Chapter 1

Elijah

The flash of cameras hits me like artillery fire as I step out of the black SUV, each burst of light designed to capture the perfect shot of Elijah Foster looking effortlessly confident. I've mastered this dance after fifteen years in the spotlight—the slight tilt of my head that catches the light just right, the half-smile that suggests mystery without arrogance, the way I button my Tom Ford jacket with one hand while the other slides through my hair in what appears to be a casual gesture but has been calculated down to the millisecond.

"Elijah! Over here!" The photographers shout my name like a prayer, like I'm their salvation wrapped in Italian leather and expensive cologne. I give them what they want because that's what I do. I perform.

Sierra's hand finds mine as she emerges from the vehicle, her crimson lips curved in that practiced smile she's perfected for red carpets and award shows. Her blonde hair cascades over one shoulder in waves that probably took three hours and a team of stylists to achieve, and her silver gown hugs every curve of her tall, willowy frame. She looks every inch the pop princess the world expects her to be, and together we must look like a fairy tale come true.

If only fairy tales included the kind of tension that's been building between us for months.

"You look stunning tonight," I murmur against her ear as we pose for the cameras, my arm sliding around her waist in a gesture that will be analyzed and dissected by entertainment reporters tomorrow. The words come automatically, part of the script we've been performing for three years.

"I know," she replies, her smile never wavering even as her voice carries that edge I've come to know too well. "Try to keep up."

The premiere of Midnight Reverie—the film I scored—unfolds exactly as these events always do. I shake hands with producers who speak in dollar signs and percentages, nod along to conversations about box office projections and awards season campaigns, and accept compliments on my work with the kind of humble gratitude that plays well in interviews. Sierra glides through the crowd like she owns it, which in many ways she does. Her latest album is sitting at number one, her tour sold out in minutes, and her social media presence could probably influence elections.

But I watch her laugh at something a director says, the way her hand lingers on his arm just a beat too long, and that familiar knot forms in my stomach. It's the same feeling I've been carrying for weeks now. The sense that something fundamental has shifted between us, like a song playing in the wrong key.

"Foster!" A voice cuts through my thoughts, and I turn to find Marcus Chen, my longtime collaborator and one of the few people in this industry I actually trust. His black hair is perfectly styled, his tuxedo impeccable, but there's something in his dark eyes that suggests this isn't just a social call.

"Marcus." I clasp his hand, grateful for a genuine interaction in a sea of artificial ones. "How's the family?"

"Good, good. Listen, I know this isn't the best time, but I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow's meeting." He lowers his voice, and I have to lean in to hear him over the orchestral swell of my own composition playing in the background. "The surrogate situation."

Right. Tomorrow. The meeting that will determine the future of the child Sierra and I have been planning for over a year. The child that was supposed to be the next chapter in our perfect love story, the one the media has been speculating about since Sierra started dropping hints in interviews about wanting to "focus on family."

"Everything's set?" I ask, though I'm not sure why I need the confirmation. Marcus has been handling the legal aspects of our surrogacy arrangement with the kind of meticulous attention to detail that's made him one of the most sought-after entertainment lawyers in Los Angeles.

"The candidate is perfect," he says. "Young actress, clean background, and most importantly, she needs the money. No complications, no emotional attachments. Just business."

Just business. The phrase sits wrong with me, though I can't articulate why. Maybe it's because nothing in my life feels like just business anymore. Every relationship, every conversation, every moment gets filtered through the lens of public image and commercial viability.

"Her name's Kiera Brooks," Marcus continues. "She'll be at the office at two tomorrow. Sierra's people confirmed she'll be there."

I nod, but my attention drifts as I catch sight of Sierra across the room. She's talking to Adam Carter, my best friend since college, and something about their body language makes my chest tighten. They're standing closer than necessary, their heads bent together in conversation that looks far too intimate for a public event. Adam's hand is on the small of her back, and Sierra's laughing in that breathless way she used to laugh when we first started dating.

"Elijah?" Marcus's voice pulls me back. "You okay?"

"Fine," I lie, forcing my attention back to him. "Just thinking about the film."

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of congratulations and networking, but I can't shake the image of Sierra and Adam together. By the time we're in the car heading home to my Malibu house, the silence between us has weight.

