Chapter 2: Trending Scandal

When the news broke that Carter Hayes was dating a rising pop star, I was holed up in Studio B at Sunset Sound, mastering his latest album. The walls were lined with platinum records, the air thick with the smell of old coffee and cables.

The monitors were blasting at full volume, so it took me a full ten seconds to register my assistant’s frantic voice coming through my AirPods and vibrating phone.

I was hunched over the mixing board, letting the bass shake through my bones, when my phone buzzed for the third time. My assistant’s voice finally cut through, panicked: “Ms. Monroe, have you seen Twitter? Carter’s blowing up—he’s trending everywhere!”

Carter had been snapped by TMZ entering a Beverly Hills hotel with the starlet, and Twitter had already lost its mind.

Screenshots everywhere—Carter in an oversized hoodie, the starlet gripping his arm like she’d won the lottery. Hashtags multiplying by the second: #CarterHayesCaught, #NewItCouple. I knew what was next: TikTok hot takes, Instagram Reels, Reddit threads dissecting every frame.

Neither side said a word—not a tweet, not a story, not a single denial. In LA, silence is as good as a guilty plea.

I stared at my phone, feeling my pulse thud in my ears, the world narrowing to a single point of light.

My assistant, voice softer now, tried to reassure me: “Ms. Monroe, the media’s probably just stirring the pot. Carter wouldn’t… you know…”

She trailed off, and I could almost picture her nervously twisting her phone cord. Everyone knew Carter’s reputation. If there was a party in Hollywood, he was there—smiling for the cameras, making promises he’d forget by morning.

I inhaled, slow and deep. “I’ll handle it.”

My voice was steady, but my hands trembled as I pressed my palm against the cold metal edge of the soundboard, grounding myself so I wouldn’t fall apart.

I found an empty office, closed the door, and dialed Carter’s number, staring at the silent cityscape outside the window.

No answer. Just the echo of my own breathing and the faint hum of LA traffic below.

On the wall hung a massive promo poster of Carter—his hair a little messy, eyes lowered, lips curved in a gentle, almost secret smile. It was the shot I’d fought the label for, the one that showed the Carter only I got to see: vulnerable, shy, almost soft.

I stared at that face, memories swirling, heart pounding.

Half an hour later, Carter finally called back, his voice lazy and smug: “Yeah?”

He sounded half-asleep, or maybe just bored. I pictured him sprawled on his leather couch in his West Hollywood apartment, sunlight streaming through the blinds, the city buzzing just beyond.

I kept my tone flat. “You need to get online and clear up these rumors. Now.”

“Rumors?”

He paused, then let out a cold, dismissive laugh. “What if I said they weren’t rumors?”

Even without FaceTime, I could see him—one arm draped over his eyes, mouth twisted in that cocky half-grin, like he was daring me to challenge him.

His voice sharpened, daring, almost taunting. I could practically hear the smirk in every word.

“You’re at your peak, Carter. Half your thirty million fans are here for your single status. Your new album’s about to drop. Are you really gonna tank your career for a headline fling?”

He scoffed, voice playful but cutting. “Come on, Maya Monroe, don’t tell me you’re jealous of some tabloid trash?”

His words hit their mark, but I kept my armor up. With Carter, you always had to.