Dreams of Stardom (Hollywood SI)

"I hate this job," Olivia groaned, slumping against the counter as she spoke to her colleague. "Who even buys flowers this late at night?"

"Surprisingly, many people do," Christine replied with a straight face, casually rearranging a bouquet of white lilies. "This is only your first week, and it's been relatively slow, but you'd be surprised how many men suddenly remember their anniversary or their partner's birthday at night. Some just want to surprise their girlfriends or wives. Others need flowers for a midnight apology or a midnight celebration. And don't even get me started on Valentine's Day. The entire February basically."

Olivia raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "It's still a boring job. I should've just been a waitress."

Christine laughed, pausing to pick out a wilted petal from a nearby arrangement. "You mean you'd rather listen to entitled assholes complain about their pasta, or their coffee all day instead of making them smile with flowers? Trust me, Liv, I've worked as a server for six months. Those were the most miserable six months of my life."

Olivia didn't respond immediately, still not entirely sold on the magic of late-night floristry. Christine leaned in with a knowing smirk.

"You want to know the best part of working night shifts at a 24/7 flower shop in Hollywood? Celebrities. A lot of them come in at night to avoid fans. Flowers for their wives, girlfriends, mistresses—you name it. It's like TMZ with roses. One of my seniors once sold a bouquet to Brad Pitt when he was still married to Jennifer Aniston." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "They weren't for Jennifer."

Olivia's eyes widened in shock. "Angelina Jolie?"

Christine grinned. "Exactly."

She leaned back, folding her arms with satisfaction. "Just last month, I sold flowers to George Clooney. It was during a day shift, and he said it was for a funeral. But still—George Clooney."

Now Olivia was intrigued. "What was Clooney like?"

Christine made a so-so gesture. "He was polite. But honestly? I don't get the appeal. He's too old for me."

"True," Olivia said with a nod, just as the door's bell chimed.

They both looked up.

The door swung open, letting in a cool breeze and a customer who seemed strangely familiar. He was tall, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with an effortless kind of confidence. He wore a plain white t-shirt under a black jacket, dark blue jeans, and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. Sunglasses hid his eyes, even though it was nearing midnight. There were no designer logos on his clothes, but Olivia could tell—he wasn't just any teenager. He had that aura of wealth, the kind that didn't need to flaunt itself.

"Welcome to Wonderland Flowers," Christine said cheerfully, stepping forward. "How can I help you?"

The boy smiled and took off his sunglasses, revealing a familiar face beneath. His eyes flicked down to their name tags.

"Christine. Olivia. Hey, I need some flowers."

The moment Olivia looked into his eyes, it hit her like a jolt of electricity. She gasped. "Holy—Troy!"

"Just Troy," he said with a grin. "Holy Troy makes me sound like a priest or something."

She stood frozen, her brain short-circuiting. Her favorite actor—Troy Armitage—was standing right in front of her, in the middle of a flower shop at midnight. And she had no idea what to say next.

As usual, it was Christine who regained her composure first.

"I loved you in [Little Miss Sunshine]! That was the best movie I've seen all year. Can we please get a photo?"

"Thank you!" Troy beamed, giving her a warm, appreciative nod. "I'm in a bit of a hurry. Could I get some flowers first before a photo?"

"Of course!" Christine said brightly, leading him toward the main display. The front of the shop was filled with color, a riot of fresh blooms arranged in rustic wooden crates and glass vases beneath soft amber lighting. The delicate scent of jasmine and eucalyptus hung thick in the air.

"What kind do you want?" she asked.

Troy shrugged, hands in his jacket pockets. "Don't know much about flowers. What would you recommend for a first date?"

"How about a mixed bouquet?" Olivia finally spoke up, her voice a little more confident than she felt. It was technically against etiquette to interrupt, but she would've regretted it forever if she let the moment pass. "Some peonies, ranunculus, lisianthus, and garden roses, mixed with seasonal greenery. It'll be perfect for a first date."

