Love, Unscripted (Hollywood Stars #1)

Prologue

EIGHT YEARS AGO — MANHATTAN

Emily felt empty inside.

The ballroom was a blur of champagne flutes, designer dresses, and tailored suits. She’d been paraded around like a trophy all evening, long enough that this had to be it, or so she’d hoped.

At eighteen, Emily was a well-known actress, used to the spotlight, but tonight felt different. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was her birthday, but nobody except her older sister, Chelsea, seemed to care.

Speaking of which, Chelsea now pulled her to the side and handed her a candlelit cupcake. The smile on Emily’s face dropped when her sister was snatched away by their mother a second later. After making a wish, Emily set the cake to the side and escaped.

Past the hotel’s catering was a screening room she’d spotted during final check yesterday.

Inside, Blu-ray discs sat beside a player on a table.

Her fingers flipped through the titles: Nights of Cabiria, La Dolce Vita, Cinema Paradiso.

These were a few of her comfort films, despite her mother's gripe about their appropriateness.

The final choice was Nights of Cabiria. A familiar scene of a couple in a field greeted her on the screen.

When the dialogues started, Emily mouthed the lines, testing her retention for an upcoming audition.

Her agency promised the role was “career-changing”.

Emily was willing to bend until she broke to perfect the part she’d play, because there was no debate about whether she’d land it.

She would.

Footsteps interrupted Emily’s thoughts. She froze in her seated position. As the door opened, the girl switched the TV off and scrambled into a nearby closet. Surrounded by coats and linens, she peeked through the crack in the door to see a young man step inside.

He looked twenty at most and enviously tall for his age. His dark hair was groomed, swept back from his face, but his suit looked a little too big for comfort.

He was followed by a man with eyes as dark as a storm. When said man closed the door behind him, he swallowed the young man up in them.

“Continuerai a umiliarmi così? Continuerai a essere debole? Alla tua età facevo più di quanto tu avresti potuto immaginare.”

She understood a few words thanks to watching the Italian versions of so many films, and boy, was he angry.

The young man didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, his eyes locked onto the carpet. If she hadn’t seen him walk in earlier, she would’ve thought he was a statue.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Nicolas.”

Nicolas’s eyes snapped up. That was when Emily noticed their color. Dark brown. Like rich coffee beans.

Her eyes went back to the man who’d spoken.

Riccardo Re.

The CEO of a media group that had expanded into North America. He was Italian, domineering and feared by many in the film industry due to rumors of him having ties to the mafia. Emily only knew this because her mother had made her memorize every name on the guest list and everything about them.

And this young man, Nicolas Re, was his son.

At the next act, she had to stifle a gasp by slapping her hand over her mouth.

Riccardo grasped the front of his son’s suit harshly. “Don’t make me have this conversation with you again. I expect you to act accordingly. Understood?”

No answer.

He repeated it roughly. “Understood?”

The young man nodded.

With one last look, Riccardo left, slamming the door behind him.

Silence filled the air.

Emily could hear her own heartbeats.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

And then…sniffles.

Her breath hitched.

The young man’s body was trembling. He wiped his face profusely with the back of his hand. Almost like what was happening angered him.

Emily hesitated, wondering if there was a chance the earth could yawn, swallow her up and transport her somewhere else. Anywhere else. But that was highly unlikely and the air inside the closet had become suffocating, so she pushed the door open.

Nicolas jumped, his head whipping around. His eyes were red, but he still blinked fast, trying to erase the evidence of him crying.

Emily stepped forward, removing a small, embroidered handkerchief from her clutch. It was white with tiny gold stars stitched along the edges, one of her mother’s many accessories.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”

He stared at her.

“I didn’t mean to spy.” She felt the need for clarification under his heavy gaze. “I was watching a movie. I didn’t know anyone would barge in. I thought it was my mother looking for me, so I...”

“You hid in the closet.” His hoarse voice finished. He immediately cleared his throat at the state of it.

“She’s not exactly the biggest fan of what I was watching.” A sheepish smile came as her arm held out the handkerchief. “And I don’t understand everything your father said, but I know you shouldn’t listen to him. My grandmother always says nobody with that tone of voice deserves an audience.”

Nicolas was stunned. Then he recovered quickly, his lips pressing tight before he spoke again. “You said you don’t understand everything, so I take it you understood something.” His eyes assessed her. “What was it?”

“Um...” she hesitated, but his stare was so insisting, pulling the words right out of her. “I think he said you were weak.”

“You think?” he repeated with a grumble, almost making her laugh, not at the situation, but at how unexpectedly comical he was while doing that.

“I’m sure you’re no—”

“You don’t know me.”

Emily’s humor died instantly. “Right.”

She swallowed harshly, battling the urge to fuss with her hair or dress, a habit her mother scolded as poor taste.

Nicolas blew out a breath, his index finger twitching by his side. “Do you want to know what else he said?” He continued before she had the chance to respond. “He asked if I’ll continue to humiliate him. When he was my age, he’d accomplished far more than I could imagine.”

She frowned deeply. “I know it’s cliché, but comparison is the thief of joy, Nicolas. I’m sure you’ll achieve great things. Things that’ll make him regret saying what he did.”

His brows furrowed deeply, then he paused. “I’m just now realizing you haven’t told me your name.”

She lifted her chin, her smile making its return. “I’m Emily. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Nicolas’s lips twitched ever so slightly she thought she’d imagined it. “You say it like you’re royalty or something.”

Emily’s hands moved animatedly when she noticed his tone was lighter than before. “My family likes to pretend we are. Hosting a gala of this scale every year and all.”

“I guess that makes you the youngest heiress, Emily Pinault.”

“In the flesh.” She gave a small curtsy, more clumsy than graceful. It caused her to lose balance for a split second. He let out something that sounded like a snort. “Pretend…pretend you didn’t see that.”

Nicolas’s eyes cleared as he looked at her, really looked at her. His gaze dusted over the expanse of her face, flushed cheeks, scrunched nose and all. “I’ll try,” he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching again as though fighting a smile. “Thank you, Emily.”

His hand finally reached out and accepted the handkerchief. Their fingers brushed with the motion. Tingles spread from their point of contact all the way up her arm, vibrating beneath her skin. Her breath caught, having never felt anything like this before.

His fingers curled tightly around the handkerchief as they broke apart.

Emily twiddled her thumbs, suddenly feeling abashed. “You’re welcome.”

They stood there for a moment, before her words came tumbling out. “You don’t have to be like him, you know?”

Nicolas blinked, looking confused. “Excuse me?”

She gestured toward the hallway. “Your father. You don’t have to be like him. You can be respected without scaring the living sh—I mean, daylights out of everyone.”

He glanced down at the handkerchief in his hand briefly, then back at her. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” she stressed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He didn’t respond. His brows, however, lifted and his eyes held a flicker of realization, as though she’d just solved some longstanding riddle for him.

Without another word, Emily walked to the door. She paused before opening it, glancing over her shoulder.

“Good luck, Nicolas.”

He nodded, still clutching the handkerchief.

“Goodbye, Emily.”

Then she turned the knob and walked out, leaving him with little stars dancing in the palm of his hand.