Chapter 1

1.

I was secretly married to superstar Liam Thorne for five years, and he had just gone public with her.

Just as Liam was promising me a makeup wedding ceremony for the ninety-ninth time, I saw the video on TMZ of him and Scarlett Vance making out backstage.

I’d heard that same promise 99 times over the past five years, and he’d bailed on me 99 times.

The first time, Scarlett “masterminded” a PR crisis. She tipped off the paparazzi to catch her and Liam on a “late-night secret date” at a restaurant on Sunset Boulevard. Then she called him, claiming, “The media is out of control, I need you to handle this.” He ditched his half-fitted tuxedo and bolted from the bridal shop in Beverly Hills. I was still in the dressing room, holding the champagne-colored bow tie he’d asked for.

The second time, Scarlett “accidentally” let it slip to a reporter on the Grammy’s red carpet that she and Liam were working on a “very personal” love song together. Twitter exploded. The agency’s calls blew up Liam’s phone. He left me standing alone at our fully decorated wedding venue on Malibu Beach to go put out the fire. The wedding planner looked at me, awkwardly asking if they should start taking down the white roses.

Whenever I brought up our wedding, he would vanish because of some “emergency” Scarlett had expertly engineered, like a bomb in a bad Hollywood movie, always going off right on cue.

Every time I confronted him, he’d use that same irritated, defensive tone. “Scarlett and me? Come on, Chloe. We’re practically like siblings. You’re my wife, for God’s sake. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

But every time they were pictured together, the hashtag #LiamAndScarlettForever would trend on Twitter, with fans shipping them like crazy.

Until that day, I finally got tired of the whole ridiculous show. I slipped the divorce papers into a thick stack of tour contracts for him to sign and booked a one-way ticket to London.

But then, the Grammy-winning superstar showed up at my door like a stray dog, his eyes red and his voice hoarse.

…

After the encore of his ninety-ninth sold-out tour date, Liam bailed on our ninety-ninth scheduled wedding.

On stage, he held hands with his “one true love” Scarlett as they rose on a platform lift. The screams from the fans below nearly blew the roof off the Crypto.com Arena.

“Oh my god, they’re real! Liam and Scarlett are the real deal!”

“When are they getting married already? Their chemistry is insane!”

The shrieks from the fan next to me drilled into my ears.

Five years of being Liam’s secret wife, and I was still stuck in the staff section, under the dual identity of “Tour Manager and Music Producer.” The irony was, both titles were legit. Five years ago, when Liam was just a struggling musician playing gigs in a crappy dive bar in Echo Park, I was the one who rearranged his breakout hit, “Midnight City.” I used my savings to rent a recording studio for the demo, and I was the one who hustled, calling every radio DJ I knew to get it on the air.

Now, he was the one on stage being worshipped by thousands, while I sat in the dark, too tired to even applaud my own free labor.

After the concert, I finished the inventory of all the costumes and sound equipment by myself and waited for him at the back entrance of the arena. This was our routine; he never let me leave with him through the front.

A black Cadillac Escalade pulled up in front of me, the door sliding open automatically.

Inside, Scarlett was asleep on Liam’s shoulder, her Hermès scarf draped loosely over her knees.

I moved to get in, but Liam held up a hand to stop me. He didn’t even look at me, his eyes fixed on Scarlett’s sleeping face as he whispered, “Not tonight. Paparazzi are everywhere. You know the rules―call yourself an Uber.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were the most reasonable request in the world.

For five years of our secret marriage, he had guarded against me being in the same car as him like I was a thief. Two years ago, on vacation in the Maldives, he flew back to L.A. with Scarlett in a private jet and told me to “figure it out” myself. I waited twelve hours at the Malé airport for a connecting flight and was nearly dehydrated by the time I got back to Los Angeles.

And now, with Scarlett sleeping on his shoulder, he was telling me to “keep my distance.”

I forced a cold smile. “Fine. But tomorrow―you’re still coming, right?”

Liam frowned, taking a second to remember his promise.

“Tomorrow? Dammit, Chloe, I can’t. Scarlett’s a mess―the label is breathing down my neck about the album release. It’s complicated. We’ll do it next week, I swear.”

His voice was laced with annoyance.

I should have known. My fingers tightened on my bag strap. My heart was too numb to even feel the ache. Disappointment was a muscle memory I had perfected.

I had only slept six hours in the last three days getting this concert ready. Just yesterday, Liam had held my tired face in his hands and sworn, “After tomorrow, we’re flying to Vegas. I promise, baby. For real this time. A real wedding.”

Now, that promise was as disposable as a piece of gum.

I pulled a document, tucked between some bills, out of my bag and handed it to him. “You need to sign this.”

Without even looking, Liam flipped to the last page and scribbled his signature. He’d signed so many papers I’d given him over the years, never reading them, mistaking his blind arrogance for trust in me.

I took the papers back. He was already closing the door.

“Get home safe, baby. I’ll get you those Sprinkles cupcakes you love…”

The door shut, and his taillights vanished into the L.A. winter night.

I stood in the cold wind and calmly took out my phone to call an Uber.

The next day when Liam came home, I was scrolling through the number one trending topic on Twitter:

#LiamAndScarlettKissingBackstage

The photo showed them locked in an embrace in the dressing room, the angle intimate, the lighting soft and romantic.

Liam closed the door, casually hanging his Givenchy jacket―the one I got him last Christmas, now stained with foundation―on the hook.

He saw me on the couch and asked nonchalantly, “Oh, hey. What was that thing I signed last night?”

I locked my phone and looked up at him. “You didn’t even read it. Guess you really trust me.”

He chuckled, walking over to wrap his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Ha, it’s not like you’d slip me divorce papers or something, right?” he joked. “Another endorsement deal?”

I didn’t move, my voice flat and cold. “What if it was? Divorce papers?”

His arms tightened around me instantly, his face pressing against my neck. His voice dropped low, trying to soothe me with his usual tricks. “Don’t say that. You know I can’t lose you.”

I shoved his hands off and stood up.

I couldn’t tell which one was the better actor: the man in the TMZ photo or the one standing in front of me now, pretending to be devoted.

But I had lost all interest in being a spectator. It was time for this five-year-long, terrible reality show to be cancelled.