Troy blinked, looking a little lost. "Which ones are those?"

Olivia smiled, stepping around the counter to point at a ready-made bouquet wrapped in soft brown paper and tied with a pale pink ribbon. "That one. It was made for another customer, but since you're in a rush, you can take it. We'll make a new one for them before they arrive."

Christine, who had taken a step back to let Olivia engage, gave her a subtle nod of approval. Someone like Troy Armitage walking into your store was once-in-a-year magic. The other customer's bouquet could wait.

"Wow. Thank you so much, Olivia. Christine," Troy said, flashing another of those disarming smiles.

Christine handed him the bouquet carefully. "No problem, Troy. And here—" she added a sleek black box of premium chocolates to the purchase, "—our best, on the house."

"Thank you." Troy reached into his wallet and pulled out a thick stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. "I think that'll cover the flowers. And a little something for both of you."

Olivia and Christine both gawked. It was easily a thousand dollars, maybe more. The bouquet and chocolates combined barely reached three hundred.

"That's too much," Christine said quickly.

"Not for me," Troy said simply. He didn't sound arrogant, just matter-of-fact, as if paying that much for flowers on a first date wasn't anything unusual.

He smiled again. "Now, let's get that photo you wanted."

(Break)

It always felt good meeting genuine fans. But once you reached a certain level of fame, it became harder to tell who really admired your work and who just wanted a photo for clout. Everyone says they're a fan. And maybe they are. But sometimes, it's hard to separate sincerity from surface-level admiration. I still try to give most people the benefit of the doubt. It's not like I can scroll through their social media to check if they actually like me or my work.

That thought disappeared as soon as I pulled up in front of Scarlett's home.

I sat for a moment in the driver's seat, hands resting on the bouquet and chocolate box beside me. This wasn't my first date. Not even close, especially if you counted my past life. But for some reason, I was nervous. Not stage-fright nervous. The other kind. The real kind. The what-if-she-doesn't-think-it's-a-date kind.

Before I could spiral any further, a familiar figure jogged up to my window.

"Hey John," I said with a nod as I rolled it down. "How're things?"

"Going good, sir," he replied with a smile. "Ma'am has been expecting you."

I grinned. "Always so formal. When are you going to loosen up?"

"Just doing my job, Mr. Armitage," he said, returning the grin. "Shall I walk you in?"

I stepped out of the car and picked up the bouquet and chocolates, handing him the keys. "Nah. I wanna surprise her. You'd give it away."

"As you say," John said, then slid into the driver's seat to park the car.

I took a deep breath and walked toward the house. Scarlett's home was as elegant as she was—modest by Hollywood standards, but beautiful. Whitewashed walls, ivy creeping over a trellis near the front porch, the scent of citrus and night-blooming jasmine in the air. A pool sparkled behind the house, barely visible through the tall windows and warm interior lighting.

Standing there at her doorstep, I told myself quietly, "You can do this, Troy."

Then I stepped inside.

(Break)

"Don't you dare move, beautiful."

Scarlett froze. Her breath hitched as panic began building in her chest. It was the kind of fear she had seen play out in films a hundred times, but feeling it in real life was entirely different. Her muscles wouldn't respond. Her mind screamed at her to run, to scream, to fight—but nothing happened.

"I'm removing my hand," the man said quietly, voice just inches from her ear. "But if you so much as squeak to get the attention of the security outside, I'll blow your brains out. Nod if you understand."

That was when she finally noticed the cold press of metal at her temple. A gun. Her eyes widened, and she gave a slow, terrified nod.

"Good girl." She could hear the grin in his voice as he pulled his hand away from her mouth.

Sniff.

"Wow, you smell divine."

Scarlett shivered in disgust, then finally managed to speak. Her voice came out hoarse. "What do you want?"

"Before we get to that, hand me your phone." He held out the same hand that had silenced her, fingers spread in expectation. In his other hand, the gun remained perfectly steady, pointed at her chest now.

