Page 27 of Star Rucked Lovers

“Last-minute addition,” Jessie said, tapping a manicured nail against the paper. “Photoshoot with Antoine Delacourt. Shouldn’t take more than two hours.”

“Antoine?” Myst groaned, rubbing her temple. Just what she needed, a photoshoot with the infamous flirt. “Fine. Let’s just get it over with.”

“Should I…” Jessie hesitated. “Do you want me to let George know?”

“No.” Myst shook her head quickly, avoiding her cousin’s gaze. “I’ll tell him later. It’s nothing. Just work.”

“Right,” Jessie said, the single word loaded with meaning Myst chose to ignore.

Chapter Nine

George slouched deeper intothe hotel room’s oversized armchair, his phone balanced precariously on his knee. The half-empty cup of coffee on the table next to him had long since gone cold, but he hadn’t noticed. His thumb hovered over the screen as if it might somehow change the image staring back at him.

There she was, his Myst, radiant as ever, the thick waves of her dark hair arranged just so, her pale blue eyes angled toward the camera with that signature mix of vulnerability and fire that had first drawn him in. But she wasn’t alone. No, she stood beside Antoine Delacourt, the French actor-slash-heartthrob whose face could probably sell ice to a polar bear. The two of them were laughing, their heads tilted together like some glossy magazine’s idea of perfection.

“Antoine Delacourt,” George muttered under his breath, the name tasting bitter even as he said it. His jaw tightened reflexively. The caption wasn’t helping either:“Aussie pop princess Myst and French cinema’s golden boy heat things up in Paris! Is this Europe’s newest power couple?”

The comments section below was already a feeding frenzy, fans speculating wildly, dissecting every glance, every smile.

“Heat things up,” George repeated, his voice loud in the empty room. He tossed the phone onto the couch beside him, running a hand through his hair as frustration bubbled in his chest.

He’d stayed back at the hotel all day, giving her space, trying not to dwell too much on last night’s awkwardness. He wanted to believe they were on the same team, even if it didn’t always feel that way. But seeing this, the photoshoot she hadn’t mentioned, the easy chemistry she seemed to have with someone who fit so effortlessly into her world; it scraped against every insecurity he thought he’d managed to shove down. Had she really thought she could keep this from him? Did she think he wouldn’t care?

The door clicked open, and George straightened reflexively, his broad shoulders stiffening as Myst stepped inside. She looked tired, her delicate frame wrapped in a loose cardigan, a bag slung over one shoulder. For a split second, the sight of her softened something inside him. But then the memory of the photo resurfaced, sharp and stinging.

“Hey,” she said lightly, setting her bag on the desk. She glanced at him, her pale blue eyes searching his face, but his expression didn’t shift, nor did he get up to greet her. “Long day?”

“Not as long as yours, apparently.” The words came out colder than he intended, clipped and sharp.

Myst paused, frowning slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

George leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I saw the photos, Myst,” he said, his tone carefully measured but still laced with accusation. “You and Antoine. Nice of you to give me a heads-up.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face before realization hit. “Oh,” she said softly, almost to herself, as she dropped her gaze to the floor. “The photoshoot.”

“Yeah, the photoshoot,” George echoed, standing now. “The one you conveniently forgot to mention.”

“George, it wasn’t…” she started, but he cut her off, the frustration he’d been bottling up spilling over.

“Do you know what it’s like to find out about your girlfriend’s day from strangers on the internet? To see everyone else talking about her life before she even bothers to tell you?” His voice was rising, though he fought to keep it steady. “And don’t even get me started on the whole ‘power couple’ thing. Do you have any idea how…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as he turned away, pacing toward the window. The glass reflected his own scowl back at him, distorted by the city lights beyond.

“How what?” Myst’s voice was quiet but steady. There was no trace of defensiveness, only genuine curiosity, or maybe concern. It made him pause, his anger easing and his shoulders sagging slightly, though he didn’t turn around.

“How it feels,” he said finally, his voice lower now, “to feel like I’m just... standing on the sidelines of your life, waiting for you to let me in.”

Myst crossed the room slowly, stopping a few feet behind him. “It wasn’t like that,” she said gently. “George, it was just work. A last-minute shoot. And I didn’t tell you because...” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Because I knew you’d be upset.”

“Well, congratulations,” he said dryly, turning to face her. “Mission accomplished.”

She flinched at that, and for a moment, guilt twisted in his chest. But then he remembered the photo again, the way Antoine had looked at her like he belonged there, like it was so easy for him to be part of her world. And suddenly, the guilt was drowned out by that familiar ache of not-enough-ness. Of feeling like he’d never quite measure up.

“George,” she tried again, stepping closer, her voice softening. “You know this isn’t about…”

“Do I?” he interrupted, his eyes locking onto hers, searching for answers he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. “Because right now, Myst, it doesn’t feel like we’re on the same page. Hell, sometimes it doesn’t even feel like we’re in the same book.”

Annoyance began to bloom on her face. “Am I supposed to run every work obligation by you now? Every photoshoot? Every meeting? Is that what you want?”

“Don’t twist this,” he countered. “You didn’t tell me about Antoine because you knew it’d look bad. You knew it’d hurt me, and you still went ahead and did it. That’s the part I can’t get past!”

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