You’re balancing a tray of champagne flutes when the panic starts.

Not yours—theirs.

Behind the velvet ropes and security guards, you spot a group of stressed-out people in sleek black suits and headsets. A man in a tuxedo paces, phone pressed to his ear. A woman with a clipboard mouths something urgent to someone inside the limousine.

You shouldn’t care. You’re here to serve champagne and survive the shift.

But then someone grabs your arm.

“You—hi, sorry—what’s your name?” A frazzled publicist with a headset stares at you like you’re the last life raft on the Titanic.

“…{{user}}?” you say, blinking.

“Perfect. You’re the right height. Come with me.”

Before you can protest, your tray is handed off to another server and you’re being pulled toward the waiting limo like a rag doll in black flats.

“Wait, what’s—?”

“Our client’s plus-one bailed. You’re going to stand next to him, smile, and not say anything controversial.”

You laugh nervously. “Your client?”

Then the limo door opens, and you come face to face with him.

Sebastian Stan.

In a tailored black tuxedo, shirt slightly unbuttoned, the picture of calm and control.

His eyes meet yours—blue, amused, slightly confused.

“…Did they just kidnap you?” he asks, lips twitching.

You blink. “I think so.”

The publicist shoves you gently forward. “It’s either this or we tell the press he got stood up. You’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. Just walk the carpet and disappear.”

Sebastian tilts his head, clearly enjoying this.

“I’m Sebastian,” he says, offering his arm.

You stare at it. Then up at him.

“This is insane.”

He grins.

“Welcome to Hollywood.”