Celestial Ties

CHAPTER 4

Graham POV

The flash of cameras exploded around me, each burst of light a desperate plea for attention, for that perfect shot. As I stepped onto the red carpet, my confident stride exuding the easy charm that had made me a household name. The paparazzi surged forward like a tidal wave, their cameras raised high, lenses trained on me as if I were the sun, the center of their universe.

"Over here, Mr. West! Just one shot, please!" they shouted in unison, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of desperation.

I paused, offering them a dazzling smile, one that had been perfected over years of practice. It was the smile that graced magazine covers, the one that made hearts flutter and flashbulbs pop. I turned slightly, giving them the angle they all wanted, the one that would make their photos sell for a small fortune. I could feel the weight of their expectations, the pressure to be perfect, to be the Graham West they all adored.

But beneath that polished exterior, there was always a twinge of something else. A weariness, perhaps, or maybe just a longing for a moment of quiet, away from the cameras, away from the constant scrutiny.

"Mr. West, what can we expect from your new movie?" one reporter called out, her voice cutting through the noise.

I turned to face her, his smile never wavering, though inside I felt a slight twinge of annoyance. Another question about the movie, another chance to say the same rehearsed lines I 'd been feeding the press for weeks. But I knew the game well—play along, give them what they want, and they'll love you for it.

"It's going to be something special," I replied smoothly, my voice deep and confident, designed to make even the most skeptical reporter lean in just a little closer. "We've worked incredibly hard, and I think the fans are going to be blown away. It's a story that's close to my heart, and I can't wait for everyone to see it."

The reporter nodded, scribbling furiously in her notepad, satisfied with the soundbite. But my mind was already elsewhere, already calculating the next move, the next smile, the next answer.

Another voice piped up, a photographer jostling his way to the front. "And who are you putting on tonight, Mr. West? Who's your designer?" The question was accompanied by a flurry of camera flashes, each one more eager than the last.

I glanced down at my suit—perfectly tailored, of course. The deep, rich fabric hugged my frame in all the right places, exuding luxury and power. I ran a hand through my perfectly styled hair, every strand in place, before flashing another grin at the eager crowd.

"Tonight, it's all about Armani," I replied, my tone casual, yet carrying the weight of endorsement. "They've outdone themselves, as always."

The photographers responded with another burst of camera flashes, capturing every detail, every movement. I knew the routine—the designer would be thrilled, the photos would make the rounds, and everyone would be happy.

But as the cameras continued to snap and the questions kept coming, there was a part of me that wished for something different. Something real. But this was my life now—a life of fame, of red carpets, of always being on display.

So I pushed the thoughts aside, straightened my posture, and continued down the red carpet, the cameras still flashing, the reporters still calling my name. I am Graham West, after all—the man everyone wanted to see, to photograph, to interview. And for tonight, that would have to be enough.

Draped on my arm was Melissa Blair, the supermodel who had been dominating headlines almost as much as I had. The cameras shifted their focus between us two, capturing every movement, every glance, every hint of intimacy between them.