The Superstar Heiress's Unscripted Romance

The morning sun in Los Angeles pierced through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Beverly Hills mansion. The harsh light spilled directly onto the tangled silk sheets.

Eleonora Carlisle groaned. She rolled over, burying her face deep into the soft, down-filled pillow. She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to drag herself back into the dark comfort of sleep.

On the nightstand, her phone began to vibrate. The harsh, mechanical buzzing sound drilled into her ears.

She frowned, the skin between her eyebrows pulling tight. Keeping her eyes closed, she reached out her hand, her fingers blindly searching the smooth surface of the nightstand.

Her fingertips just brushed against the cold metal casing of the phone when a sharp, rapid series of beeps echoed from the front door. Someone was punching in the security code with aggressive speed.

Immediately after, the sharp clack of stiletto heels hit the hardwood floor. The sound fired off like a machine gun, growing louder and closer by the second.

The heavy double doors of her bedroom were shoved open. They slammed against the walls with a deafening crash.

Eleonora jolted awake. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She yanked the silk comforter over her head, letting out a loud, muffled groan of protest.

Carrie Petty, her ruthless talent manager, marched straight to the edge of the bed. Carrie did not hesitate. She grabbed the edge of the comforter and ripped it away, exposing Eleonora to the cold air conditioning.

Before Eleonora could even blink, Carrie shoved an iPad directly into her face. The screen was glaringly bright, displaying the homepage of TMZ. TMZ was the most notorious celebrity gossip website in the United States, a digital tabloid that fed on the rotting carcasses of Hollywood careers.

Eleonora was forced to open her eyes. Her vision focused on the bold, black headline screaming across the screen.

"Hollywood's Ultimate Player Strikes Again? Eleonora Carlisle Caught in Late-Night Tryst with Pop Idol Izaiah Cummings!"

Below the headline was a grainy paparazzi photo. It was taken outside a nightclub last night. The angle was completely deceptive. It showed Eleonora reaching out to grab Izaiah, making it look like a passionate embrace. In reality, the clumsy nineteen-year-old idol had tripped over his own feet, and she had merely caught his arm to stop him from face-planting onto the concrete.

Eleonora let out a harsh, dry laugh. She pushed the iPad away with the back of her hand.

"The paparazzi in this town need to win an Oscar for screenwriting," she muttered, her voice thick with sleep.

Carrie's jaw tightened. "Three out of the top ten trending topics on Twitter right now are about your new scandal. The internet is tearing you apart."

Eleonora sat up. She ran her fingers through her messy blonde hair, pushing it out of her face.

"It's fake news, Carrie. It will blow over in two days. It always does."

Carrie took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. "It will not blow over this time. This