Page 1 of The Road to You

LENA

T he morning light filters through my bedroom window, painting the room in soft hues. I blink against the gentle glow, turning over just enough to catch a glimpse of the impossibly blue sky welcoming me.

I’ll never tire of this view, with the lush green of the trees peeking out from the property below mine, and the Los Angeles sky stretching bright.

A stark contrast with the Minnesota weather of my childhood.

Even on those rare, foggy mornings when June gloom sweeps the coastal neighborhoods, the Los Feliz Hills always seem to be spared those cloudy skies.

I stretch, toss the covers aside, and pad barefoot across the cool hardwood floors.

Swinging open the French doors to my garden, I breathe in the warm, jasmine-scented air and smile.

It’s the perfect weather for morning meditation.Finding this house had been a year-long journey of open houses, bidding wars, and not-so-veiled disappointments.

But the moment I stepped inside with my realtor, I just knew.

The light, the energy, the way the walls seemed to call my name, I knew it was The One.

A lot of A-list actors and fellow colleagues don’t even bother with the house-hunting. They send assistants to weed out the ones that don’t meet their requirements, stepping in only at the last minute to sign papers and take selfies in front of their new swimming pool.

Not me. I want to feel the vibes of a place and let its welcoming energy wrap around me like my favorite blanket.

Preston, my boyfriend, loves to tease me about it.

He calls me a spoiled Hollywood star with an undertone of insecurity.

But I think he’s just jealous. While I’m sipping tea on my sun-drenched patio, he’s shuffling boxes between rentals, grumbling about bad layouts and street noise.

But hey, if a busy, famous director doesn’t have time for “mundane things” like finding a home, that’s on him. Let him talk while I enjoy every bit of my sanctuary.

After a blissful hour of meditation, I wander into the kitchen, greeted by the quiet humming of a sweet song by Rose, my housekeeper, who stands at the counter with a bowl of colorful, freshly cut fruit before her.

“Good morning, Miss Sinclair,” she says when she notices me.

I’ve asked her a thousand times to call me Lena, but she insists on keeping things professional. I stopped fighting it years ago.

“Morning, Rose. How’s your day going so far?”

“Very well, thank you.” She sets the fruit bowl and a steaming cup of coffee on the counter in front of where I’m sitting. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take your dress to the dry cleaner’s this morning. I couldn’t quite manage to get rid of that stain.”

Ah, yes. A splash of red wine now mars the gorgeous, ivory dress, courtesy of Preston’s waving hands as he animatedly talked about his latest movie at a party. I’d been hoping to save it from the trash, but hope is fading now. It’s a shame. I loved that dress and hoped to wear it again this summer.

“If you want, I can drop it off on my way back from the gym,” I offer. “I’ll be heading that way anyway.”

The suggestion horrifies her. Her eyes widen, and she clutches her chest like I stabbed her.

“Oh, no, Miss Sinclair. Please enjoy your morning. Don’t worry about the dress. I just wanted you to know in case you wondered where it went.”

I smile, not surprised. Rose never lets me lift a finger when she’s around.

Sometimes, it feels strange, this change from my childhood, where chores were done by the whole family.

My sister and I grew up washing dishes, folding laundry, and cooking alongside my parents.

I come from a middle-class family where both our parents worked long hours to make ends meet, and everyone in the house helped out.

Now, the only thing I fold is a yoga mat.

“Thank you, Rose. But you know if you ever need a hand, I’m here.”

Her smile softens. “I know, Miss Sinclair.” With practiced grace, she wipes down the countertop and disappears down the hall, moving so quietly I half wonder if this house has secret passages.

I finish my breakfast, rinse my bowl, and tuck it into the dishwasher before grabbing my gym bag. As I drive my SUV through the gate, the world shifts from calm to chaos.

A wave of paparazzi invades my driveway with their cameras flashing and their bodies pressing too close to my car. I’m almost afraid I’ll hit some of them on my way to the gym.

“What the heck?” I mutter, gripping the wheel as I inch forward, careful not to drive over anyone’s foot.

I’m no stranger to the attention. Being a famous actress comes with its fair share of lack of privacy. But this is madness. They’re never this aggressive, especially when I’m not filming and just living my life.

