I'm pursued by superstar after betrayed

Violeta Reynolds knew the day stretching ahead of her would be brutal. Even after a whole night fighting a fever that left her bones aching, she dragged herself out the door and headed for the studio. What she didn’t expect was to find someone already beating her to it.

Quincy Lawrence was leaning against the wall, running lines for his second lead role under his breath. His voice was one of a kind—not that generic deep, rumbly baritone everyone’s obsessed with these days. It was more like wind rustling through pine trees: cool, quiet, a little aloof. Quincy was built like a dream, broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. The soft shift of his muscles under his t-shirt had that effortless, easy magnetism that drives young audiences wild. With her background in film, Violeta couldn’t hold back a little feedback.

“Try shifting the emphasis to a different word in that line,” she suggested.

Quincy flinched just a little, then lowered his lashes, leaning in to listen close. Violeta stepped closer and plucked the script right out of his hand. His fingers were long, elegant, threaded with that quiet coiled tension that only made him more attractive.

“Got here early to practice, huh? With this kind of work ethic, Quincy? You’re gonna go far.”

Quincy repeated the line with the adjusted emphasis. “Like this?”

Violeta nodded and glanced at her watch. “Time’s up. Let’s roll.”

Quincy pulled on his cap and followed her out without a word. As they drove, he stared out the passenger window for a minute before speaking. “Can you pull over for a few minutes?”

Figuring he wanted to grab a snack, Violeta pulled off to the side of the road. “Make it fast.”

He was so tall, even with his cap pulled low, his silhouette looked straight off a runway when he stepped out of the car. Violeta took the chance to shut her eyes, trying to soothe the throbbing in her skull and the stinging behind her eyes.

Her phone rang. "Husband" popped up on the screen. She answered, and a lazy, nonchalant voice hummed through the line.

“Did the housekeeper tell me you had a fever last night?” Raiden Evans asked. He’d claimed he was working late again. Lately, his whole “endless overtime” act had seemed plausible enough—until a random text blew that whole lie to pieces a few days back.

“Yeah, it’s gone down now,” she answered.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Once upon a time, she would have. Now she knew the best she’d get was a quick text passed along through his assistant. All her soft care for him had eroded away, bit by bit, from all his endless absences and his delayed replies.

Her patience, already paper-thin from her splitting headache, frayed a little more. “Raiden. Do you have anything else you wanted to say?”

Lately, that edge of impatience had become a habit in her tone. Raiden frowned, tapping his fingers lightly against the top of his heavy oak desk, when he heard a car door click shut on her end of the line. Was someone with her?

Once, Violeta had been a full-time homemaker, almost totally cut off from any world outside their marriage and their home.

“Who’s with you?”

“An artist from the studio,” she said.

She used to be soft with him, calling just to ramble and check in, all sweet affection. But lately? She’d gone distant. Last night, even with him gone, she hadn’t even bothered to reach out.

Probably just moody, he thought. Too tired to hash it out, he hung up.

Staring at the dead call screen, Violeta let out a tired, resigned sigh. How had she ever thought Raiden was gentle? It had all just been a polished, perfect act. At the end of the day, their marriage had never been anything more than a strategic play to pump up the company’s stock price.

She massaged her temples and closed her eyes again. Beside her, Quincy pressed a pack of cold medicine and a bottle of citrus soda into her hand. The bottle was still warm from his grip, and the little touch settled soft in her chest.

The faint bitter tang of the medicine roused her enough to open her eyes. Quincy watched her for a long second, then looked away, a thousand tiny emotions flickering across his face too fast to name. “Take it,” he said.

She didn’t argue, swallowing the pill down fast, then washed it away with the warm citrus soda.

She managed a hoarse, gravelly “Thank you,” her throat still raw from the fever.

He didn’t say anything back, just tossed the empty paper wrapper into a nearby trash bag.

Violeta gripped the steering wheel and pulled back onto the road. She felt warmth spread slow through her gut, easing the sharp ache of her symptoms. “You didn’t originally study theater, right Quincy?”

“I’ll take any feedback you’ve got. I know I fit the look, but acting needs real direction. I couldn’t sleep last night anyway, so I rewatched my own editing clips a few times.”

He clutched the trash bag in his lap and gazed back out the window, lost in his own head.

Before long, they pulled up outside Clearwater Studios. Even though it was just a subsidiary of Evans Holdings, Clearwater was one of the biggest names in the entertainment industry.

The night before, Violeta had made sure Quincy’s business cards were all ready. She’d designed them herself, his stage name blared bold and clear in English across the front.

An assistant greeted them with a bright smile and led the way inside. “Right this way, Ms. Grey.”

Violeta noticed the whole studio felt tenser, more serious than usual. “Any special guests today?” she asked curiously.

The assistant giggled. “Our big boss is here for an inspection. He’s probably upstairs right now.”

Violeta froze. It clicked, why Raiden would suddenly show up unannounced at the studio. She glanced down the hallway and spotted Lenora Kelly. The truth hit her like a punch to the chest.

A sharp, aching pang twisted right through her heart.

Lenora was leaning against the stairwell corner, holding a water bottle a tall, all-too-familiar man had just handed her. Violeta recognized Raiden instantly.

Raiden showing up at the studio was already surprising enough. But him carving time out of his “busy schedule” to walk Lenora through her audition? That was a gut punch no one saw coming.

Lenora carried herself like a lovesick peacock, preening under the attention of a man who’d once sworn his whole life to Violeta.

Violeta pulled herself together, took a deep breath, shoved all her messy feelings down, and pushed open the audition room door to walk in.

A relationship that’s long past its expiration date is just like chewed-up old gum: it only turns bitter once someone else decides they want a bite of it.