3. Celina
THREE
CELINA
Sunlight flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Celina’s Hollywood Hills mansion, painting her bedroom in shades of orange and gold that would have made any cinematographer smile.
She’d been awake for hours staring at the ceiling with her clock on the nightstand ticking toward the most important meeting of her life.
Osias Fellan.
The name alone sent electricity coursing through her veins.
In less than three hours, she would be sitting across from the most sought-after CEO in the entertainment industry—a man whose company had transformed from a single production house into an empire that made studios tremble and competitors scramble for scraps.
The same man who funded passion projects other executives wouldn’t touch, who somehow managed to balance commercial success with authentic storytelling in ways that defied every rule of Hollywood.
And he had agreed to meet with her.
The impossibility of it still made her dizzy.
Osias Fellan didn’t take meetings. He didn’t need to.
Directors begged for his attention, A-list actors rearranged schedules around his availability, and entire studios restructured deals hoping to earn his partnership.
The fact that Gerri—a woman she’d met for exactly five minutes—had somehow arranged this meeting felt like discovering a winning lottery ticket on the sidewalk.
Celina threw back her Egyptian cotton sheets and padded barefoot across the marble floors toward her walk-in closet, her mind spinning through possibilities.
If Osias could help Bates Films navigate their current financial crisis, if he saw potential in the authentic stories her company desperately wanted to tell, if he understood that her production house represented something more than profit margins and box office projections, it would save the one thing in her life that was truly hers.
The walk-in closet stretched before her like a boutique designed by someone with unlimited resources and absolutely no sense of restraint.
Racks of designer gowns, casual wear, business attire, and red carpet masterpieces filled every available inch of space, organized by color and occasion with museum-level precision.
Shoes lined custom shelving that reached toward the vaulted ceiling, and jewelry sparkled from climate-controlled display cases that belonged in Tiffany’s.
But standing in the middle of it all, Celina felt completely lost.
What do you wear to save your dream and your independence?
She pulled out a blue Armani gown that had graced three magazine covers, then immediately hung it back.
Too formal. Too “look at me, I’m a movie star.
” Next came a crisp white blazer with matching trousers—severe, professional, the kind of outfit that screamed competence and demanded respect.
But something about it felt wrong, like she’d be performing the role of successful businesswoman rather than actually being one.
Her fingers moved to a flowing sundress in emerald green, casual enough to suggest approachability but elegant enough to maintain dignity.
Then a black cocktail dress that hugged every curve.
A burgundy silk blouse paired with dark jeans.
Each option felt simultaneously perfect and completely inappropriate.
This is ridiculous.
She’d worn million-dollar gowns to the Academy Awards without breaking a sweat, had walked red carpets while cameras captured every angle and reporters shouted questions about her personal life, had performed in front of audiences of thousands without feeling this level of anxiety about her appearance.
But somehow, choosing an outfit for one man in one room felt more terrifying than all of it combined.
She finally reached for her phone and called the one person who could help in exactly this type of situation.
“What’s the crisis now with Rennick?” Daya’s voice came through the speaker bright and knowing after the first ring.
Despite everything, Celina laughed. “Surprisingly, this isn’t about Rennick right now.”
“Oh, then what has you calling before eight AM?”
Celina took a breath that felt too shallow. “I have a meeting this morning with Osias Fellan.”
“The Osias Fellan? The most sought-after CEO in the entertainment industry who also happens to be the most eligible bachelor in Hollywood and so devastatingly attractive it should be illegal?” Daya’s voice climbed an octave with each word, transforming from curiosity to barely contained excitement. “That Osias Fellan?”
“Yes, Daya. That one.” Celina sank onto the edge of her bed, suddenly grateful for her best friend’s predictable enthusiasm. “And I have absolutely no idea what to wear.”
“This is good news, right? This could be exactly what Bates Films needs.” The sound of movement came through the phone—Daya probably pacing around her apartment the way she always did when problem-solving. “How did this even happen?”
“A fan arranged it. Some woman named Gerri who showed up on set yesterday and claimed she could get me a meeting.” Even saying it out loud made the entire situation sound absurd. “I know it sounds crazy, but—“
“Honey, in this town, the crazy connections are usually the ones that work.” Daya’s voice carried the authority of someone who’d spent years navigating Hollywood’s labyrinthine social networks.
“Now, about the outfit crisis. Are you thinking glamorous movie star, serious businesswoman, or approachable creative type?”
Celina stared at the explosion of clothing surrounding her, each option representing a different version of herself she could choose to perform. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes trying to figure out which Celina Bates he needs to meet.”
“Wrong thinking.” Daya’s voice gentled, taking on the tone she used when cutting through Celina’s spiraling anxiety.
“Don’t go with the famous actress vibe—that’s not why he’s meeting with you.
And don’t go with the stuffy businesswoman thing either, because that’s not who you are. Just be yourself.”
Be herself?
The suggestion hung between them like a challenge Celina wasn’t sure she knew how to accept. After thirty years of being told exactly who to be in every situation, the concept of authenticity felt both liberating and terrifying.
“I don’t even know who that is these days,” she admitted, the words slipping out.
“Yes, you do.” Daya’s voice carried absolute certainty.
“You’re the woman who founded a production company because she wanted to tell stories that mattered.
You’re the person who refuses to compromise on projects she believes in, even when it costs money.
You’re my best friend who steals French fries and laughs too loudly at terrible jokes and gets genuinely excited about Hallmark movies. ”
Celina felt something tight in her chest begin to loosen. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Because it is simple. Just wear what makes you feel comfortable and confident. Confidence is key today.”
Confidence.
The word resonated through Celina’s body like a tuning fork finding its perfect pitch. Not the manufactured confidence of red carpets and photo shoots, but something deeper. Something real.
“You’re right,” Celina said, already moving back toward her closet with renewed purpose. “Confidence is key.”
“Exactly. Now go knock his socks off and save your company. I’ll be waiting for a full report.”
“I’ll call you after.” Celina ended the call and surveyed her options with fresh eyes.
Her fingers found a charcoal gray pencil skirt that hugged her curves without being obvious about it, paired with a silk blouse in deep green that brought out her eyes and suggested both professionalism and femininity.
The outfit struck the perfect balance—elegant without being showy, businesslike without being severe, attractive without screaming for attention.
She slipped into the clothes, added understated jewelry and heels that gave her height without sacrificing comfort, then studied her reflection in the full-length mirror.
The woman looking back at her appeared poised, intelligent, and genuinely beautiful. She looked like someone worth taking seriously. Someone who belonged in boardrooms and creative meetings and conversations that mattered.
“You’ve got this,” she told her reflection, surprised by how much she actually believed it.
Celina grabbed her purse from the small writing desk near the bedroom’s sitting area, checking that she had everything she needed: business cards, her phone, the portfolio of Bates Films projects she’d compiled the night before, and enough confidence to walk into Osias Fellan’s office and convince him that her small production company deserved his attention.
Minutes later, the grand staircase curved elegantly toward the mansion’s main floor, her heels clicking against marble in a rhythm that sounded like determination.
Morning light streamed through the massive windows as she descended the last step and made her way across the grand foyer, the sunshine illuminating artwork she’d collected over years of success but rarely had time to actually appreciate.
When she finally stepped out of her mansion’s front entrance, her bodyguard Trent stood beside his black SUV, checking his phone with the patient professionalism of someone accustomed to accommodating his employer’s schedule. When he saw her approaching, he immediately moved to open the rear door.
“Good morning, Miss Bates.” His voice carried the respectful warmth of someone who’d been part of her entourage for years. “Ready for your meeting?”