I finally break free of the horde, and the roar of voices fades behind me. My blood pulses in my ears as I glance into the rearview mirror.

What on earth had set them off this morning?

When I finally make it to the gym, the uneasiness from the paparazzi still twists in my stomach.

I’m grateful to have a space where I can burn off the lingering worry with a good, sweaty workout.

Already dressed in my gym attire, I give Sam at the front desk a quick wave and head straight for the treadmills.

Choosing this gym had been a strategic move.

Concealed in a gated commercial complex, it offers a level of privacy that is hard to find in Los Angeles.

Only gym members and those working in the offices above have access, which means no lurking paparazzi and no strangers sneaking photos over the lifting bench.

The steep membership fee and strict vetting process explain why the place accommodates celebrities and high-profile clients.

Here, nobody cares that I’m Lena Sinclair, the Hollywood star.

The main workout room is bright and airy, and rows of treadmills are lined up to face floor-to-ceiling windows.

Outside, the murals covering the gray wall are a pleasant, colorful distraction to look at.

But my eyes are drawn to the three big TVs hanging above the windows, all tuned to the same talk show.

The hosts lean in close, their expressions practically vibrating with gossip.

I drape my towel over a treadmill and wander to the water dispenser, filling my bottle while trying to shake off the morning’s weirdness. That’s when I catch the two women by the free weights sneaking glances at me with their heads tilted together, deep in a hushed conversation.

They’re not new here. We’ve exchanged small talk before, and opinions about the yoga classes we attend together. But today their smiles are tight, like I caught them doing something wrong. My skin prickles.

It could be nothing. After run-ins with the paparazzi, I always feel like everyone is staring. I look down to make sure I’m appropriately dressed—leggings, a sports bra, a loose tank top. Not naked. Not a bad dream. I’m fine . I reassure myself.

I return to the treadmill, pulling my phone and earbuds from my bag, only to find my phone dead.

That explains why I haven’t heard from anyone this morning.

Normally, I don’t check my phone until after my workout.

I like keeping my mornings stress-free, easing into the day without the noise of emails or social media.

My entourage knows better than to bother me unless it’s urgent.

I step onto the treadmill, set it to a light jog, and let my eyes drift back to the talk show. There’s no audio, just the hosts’ exaggerated expressions and a montage of clips behind them.

I squint.

The screen flashes to an old interview of Preston and me, side by side, promoting our latest movie. My pulse quickens.

Did I miss a media alert? I need to call Greta, my publicist. She never forgets to keep me in the loop, but maybe something slipped through her busy schedule. Before I can piece it together, the screen shifts, a magazine cover fills the frame, and my heart stutters.

In the upper corner is my headshot—the same smiling photo from my IMDb page. But it’s the image beneath it that squeezes the air out of my lungs.

It’s a blurry shot, probably taken from a great distance, but unmistakable.

Preston, my boyfriend of four years, is passionately kissing Ronan Kavinsky, the lead actor in his new movie. Preston’s hand is shoved down the front of Ronan’s pants, their bodies pressed against the side of a trailer.

Everything around me falls away, and my ears buzz with the rush of blood pumping into my body.

The treadmill keeps moving, but I don’t. My foot catches, and I lurch forward, gripping the handrails just in time to avoid hitting my face on the hard equipment. My knees buckle, and I hit the emergency stop button, stopping the machine before making a fool of myself.

Breathe, Lena. Hold it together .

The room feels suffocating. The thud of weights, the steady hum of treadmills, and the distant rhythm of pop music blend into a confused noise.

My vision blurs with tears, and I force myself to blink.

I focus on the polished floor beneath my sneakers.

Years of smiling on red carpets and dodging uncomfortable questions teach you one thing: how to hold back tears until you’re safely behind closed doors.

I grab my towel and gym bag, slipping off the treadmill as smoothly as I can manage. My limbs feel wooden, and my expression is locked in a polite mask. The women by the weights watch me. Their eyes are a little too wide, and even their whispers cease as they witness my walk of shame.

I nod at Sam as I pass the front desk, my lips stretching into a tight, unnatural smile.

Outside, the sun shines too brightly, and the air is too sharp. I fumble with my keys, slide into my SUV, and slam the door shut. The silence hits me like a wave, and I suck in slow breaths until I’m sure I won’t shatter.