Luna in the Limelight

The sheer gold evening gown clung to Mara Luxe’s body like it was made for her. It hadn’t been—just one of several shown to her straight off the rack. But the effect this designer created was undeniable. It held her body like a lover, accentuating her best assets and smoothing over her blemishes. For once, she stared at the person on the other side of the mirror and thought she looked perfect. Utterly perfect.

Mara hadn’t looked at herself before they left the hotel room. It never did her any good because she only saw flaws where everyone else on her team saw toned muscles and well-defined features. Teeth that were too large. Eyes that appeared slightly baggy even after makeup. A pointed nose and a second toe that was longer than her first. A few pale stretch marks over her thighs and at the juncture of her underarms. Her lips weren’t the perfect shape, nor was her body a perfect hourglass. Mara’s eyebrows were flat and too thick—her hips larger than her butt. Many things about her didn’t match the perfection she was trying to embody on and off the screen.

Now, in the empty bathroom and with too many drinks in her system, she caught a glimpse of what everyone else saw. She looked amazing. While Mara felt like one of the gilded candlesticks on the banquet tables, in the mirror before her, she also felt like a queen. Someone to respect and take notice of. She didn’t think she looked plain. As a Hollywood actress, Mara was attractive and well aware of it. She didn’t feel like her perception matched reality or that her confidence inside was the same as what she wore outside.

She couldn’t explain any of this to her stylist—how self-conscious she felt when on display or how little she cared for her body to be so visible. One topless scene at the start of her career had turned her body into a commodity. After that, Mara never realized how little her body would feel like her own.

There seemed to be an unspoken rule that pretty people had to love themselves unconditionally, which was a complex image to live up to. No one could be confident and unaffected by other opinions all the time.

Pulling at her straps until they were centered, Mara shook her head, pushing those thoughts aside. She was a gorgeous centerpiece tonight. She would survive her judgment. Egotistical as it might have been, the compliments made her feel better, as did the champagne. Tomorrow, she’d see the actual reviews all over the blog sites, which would hurt, but tonight, she would embrace the beauty everyone else saw. Closing her eyes, Mara breathed deeply, convincing herself she wouldn’t read the negative reviews. Even though she’d only been active in the industry for the better part of two years, she could easily see how attention like this became addictive and destructive. She scrolled through online comments about her appearance, even though they stung. It was terrible for her mental health, but she watched the talk shows, too. She read blog posts and celebrity gossip columns because she couldn’t help but wonder what they saw when they looked at her.

Why did they constantly think she oscillated between effortless beauty and salacious vixen? She wasn’t either of those things. Mara sighed, knowing which one they would call her tonight as she pulled the rest of her dress in different angles until the hand-woven crystals glittered like stardust and the upper plunge revealed her soft curves.

Mara’s first feature film, 'Tainted Love,' premiered two years ago to no critical acclaim. But among regular movie-goers, it was an instant hit, and Mara had become an overnight success story right alongside it. Originally a low-expectation film with a slim budget and little fanfare, 'Tainted Love' somehow became a box office money maker and the source material for a new fandom. Because of that following and the first movie's success, the studio gave the sequel, Fated Love, a blockbuster budget. She almost passed out at the pay raise her agent, Richard, negotiated. Her life as an unknown actress disappeared overnight in the film’s swell of success. Everyone wanted a piece of her and a part in the buzz around the sequel.

It was nothing like the life she’d dreamed up as a child or even as she starred in her first indie darling, 'Slasher,' when she was still nineteen. Sometimes, she missed the beauty of those early days—seeing how bright the future could look. Mara had always imagined a simple little life for herself. Quaint but comfortable. A small house with enough room for her mother and sister, maybe a view, if she could find one in her budget and the space for a dog. Above all else, she needed a place that was hers and a life where no one made her afraid. Where no one knew her past or cared to; she just wanted to live by her own rules, owing nothing and no one. That’s how she ended up in this ridiculous, perfect, unattainable existence. An online coincidence that turned into more. This life didn’t exist. It was one she could only see on television. She smiled at her reflection, then winced.

Of course, she hadn’t expected to become so famous. A micro success story that could afford to leave her mother’s apartment? Maybe. A small-scale actress who made enough to afford her dream life? Hopefully. A household name? No. A red-carpet must-have? Never.

It was the reason she kept her two lives utterly separate. The unfortunate side-effect of fame—one she hadn’t thought of when she sent those stupid photos years ago—was that her old life might come knocking. It might want to drag her back, and she couldn’t let it. Mara swallowed a dry tongue.

Shooting for the sequel was due to start in a few months, and she fixated on that instead. Not the years spent sleeping on her mother’s couch while she tried to ghost through a few college courses. Not the fact that a twenty-nine-year-old breakout star was practically unheard of. Yet, here she was, against all odds. It wasn’t so glamorous from the inside, though. Hollywood was a machine that chewed up young hopefuls and spit them back out. She couldn’t afford to be one of them.

