My Ex Betrayed Me, The Cold Movie Star Loved Me

"Play it again."

My voice sounded hollow, scraping against the walls of the luxury suite at the Peninsula.

Julian Hayes didn't reach for the phone. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke tuxedo shirt. The man Hollywood called the golden boy of the decade didn't even flinch.

"You're being dramatic, Isabelle," Julian said. "It was one night in Cabo."

"One night?" I tapped the screen. The video replayed. Celeste's soft laughter echoed through the speakers, followed by Julian's rough groan as he pinned my younger sister against the headboard. "The timestamp says yesterday morning, Julian. Twenty-four hours before our rehearsal dinner."

The bathroom door clicked open. Celeste stepped out, wearing Julian’s silk bathrobe. The belt hung loose over her waist.

"Don't shout at him, Belle," Celeste murmured, her eyes wide and damp. "Julian didn't want to hurt you. Neither did I."

"Get out," I told her.

"She's not going anywhere," Julian stepped between us, shielding Celeste. "Look at yourself, Isabelle. You've spent five years burying yourself in balance sheets and tax audits for your father. When was the last time you looked at me the way she does?"

"I buried myself in those books so you could pursue every indie script that crossed your desk without worrying about money!" My hand slammed against the marble counter. "I gave up the jewelry design fellowship in Paris for you! I stayed behind because you promised me we were building a future."

Julian gave a dry, dismissive snort. "A future? You wanted a business partnership. Celeste gives me passion. I love her. I’ve loved her for months."

"And the wedding tomorrow?" I demanded. "The five hundred guests? The press?"

"The wedding goes on," a new voice cut through the room.

My father, Arthur Laurent, stepped inside, shutting the suite door firmly behind him. My mother, Evelyn, trailed closely, clutching a designer handbag against her chest. Neither of them looked surprised.

"Dad?" The word caught in my throat. "You knew?"

"Lower your voice," Arthur snapped, checking the corridor before locking the bolt. "Do you have any idea how many paparazzi are camped in the lobby? Julian’s brand cannot take a hit like this right before award season."

"His brand?" I stared at the man who had raised me. "He was sleeping with my sister behind my back!"

"Belle, please," Celeste whimpered, resting both palms flat over her stomach. "Think of the baby."

The air vanished from my lungs.

"Baby?" I whispered.

"She’s eight weeks along," my mother intervened, stepping forward to wrap an arm around Celeste's shoulders. "Julian is the father. We found out on Tuesday. You have to be reasonable, Isabelle. A scandal would ruin Celeste, ruin Julian, and destroy our family's standing."

"So you let me plan the floral arrangements? You let me tailor my dress?" My chest burned as I looked from my mother to Julian. "You made a fool out of me."

"Nobody made a fool of you," Arthur said sharply. "We have a solution. Celeste will marry Julian tomorrow. The media already knows there's a Laurent-Hayes union. We just swap the bride on the program. A youthful romance. The public loves a fairy tale."

I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "And what about me? Do I just sit in the front row and applaud?"

"Of course not," Arthur pulled a folded document from his breast pocket. "You're getting married too."

"Excuse me?"

"Celeste was supposed to sign the alliance contract with Blake Entertainment next month," Arthur explained, his tone strictly business. "Sebastian Blake agreed to take a Laurent daughter to cement our distribution merger. Since Celeste is marrying Julian, you will take her place. You marry Sebastian."

"Are you insane?" I stepped back, hitting the edge of the dresser. "Sebastian Blake is ruthless. He bought out three studios last year and gutted their boards. Celeste was terrified of him!"

"Which is why you are far better suited for him," my mother insisted, her voice sickly sweet. "You're tough, Isabelle. You handle the corporate stress. Sebastian doesn't care which daughter he gets, as long as he gets the voting shares promised in the dowry."

"I am not a trade-in," I said, cold fury steadying my pulse. "I am not cleaning up Celeste’s mess. Marry her off to Julian, tell the world whatever lie you want. I'm taking the midnight flight to Paris. I'm done."

I turned toward the door, reaching for my purse on the console table.

"Isabelle, stop!" my mother called out. "At least have some tea. Let’s sit down and talk this through like civilized people. Don't throw away ten years of family loyalty over pride."

"Family loyalty?" I paused, glaring at them. "You traded me the second she spread her legs."

