Chapter 23 – Alexis's Insecurity
Alexis Harper sank onto the edge of the chaise lounge in her private suite, the room dimly lit by a soft, golden glow from the antique lamps. She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling the press of the velvet cushions beneath her like a faint tether to reality. Her phone lay face down on the small marble table, notifications blinking insistently, but she didn't dare look. She already knew what awaited her—social media chatter, commentary on the leaked photos, whispers from fans, trolls, and critics alike. Each message was like a tiny needle, pricking at the fragile armor she'd painstakingly built around herself.
Why did it feel like the world had decided she wasn't allowed a single moment of private vulnerability?
Her gaze wandered to the full-length mirror across the room, and she caught her reflection: tousled hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders, green eyes rimmed with exhaustion, the faintest smudge of mascara beneath one eye. She looked… human. Flawed. Fragile. And yet, the version of herself plastered across online headlines—charming chaos agent, scheming saboteur—seemed impossibly distant, almost like a stranger wearing her face.
Alexis let out a shaky laugh, a little bitter, a little self-deprecating. "You can't even do this right," she murmured to her reflection. "You can't even look scary on camera. Everyone sees right through you. Everyone always does."
Memories came unbidden, swirling through her mind like storm clouds: the disastrous press junkets, interviews where she'd stumbled over words, the director who'd sighed with impatience after her first take, the tabloids calling her "talentless" or "forgettable." She had spent years trying to prove herself, clawing her way through an industry that rewarded the ruthless and ridiculed the vulnerable. And now she was on a reality show—a playground for the public to dissect her every word, every glance, every heartbeat.
Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the chaise, tapping a rhythm that echoed the racing of her mind.
And then there was Dante.
She hadn't meant to think of him—not right now—but the image of him earlier, leaning in during the quiet moment after the leak, his hand brushing hers, his eyes steady and unjudging… it had settled into her chest like a slow burn. He hadn't flinched at her panic. He hadn't looked away when she had been raw, exposed, and trembling. In fact, he had seemed to welcome it, as if seeing her human side didn't make him retreat but drew him closer.
Her stomach fluttered, but it was laced with guilt. She had spent so long hiding, so long putting on faces to survive, that the vulnerability felt foreign, dangerous even. She wanted to reach for him, to let him close, but a little voice whispered—What if it all goes wrong? What if he sees too much? What if he leaves like everyone else?
Her phone buzzed again, this time an incoming message from Dante. She hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Her chest tightened as she read: "You okay?"
She stared at the words as if they held the power to soothe or shatter her entirely. Her thumb hovered, then pressed "Reply" before her overthinking could conjure a thousand reasons to say no.
"I… I don't know," she typed. "Everything feels like it's spiraling. And I don't… I don't want to look weak in front of everyone."
His reply was almost instant: "You're not weak, Alexis. You're human. And humans mess up sometimes. Humans feel insecure. Humans… are allowed to need someone."
The corner of her mouth twitched into a small, hesitant smile. Humans are allowed to need someone. That's a truth she hadn't let herself fully acknowledge in years. She looked down at her hands, the elegant fingers that had memorized scripts, held cameras, signed contracts—all now trembling slightly as her vulnerability crept in.
She leaned back, letting her head fall against the plush cushions, and let herself imagine: what if she could let someone in? What if she could trust again, despite the past betrayals, despite the mistakes she'd made? The thought was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
A knock at the door pulled her from her reverie. "Alexis?" Dante's voice floated through the gap. "Can I come in?"
Her throat went dry. "Y-yes," she stammered, brushing at her hair to make it look purposeful rather than disheveled.
He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. His presence was steady, grounding, and she couldn't stop her gaze from tracing the familiar lines of his face—the strong jaw, the slight curl of his lips when he caught her looking, the warmth in his eyes that seemed to know her better than she knew herself.
He sat on the edge of the chaise opposite her, leaving just enough space to respect her bubble, but not enough to let the distance feel cold. "You've been quiet," he said, gentle teasing lacing his words. "Not like the usual Alexis Harper who storms through a challenge like she owns the world."
Alexis let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah… that version of me's been busy failing spectacularly off-camera."
He smirked, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Even if it feels that way, you're not failing. You're human. And humans mess up, Alexis. They hesitate. They overthink. They panic over leaked photos and gossip. Guess what? You're doing it beautifully."
Her heart skipped at the sincerity in his tone. She wanted to believe him, to soak it up and let the warmth wash over the icy self-doubt that had taken root in her chest.
"I don't know how to handle it," she admitted quietly, almost ashamed. "All of this… the cameras, the media, the… Vanessa. I feel like I'm constantly on trial. And now… now even my own heart feels like it's betraying me."
Dante leaned forward slightly, eyes locking onto hers. "Your heart isn't betraying you," he said, voice low, earnest. "It's telling you what you've been too scared to admit: that you're allowed to want someone, that you're allowed to feel, and that… maybe you're allowed to let someone in."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making her words catch. "But… what if I mess it up? What if I ruin whatever this could be?"
His hand found hers again, warm and reassuring. "Then we deal with it together. But hiding from it? That won't help either of us."
Alexis felt tears prick at her eyes, the raw honesty of the moment breaking through years of carefully constructed walls. She wanted to retreat, to curl into herself and hide from the world's judgment, but his steady presence held her in place, like a lifeline tethered to something solid and safe.
"I… I don't know if I can," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't know if I can be… vulnerable. Not with cameras, not with the audience, not even with you."
Dante's smile softened, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. "Then start small," he suggested. "One moment. One conversation. One glance at a time. You don't have to fix everything at once, Alexis. You just… have to feel."
Her chest ached with the simplicity and difficulty of it. To feel. Not to manipulate, not to protect, not to perform. Just… feel. And in that moment, she realized she wanted to try.
A small laugh escaped her, shaky but genuine. "One glance at a time, huh? You make it sound so easy."
"Easy?" he echoed, tilting his head playfully. "Maybe not. But worth it? Absolutely."
Alexis let herself relax slightly, leaning back into the chaise cushions, her fingers still intertwined with his. For the first time in what felt like years, she allowed herself to imagine a possibility where she wasn't defined by mistakes or public perception. Where she could just… exist, complicated and imperfect, and someone—him—would still see her as worthy.
And as the evening shadows lengthened across the suite, wrapping them in a cocoon of soft light and unspoken tension, Alexis realized something she hadn't admitted even to herself: maybe, just maybe, she was ready to stop running from her own heart.
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