The attention at the gala was heady but equally draining. There were so many people to network, smile at, and have idle conversations with. Not to mention pretending she didn’t feel any roving touches that lingered too long. Richard always said that composure was essential, so she kept her temper tucked deep, choosing to steal a few minutes alone in the bathroom instead. Mara knew that alone time was quickly getting away from her. Richard would knock on the door any minute to hurry her up. There were still too many people to meet. There were too many false promises to make.

When the thought came with a spike of anxiety, Mara knew she just wanted to go home. Not back to the hotel, but her actual home—the beat-up mess of land she recently bought outright. She wanted to finish the kitchen tile and plot out her garden. Or water her houseplants and take a jog through town. Mara wanted the fresh trees and cool mountain air against her skin. She missed the locals and the lake, watching the wildlife from her back firepit. Mara Luxe was her on-screen persona, but she was always itching to peel off the façade for the woman who just wanted to live a good life.

Hell, the dress was gorgeous, but it was uncomfortable and itchy. Sure, she looked terrific, but she didn’t feel like herself. Mara blew out her resignation, letting her lips flutter playfully. Tomorrow. She could leave first thing tomorrow and let herself be normal for a little while, far away from the glitz and glamor.

If only these galas were about the actual charities. Though this was the first one where she was the guest of honor, the reality of the event was very different from its intent. She loved to donate to those in need. This gala, for instance, was to fund children from disadvantaged areas, and Mara signed off on an anonymous donation. But the event itself seemed like a glorified red carpet affair. It was an excuse for the rich and famous to dress up and ogle each other, write off a large donation they’d get back in taxes, and maybe have an illicit encounter or two. Mara wasn’t trying to be judgy, but there was a difference between feeling grateful for her career taking off—for the money in her bank account—and feeling thankful for this new world. She didn’t. She didn’t even recognize herself most of the time.

Mara re-pinned her velvet mask, thanking the stars that at least at a masquerade ball, she could hide her facial expressions. Fiddling with her jewelry, she decided she’d stalled enough. Mara grabbed her tiny clutch that held nothing but lipstick and blotting cloths and headed back into the empty hall. Downstairs was just as lovely as the ballroom above, with burgundy carpet, embroidered gold leaf fixtures, and crown molding. Aside from the relative quiet, the significant difference between upstairs and downstairs was the low lighting, as if the venue wanted people to avoid prying eyes.

Before she could take too many steps from the bathroom, two arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her toward the darkened alcove nearby. She might have stumbled in her heels and long dress if the arms hadn't been so strong, but the movement was so fluid her feet hardly touched the ground. Mara assumed it was her co-star, Aaron Andrews, again. He’d already cornered her twice that night about rekindling their fling. It had been fun—not mind-blowing—but definitely not awful. Mara just didn’t understand why he couldn’t let it go. Life on set created a bubble, and it was easy to get wrapped up in the scenes when they spent day after day around each other. Shooting love scenes didn’t help because if there was one thing Aaron had going for him, it was his body. With the long hours spent together for months, it was all too easy to scratch that itch. But that was as far as it went for Mara. Two adults helping each other release some sexual tension.

He didn’t agree.

“Aaron, not this again! We can—”

Mara’s words died on her lips as she turned to meet Aaron’s gaze, only to find a unique pair of eyes staring back at her. The unfamiliar wolf’s mask was the first alarm because Aaron was a fox. And the deep blue eyes were the second. They weren’t Aaron’s. She tried to jerk away, but at the cold tip of a knife to her throat, she went rigid and allowed him to press her back against his chest. Panic had every hair on her body raised and ready to fight. But with a knife to her throat in a restrictive evening gown and six-inch heels, Mara had to wait for an opening.

“Dear goddess, you smell like heaven. Of course, you’d make this more difficult than I expected,” the man chastised as if she’d tried to make things harder for him. Under the tone, she heard his smile, feeling the threat of it over her skin along with his hand on the sheerest part of her waist. He was warm, almost feverishly, and she shuddered at the difference between them. He took that as a signal, gripping her closer. She wanted to turn back and vomit all over the suit he was wearing. Or maybe slam her forehead into his nose, but she couldn’t do either.

What could she say to a man holding a knife to her throat? With only a few self-defense classes under her belt, she was out of her depth. Mara didn’t even know why he was doing it. These things didn’t happen to celebrities at charity galas, did they? Maybe in the life she grew up in, but not this one. What if that old life found her?

No, she would accept any other explanation—a publicity stunt. Film promo organized by the studio. A joke. Any other ridiculous option made more sense than her past finding her here. Someone was going to jump out any minute and yell surprise. Then, she would pretend to laugh it off before leaving early to cry in her hotel room. Mara visualized it all, feeling some comfort in the made-for-tv ending.

