Chapter 203

"I assumed she was just another pretty actress. But she's a viper in disguise. Sebastian helped her, and now she's using him for fame. Who would ever help anyone after this scandal?"

"This whole romance is staged. My yoga instructor and I look more intimate in our group photos!"

"Miss Hartley, we've arrived," the taxi driver announced, snapping Vivian out of her spiraling thoughts.

Vivian glanced up and immediately spotted several shadowy figures loitering near her apartment entrance. Her stomach twisted. Had Sebastian's fans really tracked her down this quickly?

"Driver," she said, massaging her throbbing temples, "could you take me to the underground parking instead?"

As the taxi descended into the dimly lit garage, Vivian stepped out with quick, purposeful strides toward the elevator. Her breath hitched when two strangers—a sharply dressed woman and a broad-shouldered man—materialized before her, blocking her path.

Vivian's pulse quickened as she studied them. The woman, mid-thirties with a practiced smile, spoke first. "Ms. Hartley? Lydia sent us. There are mobs of Sebastian's fans swarming your building. Going upstairs now would be... unwise."

Vivian instinctively retreated a step. "How did you know I'd come through the garage? Lydia knows I don't drive."

The woman's laugh tinkled like wind chimes. "We didn't. But Kingsley Studios provides luxury vehicles for their talent." She gestured to a gleaming black sedan nearby—the same model the studio leased to all their A-list actors.

The man stepped forward, his smile not reaching his cold eyes. "Sebastian contacted Lydia about the media storm. We're here to escort you to safety. When we couldn't reach you, we split up—one watching the lobby, the other your floor."

At Sebastian's name, Vivian's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Are we going to the studio? What's the plan?"

"That's for Lydia to explain," the woman said smoothly, opening the car door. "We're just your escorts."

As they approached the vehicle, Vivian casually asked, "What departments do you work in? I don't recognize you."

The woman's manicured hand rested on the doorframe. "I manage Serena Whitmore's schedule, and he's from crisis PR."

Serena?

Ice flooded Vivian's veins. She halted mid-step. "Wait—who exactly sent you?"

The woman's smile turned brittle. "Ms. Hartley, is there a problem?"

Vivian's gaze darted to the driver—a hulking figure with prison tattoos snaking up his neck.

"Nothing," Vivian lied, already backing away. "I'll just confirm with Lydia first—"

The man's vise-like grip closed around her arm, yanking her toward the open car door with terrifying strength.