Chapter 14
The makeup artist dabs powder on my nose with a brush that flitters over my skin like butterfly wings.
Her face is scrunched in concentration as she chases away the shine the studio lights will create.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror—smoky eyes, nude lip, and hair cascading over one shoulder in calculated waves—practicing my smile.
The one that says “I’m approachable but untouchable, available but unattainable.
” The Devyn Martin that America has come to expect.
“Two minutes, Miss Martin.” A production assistant hovers at the edge of my vision, headset askew, clipboard clutched to her chest.
I nod, my throat tight despite the peppermint tea I’ve been nursing for the last hour.
Late-night talk shows are part of the job, as routine as breathing, but this one feels different.
The weight of the last week sits heavily between my shoulder blades, knowing the conversation is going to focus on the photos and the relentless speculation about the new man in my life.
I catch a glimpse of Gunnar in the mirror.
He’s leaning against the wall several feet behind me, dressed in black, his arms crossed over his chest and eyes methodically scanning the room.
Jagger is beside him, scrolling through his phone with the casual air of someone who doesn’t realize he’s supposed to be working.
Gunnar’s gaze meets mine, his grayish-blue eyes flickering with irritation.
He hasn’t really spoken to me since my outburst in the kitchen.
At least not anything of substance. I have—very poorly—attempted to apologize, but no matter how much I rehearse, the moment I’m in his presence, it dies on my lips.
“Miss Martin?” The stage manager appears, hand extended to guide me. “We’re ready for you.”
I stand, smoothing the lines of my outfit—a black jumper with wide legs and lace top with a plunging neckline. It’s a deliberate choice after the Sunset Boulevard debacle. No short dresses to ride up, in case a certain someone finds it necessary to toss me over their shoulder again.
The guys fall into step behind me, Gunnar close enough that I can feel his presence as though he’s pressed against my spine. He’s close enough that distinct woodsy smell that makes me want to lean into him and inhale until I’m dizzy.
The crowd roars when I emerge from behind the curtain onto the blinding stage.
I wave and smile, navigating the steps in my stilettos with the grace of many years of practice.
Trevor Chase meets with a hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek, before guiding me to the guest chair with the ease of a man who has done this a thousand times.
Hell, I’ve been here six times in the past decade.
“Devyn Martin,” he says into the camera, and the crowd cheers again. “Looking absolutely stunning, as always.”
“Thank you, Trevor.” I cross my legs, angle my body toward him, and settle into my public persona. “It’s good to be back.”
The interview flows like water, easy and predictable.
We talk about my latest project—a romantic dramedy that’s testing through the roof.
We talk about my charity work, the nursing advancement foundation I started in my mother’s name.
We talk about everything and nothing, the safe topics and approved talking points.
“So,” Trevor drawls, leaning back in his chair as his smile spreads, telling me we’re veering off script. “I have to ask. The whole world is asking, really.”
My stomach drops, but my smile stays fixed. “Ask away.”
“The photos.” He gestures to the monitor beside him, displaying a photo of me folded over Gunnar’s shoulder. The crowd reacts with a mixture of gasps and laughter. “Sunset Boulevard. Who is this mystery man, Devyn? Because I have to tell you, I’m not going to lie… he rivals Colton Cross for me.”
Same Trevor… Same. He definitely smells better.
“Trevor.” I pitch my voice to carry a playful, teasing note that works so well for the cameras. “You know I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Oh, come on,” Trevor presses before rolling his eyes and sighing. “Fine… Ignore them”—he gestures at the crowd and lowers his voice—“just tell me. Does he throw you around like that all the time?”
I let my smile widen—though it occurs naturally at the thought—and flirtatiously wink.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” The innuendo lands exactly where I want it.
Trevor throws his head back with laughter as the crowd erupts with excitement.
My heart matches their fervor, jumping into my throat when I feel Gunnar’s stare boring through me from where he stands off-stage.
The interview wraps up with the usual pleasantries of promises to return, compliments exchanged between us, and the band playing me off.
I stand, hug Trevor, and wave to the crowd as I exit the stage.
The moment I pass beyond the curtain, I’m escorted through a maze of backstage corridors by a production assistant.
Gunnar materializes at my side seemingly out of nowhere. “Jagger has the car out back,” he shares, his voice low and hand hovering near the small of my back without quite touching me. “This way.”
I stop walking. “And I have fans waiting out front.”
He turns to face me with an expression that suggests I’ve just asked for permission to set myself on fire. “No.”
“Gunna—”
“We discussed this.” His jaw is tight, that muscle ticking in a way I’m finding myself becoming obsessed with. “Back entrance. Secure vehicle. No crowds, chaos, or opportunities for—”
“For what?” I step closer, tilting my head back to hold his stare. “For me to interact with the people who pay to watch my movies? Who make it possible for me to afford to pay you.”