"Great party," Sierra says, but she's looking out the window at the city lights rather than at me. Her phone buzzes constantly in her lap, and each notification makes her smile in a way that feels like a small betrayal.

"You seemed to enjoy yourself," I say, and I hear the edge in my own voice.

She turns to look at me then, her blue eyes sharp in the dim light of the backseat. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just an observation."

"Right." She goes back to her phone, her fingers flying over the screen. "Sometimes I think you forget that I have a career too, Elijah. I can't spend every public event hanging on your arm like some kind of accessory."

The accusation stings because there's enough truth in it to cut deep. I've never asked her to be an accessory, but I also know that our relationship exists as much for the cameras as it does for us. Maybe more.

"I never said you couldn't work the room," I say carefully. "I just noticed you and Adam seemed to have a lot to talk about."

She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Are you seriously going to be jealous of Adam? He's your best friend."

"I'm not jealous." The words come out too quickly, and we both know it's a lie. "I'm just trying to understand why my fiancée spent more time talking to him than to me at my own premiere."

"Because he's interesting," she snaps, and the words hang in the air between us like a challenge. "Because he doesn't spend every conversation calculating how it's going to look in the press. Because he actually listens when I talk instead of thinking about his next interview."

The criticism hits home because it's accurate. I have become calculating, careful, always aware of how every interaction will be perceived and dissected by the media machine that feeds on celebrity relationships. But I've had to be. The alternative is chaos, and chaos destroys careers.

"I listen to you," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they're not entirely true.

"When?" Her voice is quiet now, but there's something dangerous in that quietness. "Did you ever asked me about something that wasn't related to our image or our schedules or our public appearances?"

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes. She's right, and we both know it.

The rest of the drive passes in silence.

The next afternoon, I'm sitting in Marcus's Beverly Hills office, trying to focus on the contracts spread across his mahogany desk instead of the lingering tension from last night's conversation with Sierra. The office is all glass and chrome, designed to intimidate and impress, and normally I find the environment energizing. Today, it feels suffocating.

"She should be here any minute," Marcus says, checking his Rolex. "And Sierra's running about ten minutes late, which is actually early for her."

I nod and try to push thoughts of Sierra out of my mind. This meeting is about practicalities, about making sure our child has the best possible start in life while protecting both of our careers. Sierra's image as America's sweetheart can't handle the physical demands and public scrutiny of pregnancy, especially with her tour schedule, and I understand that. This arrangement makes sense for everyone involved.

The door opens, and Marcus's assistant shows someone in. "Ms. Brooks is here."

The woman who walks into the office stops me mid-thought. She's not what I expected, though I'm not sure what I was expecting. Maybe someone more polished, more Hollywood. Instead, Kiera Brooks looks refreshingly real in a way that's become rare in my world.

She's beautiful, but it's an understated beauty that doesn't demand attention so much as earn it. Her dark skin has warm golden undertones that catch the afternoon light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and her hair is styled in loose curls that frame her face in a way that looks effortless but probably isn't. She's wearing a simple navy dress that hugs her petite but curvy figure without being overly revealing, and there's something her that suggests confidence without arrogance.

But it's her eyes that capture my attention. They're dark and expressive, and when they meet mine, I see intelligence and warmth, but also wariness. She knows who I am, obviously, but she's not looking at me the way most people do. There's no starstruck awe or calculated interest. She's just looking at me like I'm a person she's meeting for the first time.

"Ms. Brooks," Marcus stands and extends his hand. "Thank you for coming. I'm Marcus Chen, and this is Elijah Foster."

"Mr. Foster." She shakes my hand, and her grip is firm, her palm slightly warm. "It's nice to meet you."

Her voice is rich and melodic, with just a hint of a Southern accent that suggests roots somewhere warmer than Los Angeles. There's something musical about the way she speaks, and I find myself wanting to hear more.

"Please, call me Elijah," I say, and her smile in response is genuine in a way that makes something in my chest loosen. "Thank you for considering this arrangement."

"Of course." She settles into the chair across from Marcus's desk, crossing her legs at the ankle in a gesture that somehow manages to be both elegant and casual. "I have to admit, this is all a bit surreal."

