Chapter 2The Starlet and the Spectre

“Declan, don’t look back!”

I woke with a gasp, the words torn from my throat. The air in the cheap production tent was humid and stale, and cold sweat slicked my forehead.

Outside, a voice dripped with saccharine poison.

“Well, well. Some people really think this is a vacation, don’t they?” The voice belonged to Isabelle Vance, Hollywood’s reigning sweetheart and a rising star known for her girl-next-door charm and fiercely loyal fanbase. “An ice queen with nothing to offer but a pretty face, having nightmares in broad daylight. How unlucky for the rest of us.”

She let out a fake little laugh. “And shouting a man’s name? Desperate for a little attention, are we?”

Isabelle and I were at the same agency, but we were oil and water. Being cast on the same show was a carefully engineered ratings ploy. It was working.

The phantom heat of the explosion still clung to my skin, my heart hammering against my ribs. It took me a few seconds to focus on the swaying palm trees and the painfully bright sunlight outside. A few seconds to remember.

Declan was already dead.

The man who was all easy smiles and infuriating charm, the one who always managed to shield me in the moments when death felt certain, had been vaporized in that firestorm. There was nothing left to bury.

Only then did her words fully register.

I pushed open the tent flap, squinting against the light. “What did you say? About a man?”

Isabelle crossed her arms, her eyes raking over me with disdain. “Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you. I’m talking about Mr. Scott, of course. The mysterious heir to the Sterling-Scott fortune.”

She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper meant for the hidden camera I knew was clipped to a nearby tree. “A piece of advice? A blank slate like you could never hope to catch the eye of a man like Dylan Scott. So don’t even try.”

She smiled, a triumphant, venomous little thing. “I, on the other hand, am the only actress who received a personal invitation to his charity auction next month. It’s being held on The Stratos, his private jumbo jet. I hear Mr. Scott will be there personally.” Her smile widened. “I have a feeling he and I will find we have a great deal in common.”

“As for you,” she finished, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “you couldn’t even get a ticket to the airport.”

I watched her, this preening, posturing fool, and felt the ghost of a real smile touch my lips. It felt foreign.

“You should probably get some more Botox before you go,” I suggested, my voice flat. “The crow’s feet around your eyes are deep enough to lose a dime in. You wouldn’t want to scare Mr. Scott away.”

I let my gaze drift over her. “And for the record? When you’re born with a face like this, you don’t have to try. You wouldn’t understand, but I don’t blame you.”