Rylla POV
The lights in the studio went dark the moment the segment ended, but Rylla was still squinting like the sun had followed her indoors.
Her cheeks hurt from smiling.
Her temples throbbed behind her sunglasses.
She barely made it to the hallway before Tess, her assistant, launched into another monologue at full speed.
"So, you've got press photos hitting at noon, the jet's already being prepped. Oh, and Cass wants you to wear the dove-gray slip dress for tomorrow morning's GoodDay shoot. She says it makes you look less tired."
Rylla bit back a laugh.
She was tired.
Bone-deep. Silk-wrapped. Camera-flashed. Tired.
---
Tess didn't notice.
"Also, your stylist sent four outfit options for the fan thing back in Maine. She said to remind you not to pick the black crop because it wrinkles and it's not on brand. Her words, not mine. Anyway, you've got two hours to nap if you want, and, oh, drink this. Vitamin B, lemon, something. Cass says it helps on camera."
A bottle was shoved into Rylla's hand.
Cold. Citrusy. Slightly sweet.
She took a sip. Regretted it.
Something in it made her tongue feel numb.
Her hands felt lighter than they should. Not shaking. Just not quite hers.
---
The glass doors slid open.
Outside, the fans were already screaming.
Flashes. Hands against the windows. A sea of phones and posters and flowers.
Rylla felt her pulse flick once. Just once, then fall back into rhythm. She was used to this. The chaos. The crush. The blur of movement and names and voices.
Still, something felt…
Off.
Her head was pounding now. That weird, heavy kind. Like her thoughts had been dipped in syrup.
She was halfway through asking where Cass had gone when Tess was shoved sideways by the surge of the crowd.
"Shit," Rylla muttered.
And then the new bodyguard. The one she didn't know, hadn't been introduced to, stepped between her and the noise.
"Let's move," he said.
And suddenly she was moving. Fast.
Pulled. Shielded.
Toward the sleek black car idling at the curb.
---
Inside the car, the windows tinted everything a cool gray.
The city blurred by. No greetings. No small talk.
The bodyguard sat stone-faced beside her, scrolling through something on his phone. The driver didn't speak at all.
"Where's Cass?" she asked.
"Already at the jet," the man said. "We're going straight to the tarmac. Avoid the press."
Something in her chest tugged sideways. She frowned.
She reached for her phone. Screen too bright. Too many notifications. She blinked. Her fingers felt clumsy.
The world shifted a little when she leaned against the seat.
She closed her eyes.
---
The car stopped.
Open air again. Sunlight. Tarmac beneath her boots.
The private jet gleamed in front of her. Sleek, polished, waiting. The staircase already lowered. No sign of staff.
Her headache pulsed. Her stomach swayed.
She climbed slowly, steadying herself on the rail.
Only when she reached the top step did she notice it:
A symbol near the door.
Gold. Subtle.
A wolf. Crowned.
Something about it made her mouth go dry.
She'd never seen the symbol before, but it felt… wrong.
This wasn't the same jet as yesterday.
Before she could say anything, the bodyguard's hand landed lightly on her shoulder.
"Inside, please."
Too late now.
The door closed behind her.
And she was in the sky before she realized she'd already left the ground.
---
Inside, the cabin was cooler than she expected. Quiet. Expensive.
No crew. No assistant. No familiar faces.
Just one man.
He stood from the seat nearest the window, tall and graceful in a way that was almost theatrical. Dark curls pushed back, gold chain resting easy at his collarbone, shirt half-unbuttoned like rules didn't apply to him.
His face was the kind women remembered for the rest of their live. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut, mouth too full for someone so smug.
He smiled.
"Rylla Smith," he said like he'd just discovered fire. "Even prettier offstage."
Her stomach dipped. Something cold slipped down her spine.
"Who the hell are you?"
He didn't answer right away.
Just walked to the bar like they were old friends.
"Francesco," he said finally, pouring a deep red wine into two glasses. "Francesco Virelli."
She didn't move.
Her fingers twitched toward her phone.
"This isn't my plane."
"Technically, it is now," he said, handing her the glass. "We swapped yours out. Better security. Fewer variables. More privacy."
"Where's my team?"
"Safe," he said. "Irrelevant."
She didn't touch the glass.
She didn't sit.
She watched him with the clarity of someone who'd just realized the rules had changed, and no one told her.
"What do you want?"
Francesco smiled again.
Slow. Charming. Empty.
"Oh, sweetheart." He lifted his glass.
"It's not what I want."
He tapped the rim lightly against his own chest.
"It's what my brother needs."