The heavy door of the black Maybach slammed shut. The noise of the paparazzi screaming her name outside was instantly cut off.

Katy kicked off her stilettos. They hit the floorboard with a dull thud. She collapsed against the soft leather seat.

She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers hard against her throbbing temples. Arther's voice echoed in her head. I thought you were a fan.

In the front passenger seat, Paige let out a sharp, panicked gasp.

Katy opened her eyes. She glared at the back of Paige's head. "What now?"

Paige's face was completely white. Her hands shook as she passed an iPad over the center console into the back seat.

"It's bad," Paige stuttered.

Katy snatched the iPad. She looked at the screen. Her lungs stopped pulling in air.

At the very top of the X trending list, highlighted in bright red, was a single hashtag: KatyRiddleArtherKnowles.

Right beneath it was a video with over two million views.

Katy's trembling finger tapped the play button.

It was a high-definition video shot from the shadows of the ballroom. It showed Arther on stage. Then, the camera zoomed in drastically, focusing entirely on Katy's face in the audience.

The video had been slowed down. A romantic, slow song played over the footage.

On the screen, Katy's mask was completely gone. Her eyes were wide, tracking Arther's every movement. The raw, obsessive adoration in her expression was impossible to hide. She looked like a woman starved, staring at water.

Then, the video cut to the final second. The camera angle shifted slightly, catching the glare of the chandelier. As Katy raised her hand to adjust her silver strap, the lens perfectly focused on her wrist. Peeking out from beneath a massive diamond cuff was a frayed, black braided string bracelet with a distinct silver bead. It was a private, handmade token she had worn for years.

Katy dropped the iPad. It hit the leather seat and bounced. The world tilted on its axis.

She stared at the ceiling of the car. Her stomach violently cramped.

The comment section was a warzone. Millions of people were shipping the "Ice Queen and the Cold King."

Katy grabbed her phone from her clutch. Her fingers fumbled over the screen. She dialed Julian.

He answered immediately. "I know. The PR team is already on it."

"Take it down," Katy screamed. Her voice cracked, raw with terror. "Erase it. Now."

"Katy, listen to me," Julian argued. "This is free marketing. Your new movie drops next month. The internet loves this. We should let it ride for a few days."

"I said take it down!" Katy roared. Her chest heaved. "I do not need to use a man for clicks! I refuse to look like a desperate groupie!"

"It's just a rumor-"

"His fans are insane!" Katy lied, her voice shaking. "I don't want them attacking me. Pay whatever it takes. Get the platform to kill the tag."

Julian sighed. "Fine. I'll make the call."

Katy threw her phone onto the seat. She grabbed her hair and pulled, the physical pain grounding her spiraling panic.

If Arther saw this video. If he saw that look on her face.

Worse. If he saw that bracelet. If he connected that frayed string to the crazy fan who had dropped it at his feet five years ago. Her entire life would be over.

Paige reached back and offered a plastic bottle of water. "It's going to be okay, Miss Riddle."

Katy snatched the bottle. She didn't open it. She squeezed the plastic so hard it crunched loudly in the quiet car.

"Drive faster," Katy ordered the driver.

The Maybach sped up, tearing through the dark streets.

Katy picked up the iPad again. She refreshed the page. The hashtag dropped from number one to number four. Julian's money was working.

She let out a shaky breath. She was safe.

She had no idea that across the city, the video was already playing on a different screen.

Arther Knowles pushed open the heavy double doors of the presidential suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

He walked into the massive living room and shrugged off his suit jacket. He threw the expensive fabric onto the velvet sofa. He looked exhausted.

He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He reached up, yanked his tie loose, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt. He stared down at the glowing city lights of Los Angeles.

The doorbell rang. It was a sharp, frantic sound.

Arther's jaw tightened. He turned away from the window, walked to the door, and pulled it open.

Simon Adler, his manager, shoved his way into the room. He was holding his phone up like a trophy, a massive grin on his face.

"You broke the internet," Simon said, speaking a mile a minute. "And you won't believe who you broke it with."

Arther rolled his eyes. He hated tabloid garbage. He turned his back on Simon and walked over to the marble wet bar. He grabbed a crystal glass and a bottle of expensive whiskey.

Simon followed him. He shoved the phone screen directly into Arther's line of sight.

"It's Katy Riddle," Simon yelled.

Arther's hand stopped moving. The whiskey bottle hovered over the glass.

He slowly set the bottle down. He turned his head and took the phone from Simon's hand.

He looked at the screen. The video was playing on a loop.

Arther watched Katy sitting in the audience. He saw the way her eyes devoured him. He saw the desperate, hungry look she tried so hard to hide behind her cold exterior.

A soft, genuine smile broke across Arther's face. He raised his thumb and gently stroked the glass over Katy's face.

Simon kept talking, rambling about engagement metrics and box office projections.

Then, the video reached the final second. The camera panned slightly, zooming in on Katy's raised hand.

Arther's body went completely rigid. The smile vanished from his face. His dark eyes widened in pure shock.

He dragged the progress bar back. He paused the video. He zoomed in on the high-definition image of her wrist. Resting right beneath the glaring diamonds was a frayed, black braided string bracelet with a distinct, tarnished silver bead.

Arther closed his eyes.

