Evelyn woke to the buzz of her phone, the screen glowing in the dim light of her hotel room. She groaned, rubbing her eyes. Last night's gala had left her drained—the endless smiles, the schmoozing, the champagne that went straight to her head. She'd slipped out after that moment on the balcony, craving silence, but the buzz of the night still lingered in her bones. Like something was watching her, waiting.
She grabbed her phone, expecting a text from Lila about some after-party gossip. Instead, it was a notification from her manager, Claire: *"Check your email. Urgent."* Frowning, Evelyn opened her inbox. The subject line made her stomach twist: *"You looked stunning last night."*
No sender name. Just an attachment. Her fingers hesitated, then tapped. A photo loaded—a shot of her on the balcony, her silhouette framed against the city lights. Her breath caught. Someone had been watching her. Really watching her. And scrawled across the bottom in sharp, red letters: *Mine.*
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She dropped the phone like it burned, her mind racing. A fan? A creep? She'd had her share of weird messages since her film started getting buzz, but this felt… different. Personal. Dangerous. She forced herself to breathe, grabbing the phone again to forward the email to Claire. *"Find out who sent this,"* she typed, her fingers shaking.
But deep down, she knew Claire wouldn't find anything. Whoever sent that photo didn't want to be found.
---
By noon, Evelyn was back in the grind, sitting in a sleek conference room at Apex Studios. The table was littered with scripts and coffee cups, and the air smelled faintly of ambition and stale cologne. She was here for a table read, a new project—a gritty thriller that could be her big break. The kind of role that didn't just make you a star but made you a legend. She straightened in her chair, smoothing her black blazer. She wasn't about to let some creepy email ruin her focus.
Lila slid into the seat beside her, whispering, "You look like you saw a ghost. What's up?"
Evelyn hesitated. Lila was her rock, but she didn't want to sound paranoid. "Just… weird fan stuff," she muttered, forcing a smile. "You know how it is."
Lila raised an eyebrow but didn't push. "Well, you better bring your A-game. Word is, the big boss is dropping by today."
"Big boss?" Evelyn asked, flipping through her script.
"Damian Blackwood," Lila said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "Owns this studio, half the city, probably the moon. Guy's a legend. And *hot*, if you're into the whole brooding billionaire vibe."
Evelyn rolled her eyes. "Pass. I'm here to work, not swoon over some suit."
But as the read began, she felt it again—that prickle on her neck, like eyes boring into her. She glanced around, half-expecting to see the creep from last night's gala. Nothing. Just actors, producers, and the hum of nervous energy. She shook it off, diving into her lines, letting the character—a fierce detective with a dark past—take over. Her voice filled the room, raw and commanding. By the time she finished, the table was silent, every eye on her.
"Damn, girl," Lila whispered, nudging her. "You're gonna steal this movie."
Evelyn grinned, her confidence flaring. This was why she was here. Not for creeps with cameras or billionaires with egos. For this—the rush of nailing a scene, of being *seen* for her talent.
Then the door opened, and the air shifted.
---
He didn't walk into the room; he claimed it. Damian Blackwood was taller than she'd expected, his dark suit tailored to a body that looked like it spent as much time in a gym as a boardroom. His hair was jet-black, a little too long, curling at the edges, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were a storm of gray, sharp and unreadable. He didn't smile, didn't nod, just stood there, scanning the room like a predator picking out prey.
Evelyn's breath hitched, and she hated herself for it. She wasn't some starry-eyed newbie who melted for a pretty face. But there was something about him, something that made the room feel smaller, the air heavier. Like he was a magnet, pulling everything toward him.
"Mr. Blackwood," the director stammered, jumping up. "We weren't expecting you until—"
"I'm here now," Damian said, his voice low, smooth, like whiskey over ice. He didn't look at the director. His eyes found Evelyn, and they stayed there.
She froze, her script forgotten in her hands. His gaze wasn't just intense; it was invasive, like he was seeing through her—her confidence, her bravado, the fear she'd buried about that damn photo. She lifted her chin, meeting his stare. If he thought he could intimidate her, he was dead wrong.
"Miss Hart," he said, and her name in his mouth felt like a challenge. "Impressive read."
"Thanks," she said, her voice cool, though her pulse was anything but. "Just doing my job."
A flicker of something—amusement? interest?—crossed his face, gone as fast as it came. He moved to the head of the table, sitting with a casual grace that screamed power. The read continued, but Evelyn could barely focus. Every time she glanced up, he was watching her. Not the script, not the other actors. Her.
---
After the read, the room emptied out, everyone buzzing about Damian's surprise visit. Evelyn lingered, gathering her things, trying to shake the unease curling in her gut. Lila had bolted to catch a producer, leaving her alone. Or so she thought.
"Miss Hart."
She turned, and there he was, leaning against the doorway. Up close, he was even more overwhelming—tall, broad, with a scent like cedar and something darker, like danger. She crossed her arms, refusing to let him see how he rattled her.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said, mimicking his formal tone. "Something I can help you with?"
He didn't answer right away, just studied her, like he was memorizing every detail—her green eyes, the way her curls fell over one shoulder, the stubborn set of her jaw. Finally, he spoke, his voice low enough that she had to lean in to hear it.
"You're making waves," he said. "That's good. But it comes with a price."
She frowned, her guard up. "Meaning?"
"People are watching you," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "Not just fans. People with… agendas. Be careful who you trust."
Her stomach dropped, the memory of that photo flashing in her mind. *Mine.* Was he talking about that? Or was this just some cryptic billionaire nonsense? She forced a laugh, covering her unease. "Thanks for the tip, but I can handle myself."
"I don't doubt it," he said, and there it was again—that flicker of amusement, like he knew something she didn't. "But even the strongest need allies."
Before she could respond, he turned, his coat brushing her arm as he walked away. The contact sent a jolt through her, equal parts irritation and something she refused to name. She watched him go, her heart pounding, her mind a mess of questions. Who was he to warn her? And why did it feel like he was already too close?
---
Back in her hotel room, Evelyn paced, her phone clutched in her hand. She'd called Claire, who was digging into the email, but so far, nothing. No trace, no sender. Just that photo, haunting her. And now Damian Blackwood's words were stuck in her head, looping like a bad song. *People are watching you.*
She sank onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. She'd fought too hard to get here, survived too much—her mom's neglect, years of rejection, the grind of auditions. She wasn't about to let some shadowy creep or a smug billionaire derail her. But Damian's warning wasn't just a warning. It was a promise, like he knew something she didn't. Like he was already part of whatever was coming.
Her phone buzzed, snapping her out of her thoughts. Another email from an unknown sender. Her fingers trembled as she opened it, expecting another photo. Instead, it was a single line, cold and sharp as a blade:
*"You can't run from what's already yours."*
She dropped the phone, her breath shallow. The room felt too small, the walls closing in. Somewhere out there, someone was playing a game with her. And as she sat there, heart racing, she didn't know that across the city, Damian Blackwood was staring at his own screen, a copy of that same email glowing in the dark. His jaw clenched, his mind already calculating.
Because whoever was after Evelyn Hart was about to learn a hard truth: Damian Blackwood didn't share.