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And then came the rejection.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even angry.

Just a shift.

A pulling away.

The sudden drop in heat when I expected fire.

And I spiraled.

Like a damn cliché, I spiraled.

So when Henry Bartleby—literal human toad and sleaziest agent in the tri-state area—offered me a spot in El Tigre’s music video? I said yes.

I shouldn’t have. I knew I shouldn’t have.

I’d said no to that oily bastard a dozen times over the years, ever since he tried to sign me at sixteen like I was some shiny new toy he could parade around.

But this time?

This time, I was angry.

I was hurt.

I was trying to prove—to him, to myself, to the world—that I wasn’t waiting around for Balor Cruz to decide if I was worthy of his time.

So I said yes.

To the music video.

To the glam.

To the strategically lit scenes that put me in all the headlines again.

It was supposed to be harmless.

A vanity gig.

A flashy distraction.

But now?

Now I’m neck-deep in this PR nightmare, and I’ve got my family, the media, and probably Balor himself looking at me like I just stepped off a ledge in six-inch heels and a sequined bodysuit.

God, what was I thinking?

I should’ve smiled and said no.

Should’ve stayed above it all.

Should’ve been smart.

But the truth is—I’m not always smart when it comes to my heart.

Because no matter how carefully I play the part of Lucy Volkov—heiress, fashion darling, socialite turned charity mistress—I’m still a girl who wants someone to look at her like she matters.

And Balor Cruz?