Chapter 1

I caught the high school reunion message right after wrapping a red carpet livestream.

The organizers had bumped me from the second row to the fifth at the last minute because Stella James showed up.

She was today's special guest and got seated front and center in row one, with cameras constantly panning to her radiant smile.

My seat ended up right next to the aisle.

My assistant muttered under her breath, "Lily, they invited us first."

"Drop it," I said, glancing down at my phone.

The group chat was still called "Ridgemont High '16 Forever."

The newest message came from our class president. [Hey everyone! Stella's back in town, so we're doing a reunion this Saturday. Thinking The Willow Club. Let me know if you can make it.]

A flood of responses came in. [I'm there!] [Count me in!] [Definitely coming!]

Stella replied: [You guys are too sweet!] Then she dropped a Venmo link loaded with three thousand dollars.

Instantly, dozens of "Thanks boss!" messages lit up the screen.

Then someone created a new group chat.

Everyone was in it except Stella and my secret husband, Ryan Stone.

*****

The new group chat was called "Cupid."

Emily Brooks had created it. She had been Stella's high school deskmate and her most devoted fan.

Emily announced: [Everyone, inside scoop! Stella came back this time because she's planning to build her career here permanently. And the best part? She's single! She just told me herself on the red carpet!]

The group chat exploded.

Someone responded: [Holy shit, Emily, you're a legend!]

Another person asked: [What about Ryan? Did you dig up anything?]

Emily replied: [I did! His manager says Ryan's focused on his career right now, and his relationship status is private. But I've been watching, and he's never worn a wedding ring. He's never been photographed with anyone either. I'm like ninety percent sure he's single too!]

[Back then, the James family tore this golden couple apart. So many people never got over it. Now Stella's fighting her way back here, so we need to help make this happen!]

Another member questioned: [But Ryan's a huge star now. Will he even show up?]

Someone shot back: [Who cares if he's famous? Last year at the final stop of Ryan's tour, he sang 'Starlit Night.' That song was obviously written for Stella.]

[When he got to the line 'You were the starlight I didn't dare touch in my youth,' he turned around to wipe his tears. The big screen caught the whole thing!]

[And that bracelet on his wrist? He's worn it for nearly ten years. It has to be a love token from Stella!]

[I also heard Ryan's super sentimental in private. He still uses his fountain pen from high school with 'R&S' engraved on it!]

*****

I turned off my phone screen and sank back into the van seat.

Outside the window, the city lights blurred into streaks of color as we drove past, reminding me of how quickly the years had slipped away.

I was Lily Forrest, twenty-eight, a struggling actress stuck at the bottom of the industry.

My acting skills were decent enough, and my face was pretty in an understated way. Two low-budget web series had given me a small foothold in the business, enough that people occasionally recognized my name.

But I carried a secret that no one knew. I was Ryan's wife.

The marriage was so hidden that it barely existed.

We had been married for two years, but we had never held a wedding ceremony or taken wedding photos. Even his obsessive fans believed we were nothing more than high school classmates who had stayed in touch.

Our two marriage certificates sat locked in the safe in his study, buried like evidence of a crime we needed to hide.

My assistant, Mia Newman, glanced back at me. "Lily, Emily just messaged me privately asking if you're coming to the reunion tonight. What should I tell her?"

"Tell her I have work," I said.

"But you don't have any bookings starting tomorrow," Mia trailed off, confused.

"Then tell her my mother is critically ill and I need to stay with her at the hospital."

Mia froze. "Wait, your mom is—"

"Just do what I said," I cut her off.

The car pulled into the underground garage. I put on my mask and hat, then took the private elevator straight to the top floor.

The fingerprint lock beeped open, and the entryway lights flickered on.

Ryan sat on the living room sofa, holding his tablet. The screen displayed a script written entirely in a foreign language.

He glanced up. His gaze was indifferent. "You're back."

"Yeah."

I kicked off my heels and stepped barefoot onto the carpet. "I'm going to the hospital tomorrow to stay with my mom. I won't be coming back for a few days."

Ryan's eyes dropped to my feet. "Put shoes on. The floor's cold."

I ignored him and walked to the open kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.

We had been married for two years and lived in this penthouse apartment like two strangers sharing a lease.

He was A-list. I was B-list. Our work never overlapped, and our schedules never synced.

He filmed night scenes until dawn while I ran through daytime press events. He reviewed scripts in his study while I analyzed footage in the media room.

Even the food in our refrigerator was stored in separate sections. His side held organic salads and meal-prepped containers. Mine was stocked with frozen pizzas and microwave dinners.

The only proof of our marriage came down to two things—the household allowance he transferred to my account on the first of every month, and the two marriage certificates locked in the safe that no one ever saw.

"Oh, by the way." I turned around with the glass in my hand. "There's a high school reunion this Saturday night. Are you going?"

Ryan set down his tablet. "When was this decided?"

"People have been talking about it in the group chat. Emily's organizing it to welcome Stella back to the country."

The air went still for a moment.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights glittered brilliantly and cast shadows across his sharp profile.

"I'm not going." He picked up his tablet again. "I have work."

The answer didn't surprise me.

I nodded and turned toward the bedroom.

"Lily," he called out suddenly.

I turned back.

Ryan stood up and walked over to me.

He towered over me by nearly a head, and when he looked down, his lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes. The scent of cedarwood drifted from him.

It was the signature cologne he endorsed, some luxury brand.

"Your mother," he said. "Do you need me to come with you to the hospital?"

"No," I answered.

I gave him a small smile. "If you show up, the hospital will shut down from the chaos."

He smiled back, though it barely touched his face.

Those eyes, his fans claimed, held entire galaxies and showed almost no emotion. They reminded me of a still lake, undisturbed and calm.

Suddenly, I remembered years ago, back in high school, at the championship basketball game. Ryan had sunk the winning three-pointer while the crowd erupted in cheers.

Stella had rushed onto the court and jumped up to throw her arms around his neck.

Seventeen-year-old Ryan's ears had turned bright red, but he had grinned with his eyes crinkling at the corners. His whole face had come alive with joy.

That was the Ryan who used to blush, who laughed from his chest, whose eyes actually sparkled with light.

He wasn't this version standing before me now, the A-list celebrity whose every smile was calculated down to the exact curve of his lips.

And he certainly wasn't my husband.