Destroyed by a Star, Saved by a Billionaire

My phone vibrated so hard it rattled against the glass coffee table.

I ignored it, pouring my morning coffee.

It buzzed again. Then again. A continuous, angry mechanical hum.

I picked up the device. Fifty missed calls. Two hundred text messages.

The screen lit up with an incoming call from my assistant, Sarah.

"Do not open Twitter," Sarah blurted out before I even said hello.

"Good morning to you too," I muttered, taking a sip from my mug.

"I am serious, Lynn. Shut down your accounts right now. Lock everything."

"Why? Did Ethan say something stupid to the press again?"

"It is not Ethan. It is you."

My hand stopped mid-air. "Me?"

"They leaked everything. Your private photos. The screenshots of your emails with the team management. Even those beach trip photos from six years ago."

I pulled the phone away from my ear and tapped into the social media app.

The screen flooded with notifications, scrolling so fast the text blurred into a solid white block.

I clicked the trending tab.

#LynnMooreMistress.

#LynnMooreGetOut.

#EvilAgentHarassingHockeyGod.

"What is this?" my voice cracked.

"Ethan's fan club," Sarah replied, her tone frantic. "They think you forced him to sign that agency contract. They are saying you seduced him to keep your job."

"That is disgusting. I am his agent!"

"They do not care. The comments are brutal, Lynn. They are tearing you apart."

I scrolled down the feed.

*Ugly old hag trying to ruin our boy.*

*She looks like trash. Fire her immediately!*

*Someone find out where this bitch lives.*

"Look at your direct messages," Sarah urged.

I switched tabs. Thousands of unread messages filled the inbox.

*Die.*

*Drink bleach.*

*You ruined his season.*

"They are photoshopping my face onto corpses," I said, my throat suddenly dry.

"It gets worse. They found your sister's profile. They are swarming her comments too."

"Leave Maya out of this!"

"I told her to go private, but the damage is done. And Lynn..." Sarah paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Someone posted your current building address ten minutes ago. The doxxing is completely out of control."

A loud thud echoed from the front of my apartment.

I flinched, dropping my coffee mug.

It shattered against the kitchen tiles, dark liquid splashing across my bare ankles.

"Lynn? What was that?" Sarah yelled through the speaker.

"Someone is outside," I whispered.

"Call the police! Now!"

I ended the call and crept toward the hallway.

*BANG. BANG. BANG.*

Fists hammered against my heavy oak door.

"We know you are in there, you parasite!" a woman screamed from the corridor.

"Leave Ethan alone!" a male voice joined in.

I pressed my back against the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Open up! Come face us!"

Something wet and heavy smacked against my living room window.

I crawled into the living room and peeked over the windowsill.

A dozen people stood on the sidewalk below. They held handmade signs. They pointed their phones at my balcony, camera flashes strobing in the early morning gloom.

A half-eaten burger splattered against the glass right in front of my face.

"Get out of the entertainment industry!" someone roared from the street.

I grabbed my phone with shaking fingers and dialed the one person who could stop this.

Ethan Carter. The hockey god himself.

He answered on the fourth ring. "Lynn, this is a bad time."

"You need to post a statement right now," I demanded, keeping my voice low.

"My PR guys are handling it."

"Handling it? Ethan, your fans are outside my house. They are throwing garbage at my windows."

"Just ignore them. They will get bored and leave."

"They are calling me your mistress! Tell them the truth. Tell them we have a strictly professional relationship."

"I won't do that, Lynn."

My jaw tightened. "Excuse me?"

"If I defend you, they will turn on me. The playoffs start Monday. I need the fans on my side."

"I built your career! I got you that multi-million dollar extension!"

"And you got paid a massive commission for it," he shot back. "We are even."

"They are threatening my life, Ethan."

"Stop being dramatic. Put your phone on silent and take a nap."

"You coward."

"Watch your mouth," his tone turned hostile. "You work for me. Or at least, you did."

He terminated the connection.

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen. Five years of loyalty. Five years of cleaning up his messes, hiding his late-night bar fights, protecting his image.

All wiped out because he wanted to keep his fanbase happy.

*CRASH.*

A rock flew through the top pane of my window.

Shards of glass rained down on the carpet.

I scrambled backward, covering my head. The cold morning wind blew into the living room, carrying the sound of cheers from the mob outside.

"Got her!" a guy yelled triumphantly.

I scrolled through my contacts and called Marcus, the head of the agency.

"Marcus, send the security team to my place. Now."

"Lynn," Marcus sighed. It was the heavy, exhausted sigh he used before firing an intern.

"My window is broken. They are trying to break down my door."

"I saw the trending topics."

"Then you know it is all lies. Send the guards."

"I am not sending anyone. You are on your own."

I froze. "What?"

"The agency is drafting a termination letter as we speak. You are officially suspended, pending a full dismissal."

"You are throwing me to the wolves over a internet rumor?"

"It is not a rumor anymore. It is a PR nightmare. The sponsors are threatening to pull Ethan's endorsements."

"Because of his crazy fans! Not because of me!"

"Perception is reality in this business, Lynn. You became the story. Agents do not become the story."

"Marcus, please. I have nowhere to go."

"Pack your desk tomorrow. Do not contact the other clients."

The call ended.

I sat alone in the center of the dark room.

The wind howled through the broken window.

Trash littered my balcony. Rotten fruit, crumpled cups, wet newspapers.

More fists pounded on the front door. The wood groaned under the pressure.

"Whore! Come out!"

I pulled my knees to my chest.

Every hour of overtime. Every missed holiday. Every sacrifice I made to build my reputation in this industry.

Gone.

They did not need proof. They did not need a single shred of evidence. The mob had spoken, and the sentence was executed overnight.

I was nailed to the pillar of shame, and the people I trusted handed them the hammer.

My phone screen lit up on the floor.

A text from an unknown number.

*We know the passcode to your building's back entrance.*

A second text arrived immediately after.

*We are in the elevator.*

The heavy brass handle on my front door clicked downward.