The flashes came first—bright, merciless, unrelenting.
They didn't ask if she was ready. They didn't care if she blinked, stumbled, or collapsed under the weight of a past she had tried desperately to bury. All they wanted was a face. A scandal. A story that sold.
Layla Hart forced herself to walk through the tunnel of lenses as if she belonged there.
The hallway stretched before her like an endless stage set. Red velvet ropes lined the walkway, separating the throng of reporters, photographers, and fans eager for a glimpse of Hollywood's fallen starlet. The marble floors gleamed cold under the theater lights, reflecting the movement like a distorted mirror. Every step she took echoed against the walls, each click of her stiletto heels striking harder than the last.
Ten years ago, this place had been hers.
Back then, she had entered under the same lights, smiling wide-eyed, clutching dreams bigger than reality could ever allow. Her name had been whispered with excitement. Her face had adorned glossy covers. Yet none of it lasted.
A failed film. A scandal about a leaked conversation. A bad interview where she lashed out at fans. Rumors spiraled like wildfire, each one feeding on the next until there was nothing left but a name spoken in pity or ridicule.
And now, here she was.
A comeback. Or a last attempt at relevance.
Damien, her manager of three years, hovered by her side like a hawk watching for weakness. His fingers tapped against his tablet with rehearsed precision, scanning headlines and trending hashtags. He leaned toward her ear and spoke in a voice barely above the static.
"Smile. Just a little. Don't give them more."
Layla nodded, but the corners of her lips remained stiff.
A young reporter in the crowd squealed, "Layla! Layla! Are you excited to be back?"Another shouted, "Are you ready for a fresh start or running out of options?"
A low murmur followed her path—disbelief, judgment, hunger. Some fans took pictures with phones raised high as if this were a performance worth documenting. Others shook their heads in pity. Some laughed. Many whispered behind hands held close to their mouths.
This is it, Layla thought bitterly.
Her manager's jaw twitched but he kept his expression neutral. "Ignore them. They want you rattled."
Layla's eyes darted past them until they locked on a figure at the far end of the hallway.
Her chest seized.
He was leaning against the cold steel pillar, one arm crossed lazily over his chest, his other hand holding his phone like it barely mattered. Cole Hart. The name alone hit like a punch to the gut.
His eyes lifted from the screen.
For a moment, time stopped.
Cole's gaze was steady, sharp—but distant. His mouth curved in a slow, practiced smirk that suggested he knew exactly who she was and exactly what she was feeling.
The heat in her cheeks surged, but the cold at the pit of her stomach grew heavier.
How long has it been? she wondered.
Three years. Three years since she blocked him. Three years since the last message she sent—a short, brutal goodbye followed by silence. He had called, texted, emailed, left voicemails. She had shut the door. She told herself it was self-preservation. That it was better this way. That she had no choice.
And yet, seeing him now, the old ache twisted like a blade.
Layla's fingers trembled against the fabric of her gown. She pressed them hard enough to leave small indentations in the silk.
Damien noticed.
"Focus," he whispered sharply, snapping his fingers in front of her face. "You're here to work. This is your comeback."
Her jaw tightened.
Composure, she reminded herself.
She exhaled, lifted her chin, and plastered on the smile. Her eyes, however, betrayed her. They flicked toward Cole again, desperate, conflicted, full of questions she had no courage to ask.
Cole didn't look away.
Instead, he straightened ever so slightly—as if to say, I see you. You can't hide anymore.
A surge of panic pulsed through her veins.
Why now? Why here? Why him?
Behind her, Damien whispered, "You'll play it cool. Let him wonder."
Play it cool.
As if her entire life depended on not breaking down.
The flashing cameras roared back to life the moment she stepped onto the red carpet. Photographers lunged toward her, voices overlapping like waves.
"Layla! Over here!""Layla, are you nervous?""Is this comeback scripted or real?""Do you regret how things ended before?"
A junior publicist darted in, adjusting her gown, smoothing stray hair with quick fingers, smiling without blinking. "Let's keep going, Ms. Hart. You're trending."
Layla's lips parted to respond, but her eyes kept wandering toward Cole.
He remained perfectly composed—calm, distant, detached—as if she didn't exist. But that smirk… that quiet amusement that danced at the edge of his lips… it felt like a dare.
Are you ready to face what you ran from? it seemed to ask.
A cold knot tightened in Layla's chest.
She wanted to turn around, to run.
But where could she run? This was not a film set. There were no retakes. No director calling "cut" when emotions spilled over.
Her heart thudded so loudly she feared the entire hall could hear it.
She reminded herself why she agreed to this show.
Her career had reached the lowest point imaginable. Offers dried up. Reviews mocked her. Even her loyal fans had abandoned her to cheer for younger stars. Damien, ever practical, had lined up this reality series as a final lifeline. One last shot. One last scandal. He told her it would either destroy or revive her.
She wanted to refuse.
But how could she?
The alternative was obscurity.
As she stood frozen, the host's voice echoed through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome Layla Hart back to the spotlight!"
The crowd stirred, some clapping politely, others whispering, some booing. Layla's face stiffened for the cameras as applause forced its way through the silence.
She stepped forward.
Her feet felt heavier with each step.
Her manager's hand brushed her back, guiding her toward the cameras like a shepherd herding a wounded animal.
She glanced sideways once more at Cole.
His eyes met hers again—calm, collected, unreadable.
And for the first time, Layla realized this wasn't going to be easy.
It was going to be impossible.