Bound By Contract: The Superstar's Secret Wife

The screen of the phone almost cracked under the pressure of Allyson's thumb. She sat in the back of the stretched Lincoln, the leather seat cold against her bare thighs. Her eyes were locked on the Twitter trending page. Joanne Whitney's name sat at the number one spot, accompanied by a pristine photo of her smiling like America's sweetheart. A sharp ache bloomed behind Allyson's ribs. That S-tier role was supposed to be hers. She had auditioned four times, only for Joanne to return to Hollywood and snatch it away with a single phone call. Allyson bit hard into the soft flesh inside her cheek. The metallic taste of blood grounded her. She quickly switched to her anonymous burner account. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out the words she couldn't say in public: Some people forget who was actually there for him during the tough times. Joanne is a joke. She hit send. Three seconds later, her notifications exploded. Hundreds of replies flooded in, vicious and immediate. Stop clinging to a megastar, you plastic vase. Delusional. Get out of Hollywood, Allyson. A hand suddenly snatched the phone from her grip. "Are you out of your mind?" Hollie, her manager, glared at her, the screen light reflecting in her furious eyes. "Do not cause trouble right now. You are already drowning in bad press." "I didn't do anything," Allyson muttered, looking away. The limo hit a sudden pothole. Allyson jerked forward. A sickening rip echoed in the quiet cabin. She gasped, her hands flying to the side of her cheap, sponsored gown. The cheap fabric had given way at the seam, exposing an inch of her waist. She frantically tried to pull the fabric together, her fingertips turning white. Hollie stared at the torn dress and let out a heavy sigh. "If Joanne hadn't stolen your role, you wouldn't be wearing a dress that falls apart if you breathe too hard." Allyson swallowed the heavy lump in her throat. She turned to the tinted window, staring at her own reflection. She forced the corners of her mouth up, practicing a flawless, impenetrable smile. The limo rolled to a stop at the start of the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The red carpet stretched out like a river of blood. Flashbulbs exploded like lightning storms outside the glass. A security guard pulled the door open. The deafening roar of the crowd hit Allyson like a physical blow. But they weren't screaming for her. They were chanting Byron's name. Allyson grabbed the hem of her dress, her knuckles white, and stepped out. The cold night air bit into her exposed skin, making her shiver. She took two steps onto the plush carpet. Just ahead, Joanne stood in a custom haute couture gown, posing perfectly for the wall of cameras. Joanne shifted her gaze. Her eyes locked onto Allyson. A slow, mocking smirk curled Joanne's lips, dripping with pure contempt. The paparazzi noticed Allyson. A collective chorus of boos rippled through the press pit. Photographers literally lowered their cameras, refusing to waste a single frame on her. Then, the crowd at the far end of the carpet erupted into a sound that vibrated the ground. Byron Estes stepped out of his vehicle. He was flanked by a wall of bodyguards. He wore a tailored black suit that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly. His expression was cold, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the cameras. Joanne immediately adjusted her posture, tilting her body toward Byron's path, desperate to manufacture a romantic frame for the press. Allyson's stomach twisted. She sped up, moving toward the edge of the carpet to get away from Joanne and the humiliating lack of flashes. She walked too fast. Her stiletto heel caught hard in the overly long, cheap lace of her hem. The fabric tore completely. Allyson's ankle twisted with a sharp spike of pain. Her balance vanished. A spike of blinding agony shot up from her ankle, instantly stealing her breath. The world violently tilted, the hard ground rushing up to meet her face. A collective gasp sucked the air out of the venue. The paparazzi instantly raised their cameras, hungry for the shot of the hated actress eating dirt. Allyson squeezed her eyes shut, throwing her hands out to brace for the impact. The impact never came. Instead, she crashed into a solid, unyielding wall of muscle. The crisp, clean scent of cedar and mint flooded her lungs. A strong, heavy arm wrapped around her waist, catching her mid-fall. The grip was iron-clad, lifting her effortlessly until her feet were back on the ground. Allyson's breath hitched. She snapped her eyes open. She was staring directly into Byron's dark, bottomless eyes. The entire red carpet went dead silent. For one agonizing second, the world stopped spinning. Then, thousands of flashbulbs erupted simultaneously, blindingly bright. Joanne's sweet smile shattered, her eyes widening in pure disbelief. Allyson's brain flatlined. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought it might break them. On the live Twitter feed, the comments section exploded into a blur of rage, accusing Allyson of faking the fall to seduce the untouchable star. Behind the barricade, Hollie slapped a hand over her mouth, looking like she was about to pass out. Panic flooded Allyson's veins. The non-disclosure agreement flashed in her mind. She pushed her hands against Byron's chest, trying to scramble backward. But the large hand on her waist didn't let go. Instead, Byron's fingers flexed, pulling her half an inch closer, locking her against his body.