She's the dream, the Icon, the medal until the spotlight turns sharp.
They called her The Face of Hollywood.
But to Arianna Skye Lopez, it felt more like a mask.
Arianna standing static tight in the middle of a gleaming studio, light boards blazing down like a limelight sent from Olympus. In the wings, the crew moved in atune, frenzy—stylist muffing the rim of her dress, makeup artist slathering her cheekbone with consuming care, assistant muttering final details into a headgear.
Still… all eyes kept roving back to her. Because how could they not?
Arianna was sculpted like the potter had taken their time.
Her face was a jewel of pulverised angles and gentle curves—prominent malar arches, a majestic nose and plum lips that curled like they had their own script to utter. Her eyes, a rare Spanish grey, tilted slightly upward like a cat's, always giving the impression she knew something you didn't.
At 5'11", she stood taller than most of the men in the room—barefoot. With stilettos? She was a walking eclipse.
Her waist, cinched by nature and not corsets, flowed into hips that held both grace and danger. And her skin…
Fair. Untouched. Pristine like alabaster kissed by the illumination of the moon. It didn't glow; it sparkled.
The dress—haute couture in black silk and gold thread was worn by her. Her body owned it. And she made it legendary.
"Chin down. Let me see the edge in those eyes," the photographer directed, breathless.
Arianna tilted her chin. Click.
"Perfect. You're giving me heartbreak and royalty. One more." Click.
She adjusted her jaw slightly and softened her gaze. Click.
And there it was. The look that launched a hundred ad campaigns.
But inside, Arianna felt… nothing.
No thrill. No flutter. Not even pride.
Just silence.
The photoshoot ended with polite claps and champagne flutes raised in tribute.
But Arianna didn't stay to celebrate her own illusion. Arianna blurted out the side entrance into the silencd of the dark, a pair of stilettos dangling from one hand, the other wrapped around a wool coat draped over her slender frame.
Hollywood glittered behind her like a fire she couldn't quite escape.
She looked up at the moon. It's still flawless. Still alone.
And wondered—not for the first time—if there was life beyond the lens.
The silence outside felt louder than the shutter clicks inside.
Arianna walked barefoot across the stone pavement behind the studio, stilettos in hand like daggers she was done carrying. The air was crisp, rare for Los Angeles. A hint of rain flirted with the breeze.
No cameras followed. No questions echoed. Just the sound of her own breath—and the weight of being wanted by everyone - but known by no one.
She reached her car—a custom vintage Jaguar painted obsidian black. A machine was elegant and untouchable as she was. But tonight, even it seemed tired.
The engine didn't purr when she pressed the start.
It choked. Coughed. Died.
Arianna stared at the dashboard. "Of course."
She exhaled. Hard.
She could call the driver. Call security. Call the entire agency if she wants. But she didn't.
For once, she just wanted to be. Not handled. Not managed.
She tilted back in the driver's seat, eyes closed, head resting on the leather.
And for an ephemeral, she fantasied about what it would feel like to be ordinary.
To eat ice cream without someone measuring her waist after.
To walk into a store without a publicist.
To kiss someone without them wanting a piece of her in return.
She didn't see the car that would stop.
Not yet.
But fate was already turning the corner—slowly, smoothly—like the opening note of a love song sung in secret.
The quiet wrapped around her like a warm coat… soft, rare, dangerous.
Arianna closed her eyes and drifted back. Not far. Just enough.
She was eight again, standing on a crate in her abuela's backyard in Valencia, wearing red lipstick stolen from her mother's purse and a towel around her neck like a queen's train. Her cousins giggled. The orange trees swayed behind her.
"¡Mírenme!" she had declared. Look at me!
She struck a pose. Chin high, shoulders back. The pose that would one day command runways and magazine covers.
But her father, seated in the shadows, hadn't smiled. He nipped on his coffee like it was disappointment.
"She is always feign," he said in Spanish, shaking his head.
Her mother uttered nothing, just folded laundry tighter.
From that day on, Arianna stopped pretending.
She became.
Perfect. Poised. Untouchable.
Tap tap tap.
The glass beside her trembled with the sound.
She snapped back into the present with a slow inhale.
Outside the window stood August Heathe, dressed in a trench coat and tension. His signature silver-rimmed glasses reflected the streetlights like cold judgment.
Beside him, ever-patient, was Emily Ambrose—a petite whirlwind with a tablet in one hand and stress in her eyes.
Arianna rolled down the window an inch.
"Car trouble?" August's voice was clipped, British, and unimpressed. "I was told you left the shoot early without security."
"I needed air," she replied, coolly.
"You need a schedule. And three hours from now, you need to be in a golden dress smiling like your life is perfect. Can you manage that or shall I spin another crisis?"
Emily leaned in gently. "We thought maybe something happened. You didn't answer your phone."
Arianna paused. Looked at them both.
Then smiled that signature, impossible smile—the one everyone knew.
"Nothing happened," she lied. "I'm just tired."
August exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped back, already dialing someone on his phone.
Emily didn't move. Her eyes searched Arianna's face for truth.
"you sure you're okay?" she muttered.
Arianna nodded, softening.
But as Emily walked away, Arianna looked out over the boulevard again. Her reflection in the glass met her gaze—flawless, poised, hollow.
And somewhere in the distance… a car engine purred.
The black Jaguar wouldn't come on.
And now, after a long breath of pretending everything was fine, Arianna opened the car door and stepped into the streetlight—barefoot, heels still dangling from her fingers like weary shields.
Then came the sound.
A low, effortless purr of an engine.
Another car.
It pulled into the space ahead of her. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… there.
She glanced up. It was a sleek, unfamiliar vehicle. Black. Quiet. The kind that made no statement, but somehow said everything. The man who stepped out of it was embellished in a charcoal wool coat, collar turned up contra to the chill. His hair was thick and slightly windswept. Not Hollywood-slick, not overly polished. Just… right.
He didn't notice her. Not at first. He checked his phone, turned toward the café at the corner, and began walking.
He wasn't here for her.
And yet, as she walked past him on the sidewalk—silent, poised, a goddess on break from Olympus—he looked up, just briefly.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
He had eyes like dusk. Calm. Sharp. Honest in a way most people in her world weren't allowed to be.
He didn't gawk.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't know who she was.
And that—more than anything—startled her.
But what startled her more… was the feeling.
It slid through her chest like warm honey: a strange, foreign ache.
Familiarity.
As if her soul tilted onwards and whispered like a ghost, There you are.
But she blinked, unkinked her spine, and walked on.
Because feelings like that were illusions.
And illusions were dangerous.
Especially for a woman who'd built her empire on pretending not to feel.
The studio lights were still glowing when she walked back through the alley. August was gone. Emily was already wrangling texts and emails on her tablet.
Arianna slid back into the world like she never left it.
But somewhere behind her—at a quiet table near the window of the café—the man from the sidewalk sat with a coffee, looking out into the night.
And for just a moment, he looked like someone waiting for something he didn't know he'd already seen.