Abandoned King Gives No Mercy: Hell Will Burn

The Fallen Star

Chapter Four: The Fallen Star

Yvonne's POV:

The camera flashes were the worst part.

They used to be applause light, attention, admiration. Now they felt like punishment.

“Yvonne Wells caught leaving hotel with married director,” the headlines screamed. “Model caught in affair scandal.”

Everywhere I looked, it was my face on TV screens, on gossip blogs, plastered across timelines with words like shameless, homewrecker, fallen idol.

And the worst part? None of it was true.

But the world didn’t care about the truth. They only wanted blood.

I stared at myself in the dressing room mirror. My mascara was smudged, my lipstick faded. The studio that once felt like a second home now felt like a courtroom, and I was the guilty one waiting for a verdict.

My manager, Lila, was pacing behind me.

 “They’ve canceled the campaign with LuxeWear. And the perfume deal’s gone too.”

I didn’t even look up.

 “All of them?”

“Every single one,” she said. “Yvonne… they’re saying you need to take a break. Stay off socials, maybe travel for a while.”

I laughed quietly. It wasn’t even funny, just a broken sound that fell flat.

 “Travel where, Lila? To the moon?”

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “You know how this industry works. People love you, then they destroy you. It’ll pass, but for now, we need to keep you out of sight.”

I nodded, but inside I was boiling. Angry. Helpless.

How did everything go wrong so fast?

Two weeks ago, I was walking on a runway in Paris. I was getting calls from luxury brands. People wanted me. I needed it. And now, I was being erased one headline at a time.

The worst thing about being a public figure is how quickly you stop being human. You become a story. A rumor. A piece of entertainment for people who’ve never met you.

I looked at my reflection again. My eyes were swollen, my skin pale. The woman staring back didn’t look like me.

“You can’t let them win,” I said under my breath, but my voice shook.

Lila came closer. 

“You need a distraction. Something that’ll make people talk about something else. A charity appearance, maybe a fake boyfriend…”

I turned to her sharply.

 “What?”

She shrugged.

 “I’m just saying. You know how PR works. Sometimes, you need a bigger story to bury the old one.”

I hated that she was right. I hated that everything in this world was a performance.

Later that night, I sat alone in my apartment, scrolling through old pictures. Red carpets. Magazine covers. Smiles that felt so far away now. I wanted to throw the phone away, but I couldn’t even find the energy.

I poured myself a glass of wine cheap, bitter, not my usual brand and sat by the window. The city lights blinked like distant stars. It was funny, how bright everything looked from far away, and how ugly it really was up close.

My thoughts were loud, messy, and cruel. Maybe they’re right. Maybe you deserved this. Maybe you weren’t good enough anyway.

I hated that voice. I’d been fighting it for years, ever since I was a teenager trying to make it in an industry that only valued perfection. And here it was again, whispering in my ear like an old friend.

I took another sip and wiped my face with the back of my hand. 

“You’re not done yet,” I whispered to myself. “You’ve fallen before, you’ll get back up.”

But even as I said it, I didn’t believe it.

The next morning, Lila called again. 

“There’s a gala next week, tech industry, high-profile guests. Ethan Hank will be there.”

I frowned. 

“Ethan Hank?”

“Yeah. The AI billionaire. Everyone’s talking about him lately. You show up with him, even just a few photos together, and people will start seeing you differently. It’s risky, but it might work.”

I hesitated. 

“You want me to use him?”

“Think of it as a partnership,” she said carefully. “He gets publicity. You get redemption.”

I didn’t answer. I’d heard of Ethan Hank. The man who rose out of nowhere, whose story everyone was obsessed with, the poor boy turned genius billionaire. There were rumors about him too that he was cold, ruthless, hard to please.

Maybe he’d understand what it was like to be torn apart by people who didn’t know you. Or maybe he wouldn’t care at all.

Either way, I was running out of choices.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying everything, the flash of cameras, the cruel comments, the way people who once called me “friend” suddenly went silent.

I thought about my mother, how proud she used to be when I made it on magazine covers. She’d call me her “star girl.” She stopped calling two days ago. Couldn’t handle the shame, I guess.

I turned on my side and let out a shaky breath.

 “You wanted fame, Yvonne,” I whispered to myself. “Well, you got it.”

It didn’t feel like fame anymore. It felt like a curse.

Three days later, I stood in front of my mirror again, hair done, makeup flawless, dressed in a black gown that fit like armor. The gala invitation sat on my table. Lila’s voice echoed in my head: Go there. Be seen. Be remembered for something else.

As the car pulled up outside the hotel, I could already see the cameras flashing. Reporters shouting names. I gripped my purse tighter and took a deep breath.

“Smile,” I told myself. “Even if it hurts.”

When I stepped out, the noise hit me like a wave. Flashes, questions, microphones shoved in my face.

“Yvonne! Is it true you were fired from LuxeWear?”

“Who are you wearing tonight?”

“Any comments about the director?”

I smiled through all of it, pretending the questions didn’t stab. Pretending I still belonged there.

Then I saw him.

Across the hall, standing in a black suit that looked like it was tailored by fate itself, Ethan Hank.

He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t need to. There was something about him that demanded attention, calm, dangerous, like a storm waiting to happen.

For a second, our eyes met.

Just a second, but it was enough to make my heart skip. There was something familiar in his gaze, not attraction, but recognition. Like two broken things quietly acknowledging each other.

He didn’t approach. Neither did I. But I knew, right then, that somehow, our stories were about to collide.

And maybe… just maybe, that collision was exactly what I needed.

That night, when I finally got home, I stood in front of the mirror again. My lipstick had faded, my hair was a mess, but for the first time in weeks, I didn’t see a ruined woman.

I saw someone who was still standing.

And deep down, a quiet thought whispered, this isn’t the end. Not yet.