His Amber Eyes Were Lies

Boris Montgomery was the secret I kept buried under my skin for years.

He never knew that the man who orchestrated his familys ruin, the one who pulled the rug out from under their empire, was my father.

Before he fled the country five years ago, the last words he threw at me were like shards of poisoned glass: "Sylvia, youre just like your father. You make me sick."

Thinking about it now still makes my chest tighten, a phantom pain that never quite dulls.

In the hollow years that followed, I started hunting for traces of him in a revolving door of strangers. I looked for his jawline, his gait, the way hed tilt his head when he was thinking.

Wyatt Beckett was the one who came the closest.

I gave Wyatt everything. Every resource, every luxury, every piece of myself I could spare. To the world, I was the devoted girlfriend; to myself, I was just curating a masterpiece in Boriss image.

Wyatt, blinded by his own sudden fame, used to smirk at me and ask, "Sylvia, are you honestly this obsessed with me?"

Sometimes hed push further, testing the leash. "If I ever walked away, would you just crumble? Would you cry your eyes out for me?"

I would just smile, a quiet, practiced thing. I never said a word.

Because we both knewor at least I didthat the game was only fun until the original came home. And then, the news broke: Boris Montgomery was back.

When the headline about Wyatts latest scandal hit the tabloids, I was in the middle of closing a massive brand deal for him.

The CEO of the company was Howard, an old friend of my fathers. Hed known me since I was a child; he was the one who taught me how to hold a fountain pen when I was six.

We were at a private dinnersteaks and expensive red winewhen I asked if hed consider making the star of my agency the face of his new luxury line. He agreed almost too easily.

"Howard, please," I said, sliding the dossier across the mahogany table with a soft smile. "Don't just do this because we're family friends. Look at the data first."

I pointed to the highlighted sections. "His commercial value, the social media engagement, the projected ROI... Ive mapped it all out. I want this to be a win for your brand, not a charity case for me."

Howard blinked, clearly surprised by my preparation. He chuckled and turned to his teenage grandson, who was sitting at the end of the table.

"Logan, take notes," Howard said. "You see how Sylvia works? Shes built a powerhouse from the ground up. Out of all the kids in our circle, shes the one whos actually made something of herself."

I offered a modest smile, but kept my thoughts to myself.

Howard didn't know that my "powerhouse" agency only had one client: Wyatt Beckett.

Or, to be more precise, I had only built the agency because of Wyatt.

The data was undeniable. Wyatts numbers were staggering; he was the "It Boy" of the moment, with a fanbase that would buy anything he touched. Howard liked what he saw. To show his support, he had his legal team bring over the finalized contract before dessert was even served.

The terms were more generous than I had dared to ask for. Before I could even start my polite refusals, my father leaned back and smiled.

"Go on, Sylvia. Go take care of your business," he said. "Ill settle up with Howard here. Consider it a favor Ill owe him."

I knew they had things to discuss that didn't involve me. I thanked Howard, took the contract, and headed back to my suite.

I pulled out my phone to tell Wyatt the good news, but my screen was already flooded. My friend Lexi had sent a dozen screenshots of the trending topics an hour ago.

Below them was a link to a video. And then, her usual unfiltered commentary:

Seriously, Sylvia? What is Wyatt doing? Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.

Youre out there grinding for his career, and hes out there making you look like a fool? Is this a PR stunt or is he actually this stupid?

Im telling you, you cant spoil men like this. He needs to remember hes a project, not a god. Dont let him disrespect you like this

I scrolled past her rant and clicked the link.

It was classic paparazzi footagegrainy, long-lens, but the two people in the frame were clear as day. It looked like a scene from a high-budget romance.

The evening breeze was catching the hem of Tinsley Harts white silk dress. She was laughing, her hands full with a latte and a stick of cotton candy. When the wind blew a bit too hard, Wyatt was there in a heartbeat, his hand reaching out to press the fabric of her skirt back down against her thigh.

They were bent over, laughing together. The camera zoomed in. Tinsley pointed toward the lens, whispering something to Wyatt, and a second later, Wyatt looked directly at the camera.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he draped an arm over Tinsleys shoulder, pulled her close, and threw a mocking, defiant smirk at the photographer.

I didn't even need to check Twitter to know it was a bloodbath.

#WyattBeckettTinsleyHart

#WyattDefiesPaps

#SummerGardenTryst

#JustFriends?

The threads were a war zone between fans trying to "clear the search terms" and shippers going wild. They were both rising stars, young and beautiful. The fans didn't want a dating scandal to ruin their "clean" images, but the chemistry was undeniable.

