Never Date a Celebrity

Prologue

People were still whispering about her. Nearly six months had passed since Imogen King’s very public humiliation, yet there were times when she still felt eyes tracking her across the open-plan office at Clover Insurance.

Conversations dipped when she walked by.

Heads snapped back to computer screens as if they’d never wandered in the first place.

It didn’t happen as often as before, but more often than Imogen wanted.

That was the thing about having the worst moment of your life posted online.

It never quite managed to make it into the past. Especially not when Imogen’s ex-girlfriend kept uploading fresh edits of it, each one tweaked just enough to garner attention all over again.

And so the cycle continued. Not that Imogen watched the videos—no way.

She had deleted every social media app long before that day had even happened.

But unfortunately, avoiding the videos didn’t mean Imogen had been able to escape them. Not totally at least.

In the beginning, a freshly heartbroken Imogen had given in to curiosity.

She’d asked Piper, one of her best friends, to keep her in the loop.

Not with all the awful details, of which there were plenty—people could be mean.

But just enough so she was armed and prepared for what she might be walking into when she entered a room full of people who knew far too much about her personal life. At least, a version of it.

In the end, Imogen decided that knowing hurt her more than it helped, and after a month or so she had asked Piper to stop.

Yes, ignorance was better, as Imogen had quickly learned, and she shifted her focus to healing rather than dwelling.

Imogen wasn’t naive. She knew that her heart would survive, and she knew that this would all blow over eventually.

It wasn’t some kind of earth-shattering event from which she would never recover.

But was it highly unpleasant? Yes. Would she ever want to be in the same situation again? Hell no.

That morning, as she crossed the office, Imogen was aware of a couple of pitiful looks thrown her way paired with some hushed conversation.

With an inward sigh, she couldn’t help but wonder whether the whispers were about the original videos, or if another version had gone live overnight.

She shook her head quickly and pushed the thought away.

When she reached her desk, Imogen set down her bag and forced a steady breath.

She didn’t care what people thought. Nor did she care if they stared or gossiped.

Such was office life, especially in Clover.

Besides, most of the people she knew were kind.

They were on her side. But the one thing that Imogen did care about was how easily it all came flooding back.

It only took one of those whispers. One look.

One sympathetic smile. And suddenly she was back there again—back in the day she had spent six months trying to forget, and in the wreckage that followed.

Imogen closed her eyes, and the office around her disappeared.

She was outside Chelsea’s flat, rain dripping from the hood of her coat, clutching a damp Tesco bag full of Chelsea’s favourite treats.

Imogen had detoured on the way over after Chelsea texted her to say that she’d had “the worst day” and needed cheering up.

Even then, soaked through and shivering on the doorstep, Imogen still genuinely believed she was arriving to help.

That’s what they did for each other. Or they used to, at least.

When Imogen let herself in with the key Chelsea had surprised her with a couple of months into their relationship, she noticed that Chelsea’s ring light was switched on, bathing the living room in a white glare.

Chelsea sat in the centre of the cream sofa, hair curled, makeup immaculate, her phone clipped into a tripod in front of her.

The room had been staged, Imogen knew the drill by then.

Candles were lit and strategically placed, cushions were plumped, straightened, and perfect, and Chelsea’s favourite blue blanket was folded neatly over the armrest of the sofa.

Even the rain on the windows worked to add to the ambience Chelsea was working so hard to portray.

“Finally,” Chelsea said, glancing up. “I thought you were never going to get here.”

Imogen held up the bag and smiled despite the irritated greeting. “I stopped to get your favourites. There’s chocolate. Crisps. Soup, in case it’s your voice getting strained again. That pink drink you love so much.”

Chelsea’s gaze flicked to the bag, then away. “Just leave them in the kitchen.”

No thank you. No smile. Nothing.

Imogen felt a sting in her chest. Something was wrong. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Your message sounded bad.”

“I’m fine now.” Chelsea leaned over, adjusting the neckline of her top and checking herself in the phone screen. “Sit down,” she said impatiently.

Something in her tone made Imogen freeze. “Why?”

“I’m filming.”