She didn't dare refuse. Slowly, she reached into her back pocket, retrieved the phone, and placed it in his palm.

Without a word, he dropped it to the floor and stomped on it, the screen shattering beneath his boot. He ground his heel into it until the device was no more than twisted glass and metal.

"There. That's better. Turn around."

Scarlett turned, and for the first time, got a full look at her attacker. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with greasy brown hair and a thick, unkempt beard. But it was his eyes that unsettled her most—bloodshot, feral, twitching with something unstable. His lips curled into a lecherous grin.

"Holy fucking shit," he said, eyes widening with recognition. "I had no idea I'd be meeting a movie star tonight."

Scarlett's stomach sank. She had hoped he wouldn't recognize her. Whatever slim hope she had of getting out of this unharmed had just been cut in half. Still, she didn't give up. She remembered from the self-defense classes she'd taken years ago in a summer camp that the best thing she could do was keep him talking.

"If it's money you want," she said quickly, her voice shaking but steady enough to sound sincere, "you can have it. Take whatever you want. Just let me go. I won't call anyone, I swear. I'll leave and come back tomorrow, like nothing happened."

"You think I'm stupid?" he shot back, mocking her tone. Then, glancing behind her, he tilted his head toward the kitchen counter. "Who's the other bowl for?"

Scarlett didn't hesitate. "My security guard. John. I had extra food, so I thought I'd invite him in for dinner."

"You fucking him?"

"No," she replied, frowning just slightly. "You can eat it if you want."

He snorted. "You think I'm dumb enough to stop now and eat dinner?"

"You won't tell me what you want," Scarlett said carefully. "So obviously I'm going to assume."

In a flash, he stepped closer and pressed the gun directly against her forehead.

"What I want," he said through gritted teeth, "is for you to shut the fuck up and do exactly as I say."

Scarlett went quiet immediately, her eyes fixed on his.

"Good." He took a step back. "Now show me the combination to the safe in your bedroom."

The words made everything click. He had already been upstairs. He had found the safe. He must have tried to open it and failed. That meant he had been in the house long enough to look around and had decided to wait for her return. How long was he here?

"I don't have any valuables in there," Scarlett said, forcing calm into her voice. "I just bought the safe for future use. It's empty. Just some real estate papers, but I'm sure you won't want that."

She wasn't even lying. The safe held nothing but documents—property deeds, insurance files, and other paperwork. No jewelry. No cash. That was intentional. Scarlett had once read that safes were always the first targets in a home invasion. So instead, she had commissioned hidden compartments inside drawers and furniture, scattered around the house, where her modest jewelry collection was stored.

He chuckled bitterly. "You expect me to believe that? An actress as big as you, not keeping anything valuable in your own damn safe?"

"All the jewelry I wear is either loaned by the jeweler for an event or it's artificial," Scarlett replied, still trying to sound sincere. That, too, was true. Her personal collection wouldn't stand out on a red carpet. Her stylist usually sourced extravagant pieces from luxury designers, all on loan for a single night.

The man's grin twisted into a sneer. "You think you're smart, huh? Let's see how smart you are when you're on all fours, begging for mercy."

Now she was truly terrified. Her skin went cold, her knees weakened. She had heard horror stories, but never imagined she would be in one.

"Don't do this," she begged, backing away instinctively. "You won't even have time to escape before my security guard comes looking for me."

"I don't fucking care," he growled, stepping closer. He lowered the gun until it was pressed against her chest. "I'm already a wanted man. For something I didn't even do. I didn't want to be a criminal, but the system gave me no choice. Now that I'm here, I'll finish what I started."

Scarlett's back hit the kitchen counter. Her breath hitched. She could see the madness in his eyes—unhinged, cornered, desperate. He wasn't bluffing. He had nothing to lose.

Then, suddenly… she saw him.

A flash of movement behind the intruder. Troy.

