Page 50 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

The articles tell the story of a young actress who experienced a dramatic fall from grace due to drugs and the dark underbelly of Hollywood. I don't know how true that is, but those were the rumors. According to the articles, she left a major film role to enter rehab. They recast her role and the movie went on to win seven Oscars. The actress who replaced her was nominated for Best Actress, but didn't win.

I tap my foot from the restless energy snaking up my legs. Something doesn't add up. If she was addicted to heroin and 'spiraled out of control,' wouldn't I have noticed some faded track marks on her arms when she wore that sleeveless dress? I was looking at her too much the other night. I'll admit that. But there were no old scars, no hints of makeup covering something. Her skin is actually pretty flawless.

I open another article that has a statement from the sitcom producers about her departure. My eyes scan until they land on a quote:"We're deeply saddened by Elle's personal struggles, but fully support her decision to seek treatment. The entire cast and crew sends their love for her healing journey."

The quote is attributed to Alan Miller, Executive Producer/Director.

My thumb freezes on the screen.Alan. The name she accidentally let slip.

I quickly search for images of Alan Miller. The results load, and—

Shit.

He's British, older, with dark hair always styled back and away from his face. Same way I've been wearing mine. Strong jawline. Deep-set eyes. But Londyn's wrong about us looking alike. This piece of shit doesn't resemble me. He's a predatory asshole and I'm...

I hold up the phone slightly, angling the screen at Rich. "You think this guy looks like me?"

Rich starts to laugh because I'm clearly Korean and Miller is clearlynot. But then Rich's expression falls and he squints and leans in closer. "Hmm… you know, it's crazy, but a little resemblance. You're better looking, though." He flashes a smile and gets back to my hair.

Fuck.My dad did give me some British genes. Now I'm squinting at the photo. There is something there, isn't there? At least in how we wear our hair and certain angles of our faces. The thought makes my skin crawl.

Beyond the resemblance and what Londyn said about his verbal abuse, there's something deeper about this guy that sets off my instincts. I study his polished, smiling face in red carpet photos. I'm uneasy about how he's always standing too close to the actresses beside him, one hand always somewhere on their bodies—a shoulder, the small of a back, a waist. Actually, there are very few pictures of himnotnext to a woman.

This guy likes 'trophies.' Control.

I can just sense it.

I'll do a deeper background check on him later, but a quick Internet search doesn't bring up any red flags. Miller's record is clean, at least publicly. No accusations. No scandals. Just another successful Hollywood director with the right connections and the right smile. The kind of man who exists above consequences.

But a 'clean record' doesn't mean you're innocent of crimes.

I pocket my phone, letting my mind chew on these new pieces of information. Rich is now applying something cold and tingly to sections of my hair, chattering about summer trends I couldn't care less about. My thoughts drift to Navy Cap, the man who may or may not have been following Londyn.

I got a look at the guy's face, and it wasn't Alan Miller. But could Alan be involved? The timelines are fuzzy, but if Londyn's fear is centered around this director, there's something more to the story than verbal abuse. She's too hypervigilant, too carefulabout her surroundings. And her instant terror when I stepped in to handle Marcus…

Things aren't lining up but I don't want to jump to conclusions about whether Londyn has a stalker, whether Miller is involved, whether the two are connected. Londyn clearly doesn't want to share certain details, and I won't force her, but I'm sure as hell going to run as many background checks as I can and reach out to my contacts. If someone, like a narcissistic director, is paying her extra attention, things can escalate quickly.Veryquickly.

I learned that the hard way.

Years ago, we were at some rooftop bar in downtown L.A. It was Wunmi, her girlfriend Mickey, and me. It was my night off, technically, but I still watched the room out of habit while we laughed over ridiculously named cocktails. Wunmi was wearing large sunglasses and a hat pulled low despite the setting sun. That was her standard disguise to avoid paparazzi.

"Sean, I swear to god, if you throw one more straw wrapper at me," Mickey said, her smile contradicting her words. She was such a contrast to Wunmi, always with smokey eyes and purple lipstick. Wunmi was like a classic pinup girl who rapped and pulled off incredible dance moves on stage.

I tossed another paper projectile that landed right in Mickey's cleavage. Wunmi burst into laughter, clutching my arm for support.

"You know," Mickey said, fishing out the wrapper, "most bodyguards don't engage in titty basketball with their client's girlfriend."

"Most bodyguards are boring," Wunmi countered, squeezing my arm. "Sean's family."

The warmth of belonging spread through my chest. I knew it was unprofessional; I was supposed to maintain boundaries, not play games and drink fancy cocktails with rainbow sugar rims. But with Wunmi, the lines always blurred. She had that effect on people, dragging them into her orbit and making them feel like the center of her universe.

I'd been so lonely growing up, moving around military bases because of Dad and being left to play by myself whileummahung out with adults. I longed for a sibling.

When I started working security for celebrities, Wunmi heard about me and hired me for a world tour. We fuckingclickedin that unexpected found-family way. We began calling each other brother and sis. I lost the boundaries.

Mickey frowned. "Okay, but I'm not marrying him. I'm marrying you."

While they leaned closer to each other for a kiss, I took the moment to glance around. That's when I noticed a man at the bar drinking a dark liquid in a plain glass. He watched our table for too long, his attention fixed on Wunmi with unnerving focus.It wasn't the usual recognition of a fan. It was something single-minded and intentional.

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