Couldn’t they talk first? Maybe Chelsea just needed a break. She worked so damn hard some days. “Chelsea…”

“Please don’t start.” Chelsea sighed dramatically. “I need this to go smoothly.”

Imogen slowly set the bag on the counter.

She noticed a cold takeaway container in the bin, an array of makeup products spread haphazardly across the table, and a load of clothes flung over the kitchen chair.

Chelsea had clearly spent a lot of time preparing for whatever this was.

“What are we filming?” Imogen asked carefully.

“A life update.”

“With me?” Imogen didn’t love being on camera, but she forced herself to make an appearance when Chelsea asked her to.

“With us,” Chelsea said. Only she said it like Imogen was being difficult. “God, can you try to be supportive for once?”

Imogen stared at her. Supportive. She had spent three years being supportive.

Supportive when Chelsea filmed in restaurants and neither of them were allowed to touch their food until it had gone cold.

When events and holidays became filming opportunities.

When every date night paused for constant photos and videos.

When strangers called Chelsea dreadful names online and Imogen stayed up half the night reporting comments in the hope they’d get taken down.

Imogen had even remained supportive when people openly judged her own clothes, face, voice, demeanour—anything visible in Chelsea’s posts.

She had reassured Chelsea when she cried over follower dips and anonymous hate.

She had stood by Chelsea’s dream even though it felt like Chelsea had slowly turned their relationship into a product.

But if Imogen ever asked for one private moment—one meal, one walk, one weekend without a phone in her face—somehow, she became the villain.

Still, she sat down. Because she loved Chelsea. Because she kept hoping the girl she met before all of this blew up was still in there somewhere. She had to be.

Chelsea smiled brightly at the camera and pressed record. “Hey, guys.” Her voice softened into the sweet tone she used online. “I know loads of you have been asking if I’m okay lately.” She gave a tiny laugh. “And I always promised I’d be real with you, so…”

The look Chelsea gave her made Imogen’s stomach drop.

Chelsea turned back to the camera and continued. “Imogen and I have decided to end our relationship.”

The words didn’t completely register at first. “What?”

Chelsea kept smiling at the phone. “Sometimes two people love each other but outgrow each other.”

“Chelsea.” Imogen’s voice came out thin. She swallowed. “Would you mind…um, would you turn that off?”

Chelsea lifted one finger to silence her. “I’ve changed so much these last few years,” she told her audience. “I’ve worked hard, built a career, become more confident. But not everyone wants to see you grow.”

Imogen felt the blood drain from her face. “Please stop filming. Let’s talk. If I’ve done something to upset you then we can talk about it. Just us.”

Chelsea ignored her. “Sometimes the people closest to you keep you small because it makes them feel better.”

Imogen recoiled. “What are you doing?”

“Being honest.”

“Honest? Where is the honesty here?” Imogen would never make Chelsea feel that way. She was her biggest cheerleader.

Chelsea’s eyes flashed, but her smile never slipped. “See? This is exactly what I mean. Negativity. Constant negativity.”

Imogen could barely speak. “I have done nothing but support you.”

“Support? You call that support? You tolerated me, at best,” Chelsea snapped. “There’s a difference. You’ve never liked what I do. My passion. My people.”

“That’s not true. I’ve always just wanted to protect you.”

“From what?” Chelsea laughed lightly to the camera. “Success?”

“From people being vile to you. From running yourself into the ground. From strangers knowing where you lived.”

“Oh my God.” Chelsea rolled her eyes. “You always made everything a drama.”

Imogen stared at her. This woman had sobbed in her arms over hate comments. Had begged Imogen to read through messages first when trolls got cruel. Had once made Imogen drive across the city at midnight because someone online called her the most horrible of things.

And now she was acting like Imogen had imagined it all. Like she hadn’t held Chelsea tight, and comforted her, and reminded her of how incredible she was.

Chelsea turned back to the camera, eyes suddenly glossy. “I need someone who believes in me. Someone excited by my future, not embarrassed by it.”

Imogen’s heart cracked clean through. “I have never been embarrassed about you.”

Chelsea looked at her then—really looked. Cold. Impatient. “I’m live here, Imogen. Your lies and excuses aren’t going to work. My followers will keep me strong.” She turned back. “Won’t you, guys?”