The Fallen Queen's Dating Show Comeback

"And the Golden Globe goes to... Catalina Campbell."

The presenter's voice echoed through the massive speakers of the Beverly Hilton ballroom.

For a full second, the room went completely dead. The silence pressed against Catalina's eardrums.

Then, the reality hit her.

She slapped both hands over her mouth. Her lungs forgot how to pull in air. Her heart hammered against her ribs so violently she thought it might crack her sternum.

She grabbed handfuls of the heavy, intricate layers of her custom Oscar de la Renta gown. The fabric weighed at least twenty pounds. It pulled at her waist, a physical anchor trying to keep her in her seat.

She sucked in a sharp breath and forced her legs to straighten.

The room erupted. Thunderous applause crashed over her like a physical wave.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, hot and stinging. She blinked them back aggressively. She pinned a flawless, practiced smile onto her face and began the long walk toward the stage.

The broadcast cameras panned across the front row of VIP tables.

Brogan Cohen sat leaning back in his velvet chair. He didn't clap. His dark, bottomless eyes tracked her every movement, locked onto the bare skin of her back. In the blind spot of the lenses, his jawline instantly tightened, a subtle twitch of muscle betraying a flicker of emotion.

Catalina reached the stage. The presenter handed her the golden globe.

The metal was freezing. The heavy, icy weight of it settled into her palms. Her fingertips trembled against the smooth surface.

She stepped up to the microphone. She delivered her speech flawlessly. Her voice didn't shake. She kept her eyes focused on the teleprompter and the back wall.

She didn't look at the front row. She didn't look at him.

The crowd roared again as she finished.

She turned and walked toward the backstage exit. The moment she crossed the threshold and the heavy velvet curtains fell shut behind her, the blinding stage lights vanished.

The hallway was incredibly dim.

Instantly, the tension holding her spine rigid snapped. Her shoulders slumped forward. Her chest he heave as she finally allowed herself to breathe.

She needed to get to her private dressing room. She picked up her pace, her heels clicking rapidly against the polished floor.

But the lighting was too poor.

The stiletto heel of her left shoe came down hard, piercing straight through the trailing tulle of her own dress.

Her forward momentum violently betrayed her.

Her body pitched forward. The floor rushed up to meet her face. A gasp lodged in her throat, choking her. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing her body for the inevitable, bone-crushing impact.

A large hand shot out from the shadows.

Long, thick fingers wrapped around her forearm with brutal precision. The grip was iron-tight.

The force of the pull jerked her backward so hard her neck snapped back.

This strong scent of cedarwood and sharp tobacco instantly flooded her senses. It somehow carried a heart-stopping familiarity,