Chapter 1His Amber Eyes Were Lies

Boris Montgomery was the secret I kept buried under my skin for years.

He never knew that the man who orchestrated his family’s ruin, the one who pulled the rug out from under their empire, was my father.

Before he fled the country five years ago, the last words he threw at me were like shards of poisoned glass: "Sylvia, you’re just like your father. You make me sick."

Thinking about it now still makes my chest tighten, a phantom pain that never quite dulls.

In the hollow years that followed, I started hunting for traces of him in a revolving door of strangers. I looked for his jawline, his gait, the way he’d tilt his head when he was thinking.

Wyatt Beckett was the one who came the closest.

I gave Wyatt everything. Every resource, every luxury, every piece of myself I could spare. To the world, I was the devoted girlfriend; to myself, I was just curating a masterpiece in Boris’s image.

Wyatt, blinded by his own sudden fame, used to smirk at me and ask, "Sylvia, are you honestly this obsessed with me?"

Sometimes he’d push further, testing the leash. "If I ever walked away, would you just crumble? Would you cry your eyes out for me?"

I would just smile, a quiet, practiced thing. I never said a word.

Because we both knew—or at least I did—that the game was only fun until the original came home. And then, the news broke: Boris Montgomery was back.

* * *

When the headline about Wyatt’s latest scandal hit the tabloids, I was in the middle of closing a massive brand deal for him.

The CEO of the company was Howard, an old friend of my father’s. He’d known me since I was a child; he was the one who taught me how to hold a fountain pen when I was six.

We were at a private dinner—steaks and expensive red wine—when I asked if he’d consider making the star of my agency the face of his new luxury line. He agreed almost too easily.

"Howard, please," I said, sliding the dossier across the mahogany table with a soft smile. "Don't just do this because we're family friends. Look at the data first."

I pointed to the highlighted sections. "His commercial value, the social media engagement, the projected ROI... I’ve mapped it all out. I want this to be a win for your brand, not a charity case for me."

Howard blinked, clearly surprised by my preparation. He chuckled and turned to his teenage grandson, who was sitting at the end of the table.

"Logan, take notes," Howard said. "You see how Sylvia works? She’s built a powerhouse from the ground up. Out of all the kids in our circle, she’s the one who’s actually made something of herself."

I offered a modest smile, but kept my thoughts to myself.

Howard didn't know that my "powerhouse" agency only had one client: Wyatt Beckett.

Or, to be more precise, I had only built the agency because of Wyatt.

The data was undeniable. Wyatt’s numbers were staggering; he was the "It Boy" of the moment, with a fanbase that would buy anything he touched. Howard liked what he saw. To show his support, he had his legal team bring over the finalized contract before dessert was even served.

The terms were more generous than I had dared to ask for. Before I could even start my polite refusals, my father leaned back and smiled.

"Go on, Sylvia. Go take care of your business," he said. "I’ll settle up with Howard here. Consider it a favor I’ll owe him."

I knew they had things to discuss that didn't involve me. I thanked Howard, took the contract, and headed back to my suite.

I pulled out my phone to tell Wyatt the good news, but my screen was already flooded. My friend Lexi had sent a dozen screenshots of the trending topics an hour ago.

Below them was a link to a video. And then, her usual unfiltered commentary:

Seriously, Sylvia? What is Wyatt doing? Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.

You’re out there grinding for his career, and he’s out there making you look like a fool? Is this a PR stunt or is he actually this stupid?

I’m telling you, you can’t spoil men like this. He needs to remember he’s a project, not a god. Don’t let him disrespect you like this…

I scrolled past her rant and clicked the link.

It was classic paparazzi footage—grainy, long-lens, but the two people in the frame were clear as day. It looked like a scene from a high-budget romance.

The evening breeze was catching the hem of Tinsley Hart’s white silk dress. She was laughing, her hands full with a latte and a stick of cotton candy. When the wind blew a bit too hard, Wyatt was there in a heartbeat, his hand reaching out to press the fabric of her skirt back down against her thigh.

They were bent over, laughing together. The camera zoomed in. Tinsley pointed toward the lens, whispering something to Wyatt, and a second later, Wyatt looked directly at the camera.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he draped an arm over Tinsley’s shoulder, pulled her close, and threw a mocking, defiant smirk at the photographer.

I didn't even need to check Twitter to know it was a bloodbath.

#WyattBeckettTinsleyHart

#WyattDefiesPaps

#SummerGardenTryst

#JustFriends?

The threads were a war zone between fans trying to "clear the search terms" and shippers going wild. They were both rising stars, young and beautiful. The fans didn't want a dating scandal to ruin their "clean" images, but the chemistry was undeniable.

Still, the video wasn't "incriminating" in a legal sense. No kissing, no disappearing into a hotel room for six hours. It was deniable. Wyatt’s PR team—the one I paid for—could handle it in their sleep.

I closed the app, unfazed. I took a photo of the contract and sent it to Wyatt.

Just landed you the luxury line deal. The contract is signed. When do you have a minute to go over the details?

His reply came hours later. It was curt, dripping with the arrogance of someone who thought they were untouchable.

Busy. Bring it to the set tomorrow.

I stared at the screen for a long beat before typing a single word back.

Okay.