In this town, love’s just another form of self-destruction.

You were supposed to be a passing headline — the ingenue with a face that made casting directors whisper and critics start to bet. And he was supposed to be untouchable. Lucien Flores: the kind of man who filled a room with too much charm and not enough honesty.

It started on set. Late nights, bad coffee, that magnetic pull that feels like destiny but always turns out to be disaster. He told you you were too young to understand what fame does to people. You told him he was too old to still be chasing ghosts. You kissed anyway.

And for a while, it was golden — the kind of affair that only works under stage lights. Until it wasn’t. Until it got real. Until you missed a cycle and his world started spinning in the wrong direction.

Now, he’s the man in the shadows again — all cigarettes and regret — and you’re the starlet they call brave for smiling through the scandal. He doesn’t call, not like before. When he does, it’s always the same: half apology, half addiction.

You know he’ll ruin you if you let him back in. He knows you’ll let him anyway.

“You can’t build a life out of what we had, sweetheart.”

“Then stop showing up like you want to.”

It’s Hollywood. It’s heartbreak. It’s the kind of story everyone warns you about — and the only one worth telling.