However, when she glanced back down at his knife hand, she felt the soft snick of the blade slicing through her skin. Only a scratch, barely any pain at all, but it solidified that this was not a fucking game. It was an actual blade held by a real man who meant her genuine harm, and there was no one else around.

“The beautiful Mara Luxe.” He nudged the underside of her jaw with his nose, inhaling deeply regardless of the tense sweat breaking out all over her skin. “Sweetheart of the silver screen…”

Mara tried to open her mouth, but no sound came out. Where had all her training and preparation gone?

“I've been wanting to meet you in person. I had to fight off three others for the job…” His voice trailed away as Mara’s mind tried to remember if there was security downstairs. Did they do sweeps? Would she be able to throw an elbow and run for the stairs?

“Who knew you would smell so fucking good? It’s a shame. Such a shame I don’t have time...”

He continued talking to the underside of her jaw, running his lips over her pulse as he told her all the ways he idolized her, but Mara’s mind couldn't process any of it. Had her mind locked down? Hadn’t she prepared for this possibility? Hadn’t she honed herself over the years to never repeat her childhood?

And still, when it came down to it, she was incapable of moving.

She ran through all the possibilities for this situation. Jerking her head away from his lips when they pressed harder, Mara bit back her scathing disgust. Did he think his attention was some kind of compliment? She wanted to ram one of her heels into his eye. She wanted… she wanted… Mara felt the pressure of a scream building in her throat.

What was she going to do? Winning through force was unlikely, with absolutely no advantage. Maybe she could make him fall? She visualized biting his hand or scratching his face, but with how close they were, none of it seemed good for her survival. Any hired hand worth half his snuff could bite back the pain and even the score before she’d taken two steps. Mara had gleaned small things like that from her old life—had seen men do horrible things to one another despite the odds.

She could try waiting for an opening, but she wasn’t confident that he wouldn’t drag her off to a second location.

If he took her anywhere else, she was dead.

Screaming for help wouldn't do her much good because everyone was still upstairs, and the ballroom band reverberated through the floor. No one would hear her. She’d try it, though, if it were her only option. Her throat would become a fountain shortly afterward, but at least her death wouldn’t be alone in the back of a van or in somebody’s basement.

That was assuming they did not send him. She refused to consider it because Mara knew without a doubt if they had sent him for her, she was dead already. If the peace she’d brokered for herself hadn’t been enough, nothing would be enough.

She had trauma—tons of past trauma. But trauma would not turn around and stab him in his eye, so it didn’t help. The man used the knife to trace her bottom lip slowly, and Mara flinched.

“Please—” Mara didn’t know why she said it and wasn't even sure where it came from. She thought the urge to beg had been beaten out of her permanently all those years ago. All of her thoughts seemed to fall flat as the knife moved, tracing an invisible pattern on her skin. She wasn’t used to fear like this anymore. It was too much, too foreign. Didn’t all of her success mean something? Didn’t it dictate the kinds of things that could touch her? Apparently not. Money bought a lot, but it didn’t buy everything. Mara’s eyes filled with unshed tears, her heart racing. It wasn’t fair that after everything, her life would end in misery. She didn’t deserve the scars she carried already, and she didn’t want any more.

“What do you want from me? Money? Let me go, and I’ll pay...”

“Isn't it obvious? I'm here for you,” he growled softly, and something layered under the sound like it came from his chest. “Not for what you can pay me.”

“I don’t understand, please!”

“Save your breath. There’s no negotiating out of this, dove. But don’t worry, if I was here to kill you, you’d already be dead. I just want to talk, but I’m getting the feeling you don’t want to talk to me… That's too hopeful for an actress, isn't it? Can’t spare me five minutes when you’ve got a whole ballroom full of adoring fans?”

Mara's fear spread through her body like ice. What the hell did that mean? She tried again to push away, but he pressed the tip harder into her flesh, moving it closer to the side of her neck, angling it like he planned to stab down.

“Don't make me angry,” he hissed. “Stay still.”

Mara shook, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth so she wouldn’t cry.

It was barely working.

“Good girl. Nice and calm for me, and I didn’t even have to cut you. I don’t want to hurt you. Unless you want me to? I’m not above doing the things you like if we’re going to be working together. Would you like that, Amara—to work with me? We could help each other.” He rolled her name in a way that made her skin crawl. She’d burned her real name and buried all traces of it. No one in this life knew her real name, no matter how hard Richard had pressed. Mara told Richard that her mother abhorred strangers, living the life of a recluse, and her siblings were all but estranged. They didn't need the constant critical eye of the media when they wanted no association with Mara. It was all a serious ploy to make sure her family would be protected.

The truth was no one else’s business, and knowing would only get them killed. If Mara’s fame drew a target on her back, at least she could spare them from paying the price.