My father blocked my path, his expression dark. "Have a drink, Isabelle. We aren't finished."

"Move, Arthur."

My mother handed me a bottle of mineral water, her hands trembling slightly. "Just drink something. You look pale. If you walk out into the lobby shaking like that, the press will tear you apart."

I took the bottle, my throat bone-dry from the shock, and swallowed three quick gulps. "I’m leaving. Don't ever contact me again."

I took two steps toward the foyer.

The carpet seemed to tilt beneath my boots.

The brass chandelier above swam, smearing into streaks of white light. A sudden, crushing weight dragged my eyelids down.

"What... did you..." My tongue felt swollen, heavy as lead.

"I’m sorry, sweetheart," Evelyn’s muffled voice drifted from somewhere far away. "The Laurent name comes first."

My knees hit the floor. Dark velvet shadows swallowed the room.

***

Cold air rushed against my bare skin.

My eyes snapped open. The blur resolved into the plush, gray leather interior of an extended Maybach.

I tried to sit up, but silk and heavy tulle tangled around my limbs. White chantilly lace covered my arms. A corset crushed my ribs, laced so tightly every breath dragged against my lungs.

A bridal gown.

"Awake already?" a dry voice asked.

Opposite me sat my father’s personal head of security, Mark. He held a black tablet, his eyes fixed on the schedule.

"Where is my bag?" My voice sounded cracked. "Where is my phone?"

"Confiscated, Miss Laurent," Mark said without glancing up. "Mr. Laurent has your passport and phone in his safe."

"Turn this car around right now!" I lunged for the door handle, but the child locks were engaged. The glass was reinforced, tinted black.

"We arrive at St. Jude’s Cathedral in four minutes," Mark stated calmly. "The press line is over two hundred yards long. If you attempt to exit without walking down the aisle, Mr. Laurent will liquidate the trust funds set aside for your grandmother’s specialized care facility."

I froze, fingers digging into the stiff tulle of the skirt. "He wouldn't."

"He already signed the conditional transfer," Mark replied, sliding the tablet toward me.

The screen displayed the legal order. One wrong move, and the machines keeping my grandmother alive in Zurich would be shut down by midnight.

"You monsters," I whispered.

The limousine slowed to a halt. Flashes of bright camera lights pierced through the tinted windows. Horns honked. Security guards barked orders as the perimeter barricades held back the crowd.

The door swung open. A heavy, pearl-encrusted veil was thrown over my face, obscuring the world in a haze of white mesh.

"Smile, Miss Laurent," Mark said, taking my elbow firmly. "The groom is waiting."

The cathedral doors parted with a low, resonant groan.

Organ music swelled, heavy and oppressive. Hundreds of heads turned toward me. Down the long, candlelit aisle stood a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette clad in charcoal black.

Sebastian Blake.

The youngest studio mogul in Hollywood history. A man known for destroying rivals with a single phone call, his sharp jawline and piercing gray eyes constantly gracing the covers of business and entertainment magazines alike.

He stood waiting at the altar, looking bored, powerful, and utterly detached.

My father took my arm at the center aisle, his grip like a steel vise. "Keep your head down until the vows. Don't make a sound, Isabelle."

"I will ruin you for this," I whispered through the lace.

"Not before you say 'I do,'" he muttered back.

We reached the steps. Arthur placed my hand onto a larger, calloused palm. A shock of cold heat ran through my skin as Sebastian’s long fingers closed around mine. His grip was tight, completely devoid of gentleness.

The priest began to speak, his words blurring into white noise.

Sebastian didn't look at me once during the vows. His responses were crisp, monotone, purely transactional. When prompted, I forced the words out, tasting bile on my tongue.

"I do."

"You may seal the covenant," the priest declared.

Sebastian turned to face me. His hands rose, catching the edges of the heavy veil.

With a swift yank, he lifted the lace over my head.

The camera strobes flashed violently behind him.

Sebastian’s gaze dropped to my face. The detached boredom on his sculpted features vanished, instantly replaced by something razor-sharp and freezing cold.

His pupils narrowed. He knew Celeste’s face down to every contour from the press releases.

And the woman standing before him was not Celeste.

Sebastian leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, his tone sharp enough to draw blood.

"Who the hell are you?"