Flashing lights, cameras, parties, drinks, and all the other vices that either crippled a celebrity’s life, or made it rise to even greater heights: those were the reasons why you shouldn’t have gotten involved with John Price.

Everyone had told you, either from direct experience or rumours, that he was the last guy you should’ve wanted, that he was going to break your heart, like a drug that slowly eats you from the inside, hiding behind its rush. You knew Simon Riley was no good for you.

But could you really be blamed, for not resisting those ocean blue eyes and that sinful mouth of his, dripping with honeyed poison?

You had tried, at first, to resist him, you truly had. It was a friday night, stepping out of the limo with your friends, strutting towards the bouncer, who let you all inside despite the mile-long queue that shouted all sorts of insults your way; too bad for them, you thought.

It had started out with a simple drink, your eyes purposely avoiding your friends glare as John talked to you, hypnotising you. Little did he know, he was the one wrapped around your finger. Chasing after the only girl who hadn’t twisted and bent at his will immediately made him feel euphoric without any substances, for the first time in years.

It was only a matter of weeks before you caved, only because of his apparent obsession with you. You thought he would’ve left the morning after, but you found him crawling back to you. They all looked at him like he was a god, could they believe that you made him weak?

“They’re asking me if I'm with you,” you mumbled, checking your phone with one hand, the other tracing doodles on the fogged up mirrors of the backseat of his car. John chuckled, his arms finding your waist, his nose nudging the nape of your neck through your hair.

“Let them wonder,” he murmured, his gravelly voice coaxing a shiver to run down your spine. “That’s the beauty of a secret, isn’t it?”