“No. For someone to hurt you.” The words come out sharp and edged with fear. “You have someone sending you death threats. If they’re gutsy enough to break into your property, who knows what they would be willing to do in a crowd? What they—”
“I know what they want,” I interrupt, my voice rising and carrying down the empty corridor.
“I know, Gunnar. That’s why I have you. I can’t hide forever.
I need…” I pause to swallow, forcing myself to soften my tone.
“I need to feel normal. Please, Gunnar. I just want five minutes. Long enough for a few autographs and some selfies.”
We stare at each other, locked in a standoff that is becoming far too familiar.
His eyes search my face. I don’t know what he finds, but I can see the moment he relents.
His shoulders drop a fraction, and his hand settles on my forearm, warm and grounding.
“Jagger,” he says into his comms, not breaking eye contact with me. “Move the car out front.”
He takes a deep breath, while I assume Jagger responds to him. It is followed by an equally heavy exhale that lightly wafts over my face. “Just do it.”
I smile triumphantly and start walking toward the front exit.
Gunnar falls into step beside me, his hand sliding from my arm to the small of my back, not once losing contact with me.
He mutters something that vaguely sounds like, “This is a bad idea.” When we reach the door that leads to the front plaza, he positions himself slightly ahead of me, his hand not leaving me as he scans the crowd on the other side of the windows.
“Stay close,” he instructs. “No more than five minutes. And if I say move, you move your ass. No arguments.”
“Yes, Dad.” I sigh, rolling my eyes. The look he shoots me sends a thrill racing through my body before settling between my thighs. Before I have a moment to find my composure, Gunnar pulls the door open, and the noise of the mob hits us like a wave.
The crowd is larger than I expected. Much larger. Word must have spread that I was here and that the mystery man might make an appearance. There are hundreds of them, pressed against the barricades, phones raised, voices shouting my name in a cacophony that makes my ears ring.
“Devyn! Devyn, over here!”
“Love you, Devyn!”
“Who’s the guy? Is this him?”
Gunnar’s hand slides from the small of my back until it’s settled on my hip.
Tightening his grip, his fingers press into my skin with reassuring pressure.
He leans down, placing his mouth close to my ear as his warm breath blows against my skin.
“Roped aisle. Straight through. Don’t get too close to the crowd. ”
I nod, and he ushers me outside.
The narrow passage is lined with velvet ropes and security guards, a gauntlet of outstretched hands and screaming voices.
I smile, wave, touch fingers, and sign a handful of autographs as I walk.
Gunnar stays pressed against my side, his body a shield as his eyes constantly sweep the crowd to catalog threats.
A young girl—maybe sixteen, trembling with excitement—thrusts a photo at me, and I stop to sign it. “I loved you in Not My Type,” she breathes, and my heart swells with the genuine connection. This is the reason I do this, why I can’t hide forever.
“Thank you. That means so much to me.” I hand the photo back and pull myself away from Gunnar just enough to take a selfie with her.
Before I know what’s happening, the crowd surges forward. One second, I’m in the roped aisle, Gunnar’s hand inches away, flanked by security guards. The next, I’m swept away in a wave of the sea of people, tearing me away from Gunnar and into a myriad of grasping hands and shouting voices.
“Gunnar!” I scream, but the sound is swallowed by the roar around me.
I’m disoriented, spinning, with hands touching me everywhere—my arms, waist, and hair. I can’t see a way out. I can’t see anything but faces, phones, and the flash of cameras. Panic claws at my throat, sharp and metallic.
Someone presses against my back, intimately close, wrapping their arm firmly around my waist. I let out a shuddered breath, relieved that Gunnar got to me so quickly.
Lips brush against the shell of my ear as something is pressed into my palm.
“You’re trying so hard to make me jealous.
” The whisper, barely audible over the chaos, is delivered with the intimacy of a lover.
It’s not Gunnar.
The voice is completely foreign; every ounce of my relief dissipates as it’s replaced with terror. A chill runs down my spine as my gaze falls to my hand. My blood turns to ice as my fingers tighten around the pink protea between them.
The world narrows to the unwelcome arms wrapped around my body, making my skin crawl. My lungs seize, and my vision tunnels as he pulls me tighter to him. “Soon, my love.” He murmurs the promise against my ear before letting his hands fall.
I stand frozen for a second before screaming, “Gunnar!” This time, it’s not in panic, it’s absolute terror. Hands grab at me as I inhale the sickly sweet scent of the protea crushed against my chest. The crowd rushes at me again, and I fall, crying out for help. “Gunnar!”