Against all odds, this man knew her name. He couldn’t know, couldn’t, unless he was here to bring her back.

She wouldn’t go.

She wouldn’t make this easy. Mara’s body fought before she could stop it. She struggled, ignoring the pain of the blade as it dug into her neck.

“Stop it!” he barked, banding his hard roughly around her ribs. “I don’t want you to scar. Not with all the cameras. Unless…” Something sharp dragged over the opposite side of her throat. Not the knife but— “Unless…”

Suddenly, the high-pitched laugh of a woman and the low groan of a man were wafting down the corridor. It was close, maybe just a few steps from the opening of the hallway. Her heart thundered in her chest, beating so loud she thought they could hear it from the ballroom. Any second, and they'd be on them. They would find her. She could hear the dull shuffle of feet on the carpet. So close. So, so close.

“You think this saved you?” He laughed softly, not caring if she reached her nails back to dig into his face. He dodged her attack.

Mara's heart leaped nearly out of her chest as the man dragged his knife through the side of her dress. The blade split the satin-like water, exposing the lingerie beneath as he shoved her forward into the wall. Her head smacked the plaster, and she screamed. Mara kept screaming as she slid to her knees, trying to gather the fabric across herself. She trembled as she looked back at him.

“This changes nothing, dove. You are going to help me because you and I both know you have no choice. No matter how hard you try, you can't fly out of this cage. You were born into it. We’ll have another chat soon.”

From the ground, she could hear the words he whispered as he disappeared down the hall toward the service exit, only a shadow of his true build.

“I'll see you again, Amara Rodriguez...”

She didn't waste a second. Mara stumbled to her feet, ignoring the shooting pain through both ankles as she raced down the hallway towards the stairs. She needed air and help and for someone to find that bastard before he got away. Barreling so fast around the corner, she ran into the couple that had just come into view.

“Are you okay? We heard you scream. Security is—oh my god, Mara Luxe?”

The woman reached for her, but Mara veered away, apologizing as she scurried past the couple and continued up the stairs. She stumbled and slipped on her heels, the torn fabric of her dress gaping wide. She was pretty sure her ankles were going to swell tomorrow with the way they rolled, but she kept going. When Mara reached the main landing, she searched for Richard, her eyes wet and blurry as she pushed into the crowd.

“Help,” she wheezed. “Richard? P-please! Somebody find Richard.” People turned and gasped at the sight of her, reaching out as if to stop her. She could hear people asking what was wrong. She could see the cameras flash out of the corner of her eye. But she couldn't stop.

“Attacked,” she gasped, suddenly light-headed and nauseated. “Richard! Knife...”

“Mara?! What the hell happened?” Richard yelled, clearing the distance between them until he could grab her shoulders. It was all she needed to collapse into him, getting enough words out that he could understand what was going on. Something hot was running down her neck and leg, pooling under her toes. Her dress left nothing to the imagination, and she didn't have the energy to pull it over herself. She could see suited men surrounding them as her vision dotted.

Why couldn’t she breathe? There was no fucking air in the room. Every inhale was a painful struggle. She gasped, drawing precious little in. When the men moved into her dark view, she realized they had to be the event security. They needed to run for the basement. They needed to find him before he reported back. She tried to tell them that, but she couldn't breathe. No matter how hard she tried, her lungs wouldn’t open.

“Focus on breathing,” Richard said in her ear. “I’ll handle everything else, don’t worry.”

One guard helped her up as they walked towards the exit. Mara’s world tilted. She felt upside down. The world pressed in at all sides. It was going to crush her. She could hardly see the vehicle as they walked toward it, camera flashes filling the dark night with light. Mara reached for her manager but her hand met air. When had he let go? She fumbled for the side of her dress, now exposed, her mind spinning. Loud voices came from all directions, distorted like they were underwater. Were those sirens? She didn’t have the room to feel anything, struggling to force her lungs to work.

Someone held the SUV door open as she crawled inside. A set of hands helped settle her in the seat. Someone thrust a paper bag into her hands.

“Breathe slowly into the bag. You’re hyperventilating, Ms. Luxe.” She nodded, her head lolling back.

“Should I take her to the emergency room?” someone asked.

“No,” she whispered, snatching the bag with the little strength she had and holding it to her mouth. Time seemed to stretch on forever as she focused on the bag. The hands and voices had left, leaving her in the dark backseat of the SUV with nothing but flashing lights outside to keep her company. Then suddenly, the passenger door opened.

"Have her taken straight home. The police will probably meet you there," Richard ordered the driver, turning back to survey something behind him. He almost looked relieved. Mara held the bag and leaned against the door, watching as the cameras bled into one mass on the walkway. She wasn't a person to them. She was an actress, and this was just another scene.

The second the driver inched away from the curb, Mara leaned over and passed out.