His brain violently ripped him back to a chaotic airport terminal five years ago. He was surrounded by screaming fans. A girl in a black mask and thick glasses had been crushed against the barricade. When the crowd surged, she had dropped that exact same handmade bracelet right at his feet. He had picked it up, but she had already disappeared into the sea of people.

Arther opened his eyes. The shock morphed into something sharp and dangerous. He tilted his head slightly to the left, analyzing the pieces falling into place.

He handed the phone back to Simon. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "Where is this video now?"

"Dropping fast," Simon complained. "Riddle's PR team is throwing millions at X to kill the hashtag. They're burying it."

Arther let out a low, dark laugh. The sound echoed in the quiet room.

She was terrified. His beautiful, cold wife was terrified of being caught.

"Do you want our team to push it back up?" Simon asked, his fingers hovering over his screen.

Arther picked up his whiskey glass. He took a slow sip. The burn felt incredible.

"No," Arther said. "Do nothing. Let her bury it."

Simon looked confused, but he nodded and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Arther stood alone in the suite. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his private security lead.

"I need you to pull the archived security footage from LAX, Terminal 4, exactly five years ago today," Arther ordered, his voice tight. "Find a girl in a black mask and thick glasses by the barricade. Track her movements, cross-reference her with any social media posts tagged at that location and time. I want a name or a handle."

Ten minutes later, his phone chimed with a secure file. Arther opened it. The digital trail was flawless, leading directly to a massive fan account. He opened the X app. He typed in the handle staring back at him from the report: Chi-Chi_Knowles.

The profile loaded. The newest tweet had been posted exactly two minutes ago. It was just a string of random, panicked keyboard smashes.

Arther stared at the screen. He pictured Katy sitting in the back of her car, furiously typing, completely unaware that her husband was watching her every move.

Arther threw his head back and downed the rest of the whiskey. A massive, victorious smile stretched across his face.

The hunt was on.

The Maybach left the bright lights of the city and began the steep climb up the dark, winding roads of the Hollywood Hills.

Katy stared at the iPad screen. The hashtag was gone. Completely erased from the trending list.

The tension holding her spine straight finally snapped. Her shoulders slumped. She let out a long, shaky exhale.

She tossed the iPad onto the front seat. She leaned her head back against the soft leather headrest and turned her face toward the window.

The dark trees blurred past the glass. Her own reflection stared back at her. She looked exhausted, but the panic was fading, replaced by a heavy wave of nostalgia.

Her mind drifted back ten years.

She wasn't Katy Riddle, the A-list actress, back then. She was just Katy, living in a suffocating, windowless basement apartment in the Valley.

She remembered the smell of damp concrete. She remembered sitting on a mattress on the floor, soaked from the rain, staring at a tiny, broken television screen.

Arther's first indie movie was playing.

She remembered watching his eyes on the screen. The raw, violent emotion he poured into the camera had reached through the glass and grabbed her by the throat. He was the only thing that made her feel alive in that dark room.

She remembered buying a used laptop. She remembered typing the name 'Chi-Chi' and sending her first tweet. She spent her days getting rejected at auditions and her nights fighting online battles to defend his name.

The Maybach swerved sharply.

Katy's head hit the window. She snapped out of her memories.

"Sorry, Miss Riddle," the driver called out. "We are approaching the French restaurant, but Isabella's yellow Porsche is parked out front."

Katy's stomach churned. She had zero energy to deal with Isabella's fake smiles and toxic insults tonight.

"Turn around," Katy ordered, knocking her knuckles against the glass partition. "Cancel the reservation."

Paige turned around in her seat. "You haven't eaten anything all day. Should I find another place?"

"No," Katy said. "Take me to the private club on Mulholland. The one with the underground garage."

The Maybach executed a sharp U-turn and sped in the opposite direction.

Katy pulled her burner phone out of her clutch. She logged into the Chi-Chi account.

Her direct messages were exploding. Hundreds of fans were sending her links to the deleted video.

Did you see her looking at him?!

Katy Riddle is totally trying to steal our man!

Chi-Chi, say something!

Katy stared at the glowing screen. A bitter, absurd laugh bubbled up in her throat.

She took a deep breath. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard. She drafted a tweet using Chi-Chi's aggressive, protective tone.

Katy Riddle is a plastic, talentless hack. She is trying to use Arther for clout. She doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as him. Stop spreading that garbage video.

She hit send.

She watched her own words appear on the timeline. Her chest ached. It felt like swallowing glass.

She knew exactly why she had clawed her way to the top of Hollywood. She did it so she wouldn't just be a faceless fan in the crowd. She did it so she could stand next to him as an equal.

The Maybach rolled down a steep ramp and parked in the dark, silent underground garage of the private club.

Katy put on a pair of oversized black sunglasses. She pushed the car door open and stepped out. Her heels clicked against the concrete as she walked toward the private elevator.

The metal doors slid shut, locking her inside the small metal box.

Katy leaned her back against the cold wall. She closed her eyes. Arther's dark, intense gaze from the hallway flashed in her mind.

She dug her thumbnail into her index finger.

She had to see him again. She couldn't stay away. She would go to the fan meet tomorrow.

The elevator chimed. The doors opened. Katy opened her eyes, her gaze sharp and determined, and walked out.