Chapter 1: Red Carpet, Hidden Scars

I’m halfway down the red carpet, my heels clicking against the velvet, when it hits me: this is the moment. The lights, the cameras, the pressure—everything’s dialed up to eleven, and there’s nowhere to hide. My nerves buzz under my skin, and I can’t help but wonder, just for a second, what I’m even doing here.

The air is thick with that electric, charged energy—paparazzi flashes popping, fans screaming my name, the overwhelming mix of expensive perfume and that sharp, steamy scent of rain hitting hot asphalt. That smell always reminds me of summer in L.A. It’s chaos, but it’s home. I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with the male lead from my new show, both of us holding our practiced, camera-ready smiles while the press closes in. The velvet rope looks like it’s barely holding back a tidal wave. Somewhere behind us, the orchestra’s tuning up, strings humming for the big reveal.

Lately, the two of us—me and my co-star—have been trending hard as a ‘ship.’ People online keep pairing us up—shipping us, as they call it. Honestly, I never imagined my life would turn into a hashtag.

There’s this magnetic energy, almost like the crowd’s willing us together with their stares. Honestly, I can practically feel them pushing us closer. Every other headline, every meme, it’s us—Savannah and her co-star, the next big on-screen couple. My phone’s probably about to vibrate right out of my clutch with all the notifications.

The questions start flying, but one cuts through the noise: “Savannah, what’s your ideal type?”

Before I can even react, before the question’s finished hanging in the air, the male lead beside me flashes a knowing smile, all teeth and charm.

He’s laying it on thick—really laying it on. He leans in just a little, gives that Hollywood grin, like we’re sharing some private joke. For a split second, I can’t tell if he’s acting or just having fun. His hand hovers at my lower back, close enough for the cameras to catch, but not quite crossing any lines. He’s using every ounce of his acting chops right here, right now.

The atmosphere turns up a notch, and the entertainment reporters start hyping us up, voices overlapping, everyone trying to get the best reaction shot.

It’s a feeding frenzy. Phones shoot up, flashes strobe, reporters barking questions—Do they ever get tired of this? Someone in the crowd yells, “Are you two dating for real?” My publicist catches my eye and gives a subtle nod—play along, ride the wave.

I’m just about to fake a smile and go with it when I glance up—and lock eyes with Harrison Kane, striding toward us not far away.

He’s moving through the crowd like he owns the place, every step deliberate, tux perfectly tailored, hair not even ruffled by the wind. Of course he looks perfect. He always does. For a heartbeat, the noise fades and all I hear is my own pulse hammering in my ears.

My smile freezes, lips pulled tight.

“Harrison Kane’s here!”

A cluster of reporters whips their heads around, the crowd surges, all eyes zeroing in on the newly crowned Best Actor.

It’s like the Red Sea parting—everyone wants a piece of him. Microphones shoot forward, flashes fire off in a staccato rhythm. He’s the man of the night, and the whole room feels it.

He walks right by, face unreadable.

Not even a glance in my direction.

He’s always like this.

No matter who I’m linked to in the tabloids, he never cares. It’s never rattled him—not once.

We’ve been married for five years, but he’s never made it public. Like I’m the skeleton in his closet.

“So, who’s your ideal type?”

The male lead is still playing along, giving me a flirtatious look. I almost roll my eyes, but the cameras are everywhere.

He cocks an eyebrow, leans in a little closer, waiting for me to volley back something flirty. The crowd eats it up, every lens locked on us.

I snap my gaze away.

I can see the folder in my mind, even now—that divorce agreement, tucked away in the files in Harrison’s study.

“Harrison Kane, I guess.”

Thank God for all those years practicing my lines.

I make sure my voice carries. No way he’s missing this.

A beat, then the flashbulbs swing over to his face, bouncing back and forth between us.

He stays calm—stone cold. Not even a twitch. He just grabs the pen from the host, like nothing happened.

Well, who in this business wouldn’t want to get close to him? I’m not the first to try and ride his wave.

“But then again, who knows?” I toss out a faint smile. “People change. Maybe tomorrow I’ll like someone else.”

My words linger, just a shade too nonchalant. There’s a ripple through the crowd—reporters lean in, phones up, hungry for the next bite. The tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

For once, his hand with the pen pauses ever so slightly on camera.

“Like… who?”

The reporters are even more hyped by my offhand comment, stoking the fire.

“Like…”

I need to throw out a random name, fast.

My eyes flick outside the venue and catch a huge billboard—sharp jawline, striking eyes—the hottest star right now.

What was his name again?

Oh, right.

“Jesse Cole.”

He caps the pen.

Harrison’s face? Nothing. Completely unreadable.

Under the spotlights, he walks away, and whatever I say here bounces off him like I’m invisible.

He’s always the center of attention. No surprise there.

Because of what I said, #SavannahHarrisonKane# shoots up the trending charts.

Our names almost never show up together.

Last time was on our marriage certificate.

This time, it’s trending.

Next time, it’ll be on the divorce papers.

I’ve liked him for ten years.

Stayed by his side from when he was a nobody to when he was on the edge of stardom.

Just as my stage career was taking off, I listened to him, quit my group, came back to the States, and married him.

Back then, he told me, “Being a pop idol can’t compare to being a real actor.”

So, I signed with the same agent as him and switched to acting.

But now, after this award, he’ll have swept the big awards.

The youngest Best Actor ever.

And me? I’m just the nobody he can’t acknowledge in public.

“Thanks to the director, thanks to everyone who worked on ‘Sideline’,” he stands on stage, applause thundering, “and thanks to my agent.”

The camera cuts to Riley Monroe in the audience, eyes shining with tears.

His agent.

And mine.

Harrison, Riley, and I all grew up together in the same apartment complex.

Back then, when she asked Harrison to convince me to come home, she said, “Savvy must be so lonely abroad. There are more opportunities here. I’ll help her. We’ll shine together!”

Rumors about Harrison and Riley have been swirling for years.

Everyone in the industry says Riley’s the one who backed him, always by his side as he rose to the top.

Now, with him thanking her like this, it’s causing a storm.

“If she hadn’t sent my work to the Youth Film Festival back then, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

Riley covers her mouth, crying, eyes full of adoration.

But my heart clenches, nails digging into my palm.

Youth Film Festival?

But I was the one who saw his talent and sent his work to the international festival.

I just went abroad to be a trainee after that.

How did that become Riley’s achievement?

The hashtag #HarrisonRileyMutualLove# rockets to number one.

Suddenly, the #SavannahHarrisonKane# tag below looks like a joke.