Year two of our secret marriage, and I somehow ended up infiltrating a private Telegram group dedicated to stalking my husband. The chat was currently scrolling at breakneck speed: [$1,000 bounty for Wesley Kallan’s private flight itinerary tomorrow! Who has a plug?] I lurked in the digital shadows for a good half hour, watching the frantic messages pile up. It was a hive of obsessive, borderline-feral fans whose sole purpose in life was tracking, photographing, and cornering the man I was married to. Leaning back against the velvet cushions of my empty living room, I toggled over to my iMessage and held down the microphone button. [Mr. A-List, which flight are you taking to New York tomorrow morning again?] His reply came a minute later. [Delta 9527. Why? Finally willing to come to LAX and see your actual husband off?] I copied the flight number and dropped it into the Telegram chat. Sixty seconds later, a thousand dollars hit my Venmo. 1 [Bounty paid. Don’t ghost us on the gate and seating area, you coward.] The notification that popped up on my screen dripped with entitlement. The sender’s handle was StardustWes. She was the admin of this two-hundred-member stalker syndicate. I stared at her profile picture—a girl in a bright red jacket—my thumb hovering over the glass. [Guess our ‘insider’ is a one-trick pony. The nerve to charge for scraps.] When I didn’t reply immediately, the admin’s texts turned venomous. The rest of the group swarmed like sharks smelling blood. [Seriously. Take our money and run, hope you get hit by a bus.] [Watch this be a burner account run by Wesley’s pathetic, secret hag of a wife.] [Ugh, don’t make me puke. That old, washed-up bitch taking up space probably doesn’t even get to see Wes’s face. She’s just a placeholder.] [I heard she’s some ugly corporate suit who trapped him into marriage with Hollywood studio money. Wes is just enduring it for his career.] [Honestly, I pray she gets in a car crash so the spot opens up.] I watched the words scroll past, a sharp, twisting ache taking root in my stomach. Two years of marriage. Outside these walls, Wesley Kallan was a blindingly bright superstar, a cinematic darling. Inside, I was a ghost. A woman who didn’t even deserve a name. For the sake of his flawless trajectory, we had never taken a single public photo together. And now, his deranged fans were casually wishing for my death in a group chat, and I couldn’t even defend myself. If I fired back, my carefully constructed persona as an airport insider would shatter. I took a slow, rattling breath, pressing down the tremor in my fingertips, and typed. [Keep your hair on. Verifying the layout now.] Switching apps, I opened Wesley’s pinned contact. A black square for a profile picture. Two years. He flew to every corner of the earth while I guarded a sprawling, echoing mansion in the Hollywood Hills. He genuinely believed that sending a daily “landed” text and depositing an exorbitant allowance into my account constituted a marriage. But I was starting to forget the physical temperature of his skin. I copied the rest of the flight data and flipped back to Telegram. [DL9527. First Class, Seat 2A.] A new Venmo notification pinged. [Good girl.] The admin sent another thousand. I clicked ‘Accept’ with a blank face. The digital chime of the deposit sounded impossibly loud in the hollow silence of the house. [Who’s going to LAX tomorrow? Remember to get tight shots of his face.] The admin began delegating. [Me! Me! I’m gonna try to rip off that cursed protection amulet that old witch gave him.] [Yes! Shred it. Wes should only wear the jewelry we buy him.] I stared at that sentence until the words blurred, a cold numbness seeping into my chest. That amulet was a hand-carved grounding stone I had driven ten hours into the Arizona desert to get for him from a Navajo artisan, praying for his safety after a stunt went wrong on set. Wesley had worn it flush against his collarbone ever since. Now, these girls were crowdsourcing a plan to destroy it. My phone vibrated in my palm. A text from Wesley. [Wheels up at 6:30 AM. If you can actually wake up that early, I’ll have the driver swing by the house to get you.] I stared at the glowing blue bubble for a long time. Then, very slowly, I typed: [Too tired. Can’t make it. Be safe.] After it delivered, I placed the phone face down on the sofa and closed my eyes. In the suffocating dark, I could already picture the absolute chaos of the airport ambush waiting for him tomorrow. I lost track of time, drifting in a numb haze, until the sudden chime of the front gate intercom shattered the silence. I snapped my eyes open, looking at the digital clock on the mantle. 5:00 AM. I walked over to the security monitor. “Who is it?” The screen was pitch black. No visual. But the voice that filtered through the speaker made my blood freeze in my veins. “It’s me.” 2 The voice was rough, laced with a heavy, gravelly exhaustion. “Open the gate, Camille.” I stood paralyzed for two agonizing seconds before slamming my palm onto the release button. The heavy iron locks clicked open. He walked in bringing the chill of the California dawn with him. He was hidden beneath a black baseball cap and a face mask, a grease-stained brown paper bag dangling from his fingers. “Aren’t you supposed to be flying to New York this morning? Why are you back here?” He pulled off the mask and tossed the cap onto the marble entryway console. “Changed my flight.” He walked the distance between us and held the paper bag out to me. “Those almond croissants from that tiny French place in Venice Beach. Still warm.” I didn’t take it. My eyes were fixed on the heavy, bruised shadows beneath his eyes. “Are you out of your mind? You drove all the way back up the hills at five in the morning just to drop off a pastry?” A faint, tired smile touched his lips. He reached out, his hand brushing through my hair. “It was on the way.” Venice Beach to the Hollywood Hills, while he was supposed to be at LAX. In no universe was that on the way. I stepped back, dodging his touch, and took the bag. My fingers accidentally grazed the back of his hand. It was ice cold. “Eat them before they get cold,” he murmured, turning on his heel and heading toward the master bath. I stood rooted to the spot, watching the broad line of his shoulders disappear behind the frosted glass door. The water turned on. