My Ex Betrayed Me, The Cold Movie Star Loved Me

The heavy oak doors of the vestry shut with a dull thud.

Sebastian tossed a tablet onto the glass table between us. The screen glowed with my full identity profile, tax records, and university transcripts.

"Isabelle Laurent," he said, loosening his black silk tie. "The elder sister. The quiet accountant."

"I didn't choose this," I said, rubbing the red marks left on my wrists by the corset laces. "My parents drugged my water yesterday afternoon. They took my passport, locked down my phone, and threatened my grandmother's life support."

Sebastian didn't blink. He poured two fingers of scotch from a crystal decanter.

"Do you think I care about your family squabbles?"

"I think you should care that you didn't marry the woman on the agreement."

"The agreement names a Laurent daughter," he said, taking a sip. "Arthur promised twenty percent of your family's European distribution network. The name on the certificate is secondary."

"Then let me walk away. Annul it."

He set his glass down hard enough to rattle the ice. "And let the press claim Blake Entertainment was duped at the altar? Absolutely not. Since the Laurent family sent you, you stay."

"I am not a hostage, Sebastian."

"You are an asset," he countered, stepping closer until his shadow blocked the chandelier light. "Let's establish terms, Isabelle. You have a roof, an allowance, and my last name for the public. In private, you do not exist to me. Do not expect affection. Do not question my schedule. And above all, do not interfere with my business."

"I don't want your affection," I snapped. "I wanted a plane ticket to Paris."

"Then you should have run faster." He turned his back on me, checking his watch. "I hate being used. Your father played a cheap trick, and you are the collateral. Live with it."

***

The Blake estate sat behind iron gates high above Sunset Boulevard. It felt less like a home and more like a museum carved out of black granite and tempered glass.

On my third morning, an assistant placed a matte black Amex card on the dining table.

"Mr. Blake instructed me to provide this for your personal expenses, Mrs. Blake," the assistant said, bowing his head.

I picked up the metal card and slid it back across the marble.

"Return it to him."

The assistant blinked. "Ma'am?"

"I don't need his money."

I carried my sketchpad upstairs to the secondary bedroom at the far end of the west wing. By noon, the drafting table was covered with tracing paper, calipers, and gouache paints. If Arthur thought trapping me in Los Angeles would kill my jewelry design career, he was wrong. My hands were steady. Every cut of the pencil against paper was mine, untouched by Laurent or Blake money.

Downstairs, the television in the lounge hummed during lunch.

I paused on the landing, my gaze catching the screen.

Celeste sat on a velvet couch on *Good Morning Hollywood*, dressed in cream cashmere. Julian sat beside her, his arm draped possessively over the back of the sofa.

"The new single drops next Friday," Celeste told the host, blinking her doe eyes toward the camera. "It's called *Borrowed Time*. It's about sacrifice. About having to give up the one you truly love for the sake of family duty."

The interviewer leaned forward. "Rumors suggest you were originally linked to Sebastian Blake before his sudden wedding this weekend. Any truth to that, Celeste?"

Celeste bit her lower lip, glancing downward with a fragile smile. "Sebastian is... an extraordinary man. Some bonds aren't meant to be broken by paper contracts, no matter who stood at the altar. But Julian has been my rock through this heartbreak."

Julian leaned in and kissed her temple on live television.

My phone, a cheap burner I bought with cash from an old client, vibrated on the railing.

A social media alert popped up. Celeste had just posted a backstage photo from her rehearsal studio. Julian’s hands rested on her waist, but the caption read: *Some hearts belong elsewhere. 11:11.*

The comment section was already on fire, dissecting every word, painting me as the ruthless older sister who stole the studio titan from her innocent younger sibling.

***

Two nights later, the premiere of *The Obsidian Line* took over the Chinese Theatre.

Sebastian had entered the car without greeting me, clad in a sharp Tom Ford tuxedo. I wore a minimalist emerald gown I had tailored myself two years ago, my grandmother's vintage sapphire pendant resting against my collarbone.

The limousine door opened to blinding flashbulbs and roaring fans.

Sebastian offered his forearm. Pure theater. I placed two fingers on his sleeve, matching his stride down the carpet.

"Smile, Isabelle," he murmured under his breath, barely moving his lips. "The trades are watching."

"I'm not an actress on your payroll," I whispered back.

Before we reached the main media backdrop, a commotion erupted behind the velvet ropes.

A silver sports car screeched to a halt at the drop-off zone.

Julian stepped out first, offering a hand to Celeste. She wore a shimmering silver gown that clung to her curves, a faux-innocent contrast to the dark theme of the premiere.

Reporters surged toward them, then noticed us standing ten feet away. The scent of ozone from the camera flashes filled the air.

"Over here! Sebastian! Celeste!"

Julian guided Celeste directly into our path, effectively cutting off our route toward the theater entrance.

"Sebastian," Julian said smoothly, flashing his movie-star grin for the press. "Congratulations on the sudden nuptials. Quite a surprise for all of us."

Sebastian didn't extend a hand. His gray eyes remained flat. "Hayes."

Julian turned his gaze toward me, his lips curling into a condescending smirk loud enough for the boom mics to catch.

"And Isabelle," Julian chuckled, shaking his head. "Look at you. She used to be terrified of walking red carpets, and now she's a studio mogul's wife. Funny how fast you get over stage fright when there's a billion-dollar merger on the line."

Reporters pushed forward, shoving microphones toward my face.

"Mrs. Blake! Did you force your sister out of the arrangement?"

"Is it true you blackmailed your father to take Celeste's spot?"

"Celeste, do you have a comment on the marriage?"

Celeste pressed a palm to her collarbone, looking overwhelmed. "Please, everyone. Belle is my sister. She... she did what she felt she had to do."

The cameras exploded into a frenzy of shutters.

Beside me, Sebastian stayed completely still. His arm dropped to his side. He didn't intervene. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, watching, waiting for the crack in my armor, ready to see the substitute bride break under the weight of Hollywood's wolves.

I didn't flinch.

I didn't reach for Sebastian's hand. I didn't offer a defense to the reporters. And I didn't give Julian the satisfaction of a single tear.

Instead, I looked Julian dead in the eye, my voice quiet, carrying clearly over the pause between shutter clicks.

"Some people act for the cameras, Julian. Others simply outgrow the theater."

Without waiting for his response, I pulled my train aside, stepped around Celeste's glittering hem, and walked away.

I didn't hurry. I kept my spine straight, moving past the media pen and straight through the glass doors into the private VIP lounge.

Behind me, the red carpet fell dead silent for two entire seconds before the shouting resumed.

Sebastian remained on the carpet. For the first time since he ripped the veil from my face at St. Jude's, his cold detachment shattered.

His eyes followed my exit, sharp, analytical, and burning with something he hadn't planned for.

"Mr. Blake!" a journalist yelled. "Is your wife leaving the event?"

Sebastian didn't answer. He adjusted his cuff links, stepped away from Julian and Celeste without a single word, and headed straight for the private lounge doors.