Los Angeles had never felt more alive, neon lights danced across the skyline with cameras flashing everywhere, fans were screaming like maniac.
And Irina Petrov stood on the balcony of her five-star hotel suite, clutching her phone like it was sacred scripture.
There he was again…. Liam Conor. The heartthrob of Hollywood, smirking in a charcoal tuxedo at yet another red carpet event, his arm draped around May Winters like she was some glorified handbag.
Irina zoomed in.
She knew everything about him. His favorite whiskey, the way he hated chocolate but ate it during interviews just to appear "relatable." How he limped slightly when he thought no one was watching, an injury from a forgotten motorcycle accident two years ago.
Liam Conor wasn't just a celebrity to Irina. He was him, the obsession she'd been feeding for years.
And now, she was finally in the same city with him.
"Irina! I swear if you don't stop watching that man and start acting like a Petrov, I will break that phone myself!" Viktor Petrov's voice echoed from the living room like a Russian storm.
Irina rolled her eyes. "Papa, you've said that every day since we got here."
Her mother, Sasha, poked her head around the doorframe, her face tight with nerves. "Don't antagonize your father, Irina. He's already stressed with the embassy dinner tonight. Please, just behave."
"Define behave," Irina muttered, slinking back inside.
Their trip to LA was meant to be diplomatic. Viktor, a wealthy businessman with strong ties to Russian politics, had deals to finalize but Irina had other plans.
Her fingers flew across the screen. She had memorized the job listing the second it dropped.
"ASSISTANT WANTED – FULL-TIME, FAST-PACED ENVIRONMENT, CELEBRITY MANAGEMENT. MUST SIGN AN NDA, DISCRETION AND EXPERIENCE REQUIRED.
Send resume to jacob@conorentertainment.com"
Irina had neither experience nor discretion. But what she did have was a plan and a forged résumé.
"Irinaaaa!" her younger sister Anya sang from the couch. "Are you seriously going to pretend to be someone else for this guy? That's unhinged, even for you."
"Shut up, Anya."
"I'm just saying," Anya continued, kicking her bare feet into the air. "You know if Papa finds out, he'll ship you back to Moscow in a coffin."
Irina zipped up her new blazer and ignored the jab. In her hand was a freshly printed ID: Samantha Ludona. 24. NYU graduate. Fluent in French and Japanese. No known ties to the Petrov family.
Totally fake but completely necessary.
Because Liam Conor was hiring. And she wasn't going to miss her chance to be in his world even if it meant lying through her teeth.
As she stepped out of the hotel, Dmitri, her older brother and unofficial bodyguard, pulled up in a black SUV.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he growled, tattooed fingers gripping the steering wheel.
Irina leaned through the window with a smile. "To get a job."
"You've never worked a day in your life."
"Then it's about time I started."
Without waiting for his reaction, she walked off into the golden Los Angeles sun, clutching her fake résumé and daring fate to give her a shot.
The address on the listing led her to a private Beverly Hills estate with towering gates and a sleek security team. Her heart thumped, this was it.
After a short wait, a stone-faced assistant led her inside the mansion. The floors gleamed and the air smelled of sandalwood and money.
She waited in a lounge area, knees bouncing. Then, the door creaked open.
A woman entered, she was elegant, poised, terrifying. She was Sylvia Conor, his mother.
She looked Irina up and down like she was dirt on a designer shoe.
"You're here for the assistant position?" Sylvia asked coolly.
Irina nodded, pulse racing. "Yes. I'm Samantha Ludona."
Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "We'll see about that."