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened Telegram. The chat was an absolute war zone. [What the hell is going on?! The VIP terminal is completely empty!] [Where is the insider?! Get out here and explain! How dare you sell us fake intel!] The admin, StardustWes, dropped a barrage of furious emojis. [Refund us right now, or I swear to God I’ll hire someone to track your IP and dox you to the whole internet!] [You messed with the wrong crowd, bitch. You’re dead.] I scrolled through the manic tags and death threats, a dark, cynical smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. Wesley changed his flight without telling a single soul—not even me. His stalkers caught nothing but air, and naturally, my head was on the chopping block. I didn’t refund the money. I didn’t type a single word. The shower shut off. Wesley walked out in sweatpants and a faded vintage tee, vigorously drying his dripping hair with a towel. He stopped, his gaze falling on the untouched paper bag sitting on the kitchen island. “Why aren’t you eating?” “Lost my appetite,” I said, my voice deadpan. He paused, lowering the towel, and walked slowly toward me. He studied my face, his brow furrowing. “Are you in a bad mood?” I tilted my head up, meeting his gaze head-on. “Wesley, we’ve been married for almost two years. Do you honestly think we still look like husband and wife?” His jaw tightened. He tossed the damp towel onto a barstool. “I’ve been slammed with production lately, Camille. Once we wrap this shoot, I promise, I’ll take you to Iceland. We’ll go see the Northern Lights.” Another empty check. Another hollow promise. Every single time I tried to breach the wall between us, he used a vacation as a band-aid to push the conversation down the road. I pushed off the counter. “Don’t bother. I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.” I turned toward the hallway. A hand locked around my wrist, stopping me dead. His voice dropped an octave, heavy with a sudden, suffocating pressure. “What is actually going on with you?” I ripped my arm out of his grip. “Nothing. I just feel like you’re a million miles away. You’re so far away that I don’t even know what city you’re going to wake up in tomorrow.” A flicker of something—guilt? frustration?—passed through his eyes. “I thought you understood the nature of my work.” I stared at him, enunciating every single word. “I do understand. Which is exactly why I never ask. Because when I do, all I get is a perfectly curated PR lie.” I turned, walked into the guest bedroom, and locked the door behind me. I was violently jolted awake by the machine-gun vibration of my phone against the nightstand. I squinted at the screen. Telegram. The notifications read 999+. [Found him! The insider wasn’t lying about the flight, Wesley just changed his schedule last minute!] [A paparazzi account just posted pictures of him landing at O’Hare in Chicago last night!] The admin’s tone did a complete 180. [Omg Insider babes, I’m so sorry we doubted you! Do you have Wes’s itinerary for Chicago?!] [Paying $5,000 right now for the name of his hotel in Chicago!] I stared at the bounty. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Landing in Chicago last night? He had walked through my front door at five o’clock this morning. It was physically impossible. I minimized Telegram and opened Twitter. #WesleyChicago was trending at number eight. I clicked the hashtag. The blurry paparazzi shots showed a man in a black baseball cap and a face mask. The height, the build, the posture—it was a flawless imitation. But I knew my husband’s shoulders. I knew the way he walked. It wasn’t him. Wesley Kallan was deploying body doubles as decoys to shake his stalkers. And the real Wesley? He was currently asleep in the master bedroom, thirty feet away from me. A cold, bitter laugh escaped my throat. I switched back to the stalker chat. [$5,000 is insulting. Make it $10,000.] The admin replied instantly. [Deal. Send the location!] I leaned back against the headboard, listening to the muffled sounds of footsteps in the hallway. He was up. I opened Wesley’s text thread. [Mr. A-List, which hotel are you resting your head at in Chicago right now?] 3 I stared at the screen, my pulse thrumming a slow, heavy beat against my ribs. Through the drywall, the footsteps paused. A heavy, breathless minute ticked by before the typing bubble appeared. [The one the studio booked. Why the sudden interrogation? Checking up on me?] His tone was perfectly engineered—that familiar, indulgent tease he used to deflect. I didn’t take the bait. My thumbs flew across the glass. [Which hotel did the studio book, Wesley?] This time, the reply was immediate. [The Park Hyatt. Why are you asking? Thinking of flying out to surprise me on set?] I stared at the words Park Hyatt. A venomous spike of pure resentment shot through me. He lied with such breathtaking ease. He was in the next room, breathing the same air as me, and he could still fabricate a location two thousand miles away without missing a beat. To protect his untouchable brand, he kept his armor on, even against the woman he married. I didn’t call him out. Instead, I copied the words Park Hyatt Chicago and dropped them straight into the Telegram chat. [$10,000. Pleasure doing business.]
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