Bound By Contract: The Superstar's Secret Wife

The next morning, Allyson sat cross-legged on her faded living room rug, a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

She stared at her phone. The hashtag AllysonGetOut was trending at number one.

Hollie's phone vibrated violently on the coffee table. Hollie snatched it up, her face tight with stress. As she listened to the person on the other end, her expression morphed from anger to utter shock.

Hollie slowly lowered the phone. She turned around, staring at Allyson, who was dry-swallowing a spoonful of cheap cereal.

"That was Dexter Finch," Hollie said, her voice hollow. "The executive producer of the reality show Heartbeat Rules."

Allyson choked on her cereal, coughing into her fist. Dexter Finch was the king of reality TV.

"He wants you on the new season," Hollie continued, tossing a thick contract onto the table. "But don't get excited. He wants you because of the hate traffic from last night."

Allyson picked up the contract.

"He wants you to play the villain," Hollie explained, her tone grim. "The desperate, clingy woman who tries to ruin everyone else's romance. And worse... Byron and Joanne are the headline guests."

Hollie sat down heavily. "Don't do it, Allyson. If you go on there and act like a stepping stone for Joanne, the internet will bully you into quitting the industry."

Allyson flipped to the last page of the contract. Her eyes locked onto the payment figure. It was a number with an obscene amount of zeros.

Her breathing sped up. This was exactly the amount she needed to pay the termination fee to her bloodsucking agency.

Without a word, Allyson grabbed a pen and signed her name on the dotted line.

Hollie buried her face in her hands, groaning in despair.

An hour later, Allyson pushed open the door of a dusty, rundown bookstore on the corner of her street. The bell above the door jingled weakly.

She navigated through the narrow aisles, her eyes scanning the self-help and romance sections. She needed material. She needed to be the most obnoxious, clingy villain reality TV had ever seen.

Her eyes landed on a bright pink spine tucked in the bottom corner.

100 Cheesy Pickup Lines to Make Him Yours.

She pulled it out and flipped to a random page. The words printed there were so incredibly cringe-inducing that a physical shudder ran down her spine. Goosebumps erupted on her arms.

It was perfect.

She walked to the counter and slapped a five-dollar bill down. The old man behind the register glanced at the garish pink cover, raised a single, judgmental eyebrow for a fraction of a second, and then wordlessly took her money. Allyson pulled her baseball cap lower and practically ran out of the store.

Back in her apartment, she sat on the floor, forcing herself to memorize the terrible lines.

She looked in the mirror, attempting to wink seductively. She ended up gagging at her own reflection.

Her phone buzzed on the floor.

A text message from "B".

Are you really going on that show?

Allyson's heart missed a beat. She stared at the screen, her stomach tying itself into a tight knot. He was probably terrified she would slip up and ruin his pristine reputation.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed her reply.

Don't worry. I will strictly follow the NDA. We are strangers. I won't implicate you.

She hit send.

She sat there for twenty minutes, watching the screen. The read receipt appeared, but no typing bubble followed.

The silence from his end felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. A sharp pang of disappointment flared inside her, but she quickly shoved it down.

She slapped her own cheeks hard, the sting waking her up. She grabbed the pink book and shoved it into her suitcase. She was going to use these lines to make Joanne sick to her stomach, and maybe test just how much Byron could tolerate.