Bound By Contract: The Superstar's Secret Wife

The screen of the phone almost cracked under the pressure of Allyson's thumb.

She sat in the back of the stretched Lincoln, the leather seat cold against her bare thighs. Her eyes were locked on the Twitter trending page. Joanne Whitney's name sat at the number one spot, accompanied by a pristine photo of her smiling like America's sweetheart.

A sharp ache bloomed behind Allyson's ribs. That S-tier role was supposed to be hers. She had auditioned four times, only for Joanne to return to Hollywood and snatch it away with a single phone call.

Allyson bit hard into the soft flesh inside her cheek. The metallic taste of blood grounded her.

She quickly switched to her anonymous burner account. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out the words she couldn't say in public: Some people forget who was actually there for him during the tough times. Joanne is a joke.

She hit send.

Three seconds later, her notifications exploded. Hundreds of replies flooded in, vicious and immediate.

Stop clinging to a megastar, you plastic vase.

Delusional.

Get out of Hollywood, Allyson.

A hand suddenly snatched the phone from her grip.

"Are you out of your mind?" Hollie, her manager, glared at her, the screen light reflecting in her furious eyes. "Do not cause trouble right now. You are already drowning in bad press."

"I didn't do anything," Allyson muttered, looking away.

The limo hit a sudden pothole. Allyson jerked forward. A sickening rip echoed in the quiet cabin.

She gasped, her hands flying to the side of her cheap, sponsored gown. The cheap fabric had given way at the seam, exposing an inch of her waist. She frantically tried to pull the fabric together, her fingertips turning white.

Hollie stared at the torn dress and let out a heavy sigh. "If Joanne hadn't stolen your role, you wouldn't be wearing a dress that falls apart if you breathe too hard."

Allyson swallowed the heavy lump in her throat. She turned to the tinted window, staring at her own reflection. She forced the corners of her mouth up, practicing a flawless, impenetrable smile.

The limo rolled to a stop at the start of the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The red carpet stretched out like a river of blood. Flashbulbs exploded like lightning storms outside the glass.

A security guard pulled the door open. The deafening roar of the crowd hit Allyson like a physical blow. But they weren't screaming for her. They were chanting Byron's name.

Allyson grabbed the hem of her dress, her knuckles white, and stepped out. The cold night air bit into her exposed skin, making her shiver.

She took two steps onto the plush carpet. Just ahead, Joanne stood in a custom haute couture gown, posing perfectly for the wall of cameras.

Joanne shifted her gaze. Her eyes locked onto Allyson. A slow, mocking smirk curled Joanne's lips, dripping with pure contempt.

The paparazzi noticed Allyson. A collective chorus of boos rippled through the press