"I imagine it would be," I say, and I'm surprised by how much I want to put her at ease. "This is new territory for all of us."

Marcus launches into the legal specifics, but I find myself watching Kiera's reactions instead of following the conversation. She asks intelligent questions about the medical aspects, the timeline, the legal protections for everyone involved. She's clearly thought this through carefully, and there's something reassuring about her thoroughness.

"What about after the birth?" she asks, and I realize she's looking directly at me. "I mean, I know the legal agreements are clear, but I guess I'm wondering about the practical aspects. Will you want updates? Pictures? Or would you prefer if I just... disappeared?"

The question surprises me, partly because of how directly she's asking it, but mostly because I haven't really thought about the emotional reality of what we're discussing. In my mind, this has been an abstract arrangement, a solution to a problem. But this woman is going to carry my child for nine months. She's going to feel every kick, every movement, every moment of that life growing inside her. How can I ask her to just disappear after that?

"I..." I start, then stop. "I honestly don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."

"That's fair," she says, and there's no judgment in her voice. "I just wanted to know what to expect."

"What would you prefer?" The question comes out before I can stop it, and I see Marcus raise an eyebrow in surprise.

Kiera considers this for a moment, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her purse. "I think I'd like to know that the baby is happy and healthy. Not necessarily regular updates, but maybe... maybe just knowing that I helped create something good in the world."

Her words stun me, the quiet sincerity in her voice, makes my throat tighten. When did I last experience someone in my life expressed such a pure, uncomplicated desire for goodness?

The door opens again, and Sierra sweeps in wearing designer sunglasses and an expression of barely concealed impatience. She's changed from whatever she wore to her morning meetings into a white silk blouse and tailored black pants that probably cost more than most people's rent, and her hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail that emphasizes the sharp angles of her face.

"Sorry I'm late," she says, though she doesn't sound particularly sorry. "Traffic was insane."

She looks at Kiera with the kind of assessing gaze she usually reserves for backup dancers or opening acts, and I see Kiera straighten slightly in her chair.

"Sierra, this is Kiera Brooks," Marcus says. "Kiera, Sierra Lane."

"It's nice to meet you," Kiera says, standing to shake Sierra's hand.

"Likewise." Sierra's smile is perfectly calibrated, warm enough to seem genuine but cool enough to maintain distance. "Marcus has told us wonderful things about you."

The conversation that follows is polite but strained, and I find myself watching the interplay between the two women with growing discomfort. Sierra asks questions about Kiera's health, her lifestyle, her career aspirations, but there's something clinical about her interest, like she's interviewing a potential employee rather than someone who's offering to help us build our family.

Kiera handles it with grace, answering every question honestly and thoroughly, but I can see the tension building in the set of her shoulders, the way her hands grip her purse a little tighter with each passing minute.

"I think we have everything we need," Marcus finally says, sensing the same tension I'm feeling. "Kiera, if you could just give us a few days to review everything, we'll be in touch with our decision."

"Of course." Kiera stands, smoothing down her dress. "Thank you for your time."

She shakes hands with Marcus, then Sierra, and finally turns to me. When our hands touch again, I feel that same warmth, that same sense of genuine connection that's been missing from my life for longer than I care to admit.

"It was really nice meeting you, Elijah," she says, and I believe her.

"You too," I reply, and I mean it more than I've meant anything in a long time.

After she leaves, Sierra immediately starts dissecting the meeting like a post-game analysis.

"She seems nice enough," Sierra says, settling into the chair Kiera just vacated. "A little too... I don't know, earnest? But I suppose that's what we want. Someone who won't cause problems."

The casual dismissal in her voice bothers me more than it should. "She seemed thoughtful. Genuine."

"Sure." Sierra waves a hand dismissively. "As long as she can do the job, that's all that matters."

The job. As if carrying our child is just another gig, another transaction in a world full of them.

I find myself thinking about Kiera Brooks for the rest of the day, about the warmth in her eyes and the way she asked about the baby's future happiness. In a life increasingly defined by artificial interactions and calculated responses, meeting someone who seems genuinely real feels like stumbling across an oasis in the desert.