Bound By The Billionaire Star's Lies

Alena Gordon adjusted the angle of the wedding invitation for the third time, sliding it half an inch to the left until it caught the afternoon light from the floor-to-ceiling windows just so. The heavy cardstock-cream with embossed gold lettering-gleamed against the cold marble of the kitchen island. Gary and Melissa. October 15th. The Bel-Air Hotel.

She stepped back, arms crossed, her fingers tracing the ghost of the embossed letters in the air. A pang of longing, sharp and unwelcome, mixed with the genuine happiness for her friend. It was a tangible piece of a life she desperately wanted, a public declaration of love that felt a million miles away from her own silent, gilded cage.

The private elevator chimed.

Her heart kicked against her ribs, a Pavlovian response she hated herself for. Five years and her body still reacted like a teenager every time that sound cut through the apartment's silence. She smoothed her hands over her hips, checking for wrinkles in the silk camisole she'd changed into three times, and walked toward the foyer with measured steps. Not running. Never running.

The elevator doors slid open.

Kane Moody stepped out, bringing with him the dry heat of a California afternoon and the sharp, clean scent of the cedarwood cologne he wore on set. His aviator sunglasses came off first, tossed onto the silver tray by the door with a careless clatter that made Alena's shoulders tense. Then his jacket-custom Tom Ford, charcoal gray-shrugged off and held out in her direction without his eyes ever meeting hers.

"Hey," she said, soft, reaching for the jacket.

"Hey." His voice was gravel and smoke, the same voice that had murmured her name in dark rooms and laughed with her over bad takeout and called her baby in the early years. Now it landed flat, exhausted, like she was another piece of furniture in a house full of expensive things.

Alena folded the jacket over her arm, stepping closer, close enough to feel the residual warmth from the sun on his skin. She tilted her face up, offering. This was their choreography, the steps they'd rehearsed so many times she could perform them blindfolded.

Kane's hand came up, rough palm cupping her cheek, thumb brushing the bone beneath her eye. His touch was warm, practiced, and utterly devoid of intention. He pressed a kiss to her forehead-dry lips, there and gone-and walked past her toward the bar.

Alena stood in the empty foyer, her cheek still holding the ghost of his palm, and watched him pour two fingers of bourbon into a crystal tumbler. The ice cracked like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.

"You eat yet?" she asked, following him into the living room.

"Mm. Had something on set." He didn't turn around. "You?"

"Just coffee."

He grunted, something that might have been acknowledgment, and drank. The muscles in his back moved under the thin cotton of his t-shirt, the same back she'd traced with her fingernails last month when he'd