Page 4 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

“That’s Rachel. I have to go. Love you both!”

I switch calls, immediately sitting straighter at Rachel’s businesslike tone.

“Lacey. Your car’s coming in thirty. Have you seen the morning’s headlines?”

I pull up the entertainment news on my tablet. There I am, splashed across every major outlet. ‘Newest Princess Causes a Stir.’ At least the photos are good—they caught me mid-laugh, looking natural and happy.

“Perfect coverage,” Rachel says. “Keep that energy for today’s photo shoot. Sweet, approachable, wholesome.”

“Always am.”

“That’s my girl. Oh, and remember, tomorrow we’ll be in Orlando to meet with the company executives.”

“I’ll be there.”

After hanging up, I finish getting ready, slipping into the prescribed blue dress. It’s beautiful, with a famous designer label, but not too flashy. Perfect princess material.

My reflection shows exactly what it should: America’s sweetheart, ready to take on Hollywood. But for a moment, just a moment, I let myself remember the electricity I felt in that brief second at the hotel bar. The intensity in those deep blue eyes.

Then I straighten my shoulders, grab my bag, and head for the door. I have a dream to live, a movie to make, and a reputation to maintain.

Romance will have to wait.

Even if part of me wishes it didn’t have to.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and I step in, ready to face another day of living my fairy tale. Maybe it’s not the kind with Prince Charming, but it’s mine.

For now, that has to be enough.

The day flies by in a whirlwind of posing and picture-taking. Before I know it, I’m in a private car to Orlando, watching the Georgia landscape give way to Florida’s familiar palm trees and tourist attractions. My stomach does a little flip as I spot the first company billboard. This is really happening.

The executive offices are exactly what you’d expect—sleek and professional, but with subtle touches of magic everywhere—hidden characters in the artwork and classic movie posters lining the halls. I straighten my spine, channel my inner princess, and sail through the double doors.

“Lacey!” Michael Smith, Head of Creative Development, greets me with the company’s signature warmth. “Welcome to the family.”

The next two hours are a blur of contract details, movie discussions, and careful planning of my public image. They love my natural enthusiasm for all things princess-like, my clean social media presence, and my genuine love for their brand.

“You’re exactly what we’ve been looking for,” Michael says, beaming. “The perfect combination of fresh talent and wholesome appeal.”

I try not to bounce in my seat, but inside, I’m doing cartwheels. This is everything I’ve dreamed of since I was a little girl staging shows in our backyard.

“We’ve arranged accommodation for you at our Grand Hotel,” Michael says, gathering his papers. “The Presidential Villa. Very exclusive, very private—reserved for celebrities. You’ll have the peace and quiet you need to prepare for your next photo shoot.”

I try to stifle a sudden yawn as I thank him. Between my early morning workout, the magazine shoot, travel, and these meetings, exhaustion is setting in hard.

By the time I leave the executive offices, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and my brain is overloaded with details about branding, promotional appearances, and the long-term vision for my company-approved career.

Rachel is right by my side, effortlessly juggling two phones while nodding along to something Michael Smith is saying. I try to focus, but my energy is fading fast. I need food. And caffeine. Preferably in that order.

As if reading my mind, Rachel lowers her phone. “You’ve got a dinner reservation at Citrus in the Grand Hotel before heading to your suite. The press will be in the hotel, so stay on brand. No weird menu choices.”

I arch a brow. “Is ordering a burger considered off-brand?”

“If it’s a lettuce-wrapped, organic, company-approved burger, sure,” Rachel smirks. “But you know the drill. Fresh salads, light entrees. Think graceful leading lady, not post-marathon carb-loading.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue. Rachel isn’t the enemy—she’s just doing her job, the same way I’m doing mine.

By the time I slide into the restaurant, my stomach is growling, but I keep my posture straight and my movements polished. A few guests at nearby tables whisper as I walk past, some snapping sneaky photos with their phones. I flash a polite smile, giving them the moment they’re looking for without breaking my stride.

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