He was there, crouched in the shadows of the hallway, eyes locked on hers. She felt the sob catch in her throat, not from fear now, but something dangerously close to relief. He raised a finger to his lips, his message clear: stay quiet.

Thinking fast, Scarlett forced herself to refocus on the man in front of her. "I know exactly what you mean," she said, voice trembling. "My uncle went to jail for a crime he didn't commit. I get how unfair it is. But this isn't the way. Just put down the gun and talk to me. We'll figure something out. I'll help you. You don't have to go through with this alone."

His expression faltered. The fury in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something murkier—doubt, hesitation. For a heartbeat, she thought he might lash out. But instead, his grip on the gun loosened slightly. His body slackened just a little.

"I—" he began.

That was all he got out.

Troy launched forward with explosive speed, every muscle in motion before the man even registered what was happening.

Troy's first strike was vicious—a hammering right hook to the side of the intruder's neck that made him stumble back with a guttural gasp. At the same time, Troy's left hand clamped around the man's wrist, wrenching the gun sideways and up, keeping the barrel pointed away from Scarlett.

"What the—!"

Before he could finish, Troy drove his knee hard into the man's ribs. The crack of contact was sharp and brutal. The intruder doubled over in pain, just in time to catch an elbow across the jaw that sent him staggering.

The gun slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the tiled floor.

Troy didn't hesitate. He kicked it away, far from the man's reach, and surged forward again. A brutal flurry followed—jab, jab, uppercut. The man reeled under the onslaught, blood streaking his face as he wobbled, stunned.

But Troy wasn't done.

He dropped low, coiled his body, and then slammed his shoulder into the intruder's midsection. The man let out a winded grunt as he was driven backward and slammed to the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the shallow gasping of the intruder, trying weakly to crawl away. But Troy was already on him—he scooped up the gun, rolled to his feet, and leveled it at the man's head.

"Don't move a fucking inch," he ordered, his voice flat and cold.

The man froze.

Scarlett stood a few feet away, motionless. Her eyes locked on Troy, and it took a beat for her brain to catch up with what had just happened. He had swooped in, almost out of nowhere, like a knight in shining armor—saving her from a fate she didn't even want to think about.

"Scarlett," Troy called, never taking his eyes off the man. "Call 9-1-1. And your security. Now."

She hesitated, then remembered. "He broke my phone."

Without saying a word, Troy pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and tossed it to her.

She caught it and immediately dialed John's number—the one she had memorized for emergencies. Her fingers trembled, but she managed. Within a minute, the shared neighborhood security team, led by John, burst through the front door, weapons drawn. They swiftly subdued the intruder and hauled him up, shouting commands as they dragged him away in cuffs.

Only then did Troy lower the gun.

He turned to Scarlett and stepped forward, gathering her into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped around her protectively, grounding her.

Only then did she realize how badly she was shaking.

"I was so scared," she whispered, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. Her voice trembled as the adrenaline began to drain from her system.

"Shhh. It's okay," Troy murmured into her hair, pressing a kiss to the same spot on her temple where the man had once held a gun. "You're safe now."

She let out a long, unsteady breath and leaned into him fully. The tension that had been holding her upright dissolved all at once, leaving her utterly exhausted.

"It's over," he added softly.

"Ms. Johansson?" a voice called out.

Scarlett looked up slowly. A police officer stood at the entryway, clipboard in hand. Another officer was leading the restrained man outside in the background. They must have been patrolling nearby to arrive so quickly.

"What?" Troy replied on her behalf.

"We need to ask you both a few questions. To understand what happened here."

"Not right now," Troy said firmly, still holding Scarlett close. "It's been a rough night for her. She's coming with me. We'll be at the station in the morning to give our statements."

"But—"

Troy didn't let him finish. Without another word, he turned and guided Scarlett gently out of her home.

________________________

AN: Visit my personal website to read ahead, or check out my second Hollywood story set in the 80s.

Link: www(dot)fablefic(dot)com