followed to hotels and motels to service their pleasures. It was a side she rarely wanted to acknowledge, even to herself, and obviously not to the world... not now that she's even a big star.

Her sister craved the attention like she craved a knife in her own trachea anytime they all got together. It wasn’t that she was jealous, she always knew they came from different worlds in personality. From day one, Theresa had gotten into beauty pageants and gymnastics with an enthusiasm that their parents couldn’t help but support. It was only natural she’d take ridiculously expensive acting classes and be in all the right places to meet all the in people littered throughout Hollywood California. Thanks to a diet of sparkling water, adderall, and a few occasional lettuce leaves, she’d maintained the perfect figure to slip into the modeling world. Her cascading waves of golden hair and infe

She turned the TV on immediately and the picture of Ryder hugging her last night at the front of her house was all she needed to see. Assumptions were finally everywhere and people were making reports on whatever they could. Some of the comments read that she refused to sign a deal with Glamour holdings because she was in a relationship with Ryder. Some said she cheated on Liam. For goodness's sake, she wasn't even married to the man. "What is this?" "It seems like someone has placed a tab on you. For all I know now, you might b a celebrity."

She felt steady on the sidewalk, and it was such a revelation she nearly laughed out loud. On her way home she ducked into a thrift store and bought a mug with a tiny chip on the rim, a glazed pot in deep green, and a rubber-banded stack of paperback mysteries. The whole thing cost less than a bottle of wine she’d once been told to appreciate. At the corner, a television in a storefront window replayed the segment again with a new addendum. The network had found a clip of Sloane stepping out of a car last night in a dress like liquid mercury. She smiled for the cameras, chin tilted, and the caption read: “Monroe Seen at Charity Gala Amid Divorce Rumors.”

Especially his love life. “I can stop them from flashing the lights in your face if you don’t want it.” He carefully selected his food, chewing with the same precision he brought to everything he did. “I do not fancy the attention too, but I just want to show you to the world.” Her eyes fell on the dress she donned. It wasn’t impressive enough to tell her story. She knew the media well. They would term her a gold digger. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Vale.”

Zara dressed in a blood-red power blazer and heels sharp enough to kill a rumor. They walked onto the studio set like a storm cloud with a perfect jawline. The host, Trina Gold, barely masked her excitement. “We’re here with Alec Blackwell and Zara Milli Lane—perhaps the most scandalous love story of the decade.” Zara smiled. “Scandalous is one word for it.” Trina leaned in. “Alec, you pretended to be broke. You worked in coffee shops, wore thrifted clothes, and let people call you ‘Lex.’ Why?”

PRESENT. “Welcome back to CelebTV, the home of the hottest and latest gossip in the world of famous faces!” The reporter exaggeratingly gasped for air as she covered her mouth and elbowed her blonde partner. “Have you heard about this, girl?” “What is it, girl?”

I was wearing a crimson, strapless cocktail dress for my first outfit, with matching thigh-high platform boots—the concept for this look, according to Mister Zagreb, was a ‘living ruby’. Though it was almost unheard of for me to throw a fit or have a shouting match with anybody, celebrity drama was nothing new for the staff since they have seen and heard much worse in all their years working in this line of business. I personally knew for a fact that the guy applying body glitter on my arms was the same guy who neatly dodged a jar of hair gel that had been thrown about by a certain actress when her husband sent her divorce papers during a shooting (yeah, I was there and I saw the whole thing

“Didn’t know I still had it. I started as a makeup stylist, you know.” He grabbed a smoke from the side table, lit it, and leaned back like he had all the time in the world. “I look pretty with this look,” I said, studying myself. “Indeed. I’m telling your stylist to recreate it for your interview—that talk show happening in three weeks.” “I can’t wait,” I whispered, smiling at my reflection in the mirror. We watched dumb videos until the ring light battery died. I then showered, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed.

While he enjoyed the champagne, he admired the sexiness and charm of the pretty faces. It was as if the competition of an event like this was no longer the extravagance of their clothes or the lavishness of their accessories but the scarcity of cloth on them and their revealing level. There was a female celebrity who used to act in a famous TV series and had countless fans. She was snugly covered up each time she landed at the airport, almost concealing even her nostrils, but there were simply many people who liked her.