Page 5 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

Welcome to life in the company machine.

After a Caesar salad and grilled salmon, I finally let myself relax. Rachel gave me a full rundown of what’s next, but honestly, I already know. More interviews. More photos. More carefully curated moments to build the image of America’s sweetheart.

And I love it—I really do. But sometimes, I wish I could be a little less perfect.

After dinner, my schedule blurs into a mix of wardrobe fittings, final contract signings, and a last-minute script read-through before I’m whisked into a private car heading toward the Grand Hotel.

Rachel barely glances up from her emails as she speaks. “Early interview tomorrow. Try to get some rest tonight.”

I nod, but as I stare out the window, my thoughts aren’t on my career. I’m wondering what I would be doing right now if I were living a different life. Would I be like one of the many tourists here? Just having fun with my family?

Something tells me that living a normal life has already passed me by. And I’m fine with that—for the most part. It’s only on hectic days like today that I yearn to have someone waiting for me…

It’s nearly eleven when I finally arrive at the hotel. The iconic Victorian architecture looks magical at night, lit up against the dark Florida sky. A discreet staff member escorts me through a private entrance away from the main lobby.

“Your villa, Ms. Monroe.” She swipes a key card and opens the door. “The master suite is to the right. Someone will bring your luggage shortly.”

The villa is stunning, with elegant furnishings and the company’s signature luxury. But right now, all I can focus on is the promise of sleep. I manage a tired smile as the staff memberexplains something about the amenities, but her words start to blur together.

My shoes come off first, followed by my carefully chosen dress. I dig through my carry-on for the oversized T-shirt I brought to sleep in. The bed looks like heaven, with plush white linens and more pillows than I can count.

I should set an alarm and check my schedule for tomorrow, but I’m too tired. Instead, I crawl under the covers, the day’s excitement giving way to bone-deep weariness. I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute...

The last thing I register is the distant sound of fireworks over the Magic Castle before sleep pulls me under.

Three

Nate

The Grand Hotel’s shower pressure is incredible. It almost makes up for the late-night delays, last-minute meeting reschedules, and the star struck receptionist who took forever checking me in. Something about a system glitch and confirming that the celebrity suite was ready for me. Whatever. The suite is massive, way more than I need, but I’m not complaining.

Steam fills the bathroom as I turn off the water. I hear muffled voices through the wall—probably housekeeping starting their rounds. I wrap a towel around my waist and run my fingers through my wet hair. Coffee. I need coffee.

The voices grow clearer as I approach the bedroom door. Who the hell would be in my room at this time of the morning? Did I get the time wrong for my meeting with the executive? Did theysend somebody to pick me up? I curiously open the bedroom door.

I freeze in the doorway.

The scene before me is surreal. Lacey Monroe, the company’s golden girl herself, stands in the living area. She’s picture-perfect in a flowing sundress, hair styled just so, looking like she stepped out of a magazine. A photographer angles for another shot while a sharp-dressed woman in her forties gestures animatedly.

“What the hell—?” I start.

Lacey sees me first. Her head flying back in shock. Her professional smile shatters, those dark eyes going wide.

Click. Click. Click.

The photographer swings toward me, the camera whirring. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m wearing nothing but a towel, sporting day-old stubble, and looking like I just rolled out of bed.

In the same hotel suite as Lacey Monroe!

The sharply dressed woman recovers first, her horrified expression swiftly transforming into something more calculating.

“Well,” she says smoothly to the photographer, “I guess this makes for a much better story than our planned piece.”

“This isn’t—“ Lacey starts, her voice strangled.

“Don’t worry, Lacey,” the woman cuts in. “The secret was bound to come out eventually. Though I have to say,” she adds with a practiced laugh, “this wasn’t exactly how we planned to announce your engagement.”

“Engagement?” I choke out.

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