7. Celina
SEVEN
CELINA
The Ferrari’s engine fell silent as Osias parked the sleek red machine into his spacious garage, the overhead lights automatically illuminating the pristine space that housed what appeared to be a small collection of luxury vehicles.
Celina remained seated, her hands still trembling slightly as the adrenaline from the attack continued to course through her system.
The events of the evening felt surreal—one moment she’d been enjoying the most genuine conversation she’d had in months, the next she was watching Trent get beaten bloody while two strangers tried to drag her away.
Who would want to kidnap her?
The question circled through her mind like a vulture.
Sure, she was famous—one of the most recognizable faces in the world—but she didn’t have any known stalkers.
No recent threats. No disgruntled ex-boyfriends, mainly because Rennick had made sure she barely had time for relationships.
This felt random, opportunistic, and that somehow made it more terrifying.
Before Osias could walk around to open her door, her phone buzzed insistently. Rennick’s name flashed across the screen, and her stomach clenched with familiar dread as she answered the call.
“Celina, where the hell are you?” His voice crackled through the speaker, sharp with anxiety and something that sounded almost like panic. “I went to your mansion and you’re not there. I saw the attack coverage on social media—what happened?”
His words tumbled out of him in a rush, but Celina noticed something that made her chest tighten with a strange mix of hurt and clarity.
Not once had he asked if she was okay. Not once had he inquired about her emotional state or whether she was injured.
His first concern was her location, not her wellbeing.
“I’m with Osias,” she said quietly, watching as he appeared outside her window, waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets. “I’m staying with him for a while.”
The silence that followed was deafening. When Rennick finally spoke, his voice had dropped to that dangerously controlled tone she recognized from contract negotiations gone wrong.
“Celina, that’s absolutely out of the question. Come stay with me—I’ll handle everything. I’ll find out who did this, I’ll take care of all the arrangements, and I’ll manage the press. Like I always do.”
The familiar refrain should have been comforting.
For thirty years, those words had been her safety net, her guarantee that someone else would shoulder the burden of decision-making.
But tonight, sitting in the passenger seat of a Ferrari belonging to a man she’d only met that morning, the offer felt suffocating rather than protective.
Something had shifted inside her during that dinner at Mancini’s, and something that had crystallized when those men tried to take her.
For the first time in her adult life, she felt safer with someone who wasn’t trying to manage her every move.
Someone who had asked what she wanted instead of telling her what she needed.
“No, Rennick. I’m staying with Osias. I’ll find a new bodyguard until Trent heals, I’ll handle the situation with the attack, and I’ll handle the press myself.”
The words felt foreign coming out of her mouth, but they also felt right. Liberating. Like she was finally speaking in her own voice instead of reciting lines someone else had written for her.
“This will look terrible in the press,” Rennick snapped, his composure finally cracking. “There are already rumors circulating online about you being seen with Osias Fellan. Do you have any idea what this will do to your image? To your career?”
Six months ago, that threat would have sent her into a panic.
Would have had her immediately changing course to protect the crafted public persona that had been built around her since childhood.
But tonight, after nearly being kidnapped, after watching Trent get hurt protecting her, after sitting across from a man who looked at her like she was more than just a collection of marketable attributes, she found she didn’t care about protecting an image that had never really belonged to her anyway.
“Don’t worry about it. I really need to go.”
She ended the call before he could argue further, cutting off what sounded like the beginning of a lecture about responsibility and public perception.
Her hands were shaking again, but this time it wasn’t from fear—it was from the rush of making a decision entirely on her own, without seeking permission or approval from anyone.
Osias appeared at her door, his blue eyes searching her face with quiet concern.
He’d clearly heard enough of the conversation to understand the tension, but instead of asking intrusive questions or offering unsolicited advice, he simply extended his hand to help her out of the car.
The gesture was courteous without being possessive, protective without being controlling.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she accepted his assistance, her legs still unsteady from the evening’s events.
He retrieved her overnight bag from behind her seat and guided her through the double doors that led from the garage into his mansion.
The moment she stepped inside, warmth enveloped her—not just the physical warmth of heated air, but something deeper.
This space felt alive in a way her Hollywood Hills mansion never had.
Where her home was all clean lines and expensive emptiness, designed more for magazine shoots than actual living, Osias’s home radiated personality and history.
Family photographs lined the walls, showing glimpses of gatherings and celebrations that spoke of genuine connection.
But what struck her most were the lion motifs scattered throughout the space—bronze sculptures, African artwork, even what appeared to be antique hunting photographs featuring magnificent wild cats.
“Wow, you really love lions,” she observed, running her fingers along the carved mane of a small statue positioned on a side table.
Something flickered across his expression—too quick to interpret—before he smiled. “They’ve always fascinated me. Powerful, protective, fiercely loyal.”
There was something in his tone that suggested deeper meaning, but before she could analyze it further, he was already moving toward what appeared to be a grand living room dominated by a massive stone fireplace.
“I can show you to the guest room whenever you’re ready,” he said, setting her bag down, “but if you’d prefer to sit and talk for a while...”
“Actually, yes.” Her response came out more quickly than she intended. “I need to process what happened tonight, and I don’t want to be alone right now.”
The admission felt vulnerable, but Osias simply nodded and moved toward the fireplace with the easy confidence of a man completely comfortable in his own space.
Within minutes, flames were crackling behind the grate, casting dancing shadows across the room and filling the air with the scent of burning cedar.
While he worked, Celina settled onto the plush leather sofa, sinking into cushions that actually felt like they were meant to be sat on rather than admired.
She watched him move with economical precision, every gesture purposeful and unhurried.
There was something mesmerizing about his calm competence, and the way he seemed to anticipate what was needed without being asked.
When the fire was properly established, he moved to a small bar positioned in the corner of the room. Crystal decanters caught the firelight, and she watched as he poured amber liquid into a heavy tumbler for himself before glancing in her direction.
“Vodka tonic?” he asked, as if he’d been paying attention to her drink preferences all evening.
She nodded gratefully, and soon he settled beside her on the sofa, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body but far enough away that she didn’t feel crowded.
When he handed her the drink, their fingers brushed, and she felt that same electric jolt that had shocked through her during their initial handshake at his office.
The vodka burned slightly as it went down, but it was a good burn—cleansing and clarifying. For once, Celina could actually breathe—not the shallow, performative breathing of red carpets and interviews, but deep breaths that reached all the way down to her toes.
The attack at her mansion felt like it had happened to someone else entirely.
Here, surrounded by the warmth of crackling cedar and the solid presence of the man beside her, she felt safer than she had in her own fortress of a home.
Safer than she would have felt at Rennick’s sterile Beverly Hills estate, where every surface was chosen for its ability to photograph well rather than provide comfort.
This feels right, she thought, stealing a glance at Osias’s profile as he stared into the flames.
The realization should have terrified her. She’d known this man for exactly twelve hours, and yet sitting beside him felt more natural than breathing. More real than any relationship she’d ever attempted under Rennick’s watchful management. But there was something she needed to understand first.
“So, how did you know I was in trouble?” The question emerged before she could second-guess herself. “You said you were driving by my house, but I get the sense there’s more to it.”
Osias went completely still beside her, and she watched his knuckles whiten around his bourbon glass. When he finally set his drink down and turned to face her fully, his blue eyes had darkened to something almost navy in the firelight.
“Celina, I don’t ever want to lie to you.” His voice carried a weight that made her pulse quicken. “I want you to know you can trust me and that you can tell me anything.”
When was the last time someone had said those words to her? When was the last time someone had cared more about her trust than her compliance?