Still, the video wasn't "incriminating" in a legal sense. No kissing, no disappearing into a hotel room for six hours. It was deniable. Wyatts PR teamthe one I paid forcould handle it in their sleep.

I closed the app, unfazed. I took a photo of the contract and sent it to Wyatt.

Just landed you the luxury line deal. The contract is signed. When do you have a minute to go over the details?

His reply came hours later. It was curt, dripping with the arrogance of someone who thought they were untouchable.

Busy. Bring it to the set tomorrow.

I stared at the screen for a long beat before typing a single word back.

Okay.

Wyatt had grown comfortable giving me orders.

He treated me like a glorified assistant, someone he could beckon with a snap of his fingers, rather than the woman who had built his throne. He had forgotten I was his girlfriend, and more importantly, he had forgotten I was his boss.

I suppose it was my fault. I had been too good to him.

Back in college, I was famous for two things: my familys quiet wealth and the speed at which I cycled through boyfriends.

I had a "type," but no one could figure out the pattern. I dated guys with beautiful hands, guys with gentle eyes, guys with a specific, sharp profile. I once dated a guy for two weeks just because he had a tiny mole on the left side of his nose.

Id fall fast, or at least pretend to, and then end things just as abruptly.

There were threads on the campus forum about me, claiming I was "collecting" parts of people, like a scavenger hunt with no prize. But despite the turnover, no one had a bad word to say about me. I was generous, I was kind, and I never made a scene.

Then came Wyatt Beckett.

He was the jackpot. He had every single feature I had been hunting for. Long, elegant fingers with prominent knuckles. Amber eyes that looked cold until he smiled. The perfect height. And there, on the bridge of his nose, the exact same mole.

I dove into "loving" him like a woman possessed. I became the girl who would do anything for him.

To be fair, Wyatt was a challenge. He was colder than the others, more guarded. He held the record for the longest Id ever pursued someone without success.

The first time I introduced myself, he frowned and told me flat-out: "Look, rich girl, Im not interested in being your flavor of the month. Go find someone else to play with."

I remember looking into his eyesthose amber eyesand feeling a chill go down my spine. "Youre special, Wyatt," I whispered. "Youre not like the others."

He wavered then.

After that, the "collection" stopped. I didn't look at another man. I stayed by his side, but I didn't crowd him. I played the long game. I showed up at group dinners as a friend. I kept a respectful distance. I gave him birthday gifts that weren't expensive, but were exactly what he needed.

When he ended up in the hospital during junior year, I was the one who cleared my schedule to stay with him. He didn't want to worry his parents, and his roommates had finals.

I hired the best private nurses, but I sat in the corner of the room every single day.

One afternoon, while he was napping, the room was bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun. I sat there for hours, just watching his silhouette against the pillow. For a split second, I let myself believe the ghost had finally come home.

When Wyatt woke up and saw me still there, his expression shifted. "Sylvia," he said, his voice raspy. "Do you actually love me this much?"

Hed seen how I treated my exesthe casual indifference, the easy goodbyes. With him, I was different. I was devoted.

I blinked, coming out of my trance. He was looking at me with a mix of confusion and something that looked like guilt.

"Sylvia," he said, his tone sharpening. "Love isn't a debt. You can't force it with kindness. If this is just a game to you, pick a different target."

I almost laughed. I looked at him softly and said, "Don't worry, Wyatt. I'm not asking for anything."

He looked away, his ears turning a deep shade of red. As I stood up to leave, he spoke to the wall, his voice muffled like a stubborn child admitting defeat.

"If you're serious... then fine. Let's try it. Let's be together."

And that was it.

The campus forums went wild, taking bets on how long wed last. Three months? Six? A year? But as the months turned into years, everyone eventually decided I had finally found "The One."

The truth was, we did have good moments.

Wyatt had a streak of stubborn pride that I admired. In the beginning, he never let me pay for anything. Hed put his hand over mine when I reached for my phone at a restaurant and say, "I've got it," with a finality that brooked no argument.

Once we were official, he took his role seriously. He went everywhere I wanted to go. He wore the clothes I picked out for him. He replied to my texts within five minutes, every single time.

Eventually, we fell into the rhythm of a normal couple. We studied together, ate together. I learned to hide price tags so he wouldn't feel uncomfortable. I started memorizing his specific likes and dislikesthe things that were actually him, not just the man he reminded me of.

Im a creature of habit. I don't like change. If things had stayed stable, I probably would have stayed with him forever.

But then, he met Tinsley Hart.

In a cruel twist of fate, I was the one who introduced them.

It was senior year. Wyatt had been scouted by an agent. He had the face for it, but he was green. He fell into a trapa predatory contract with a bottom-tier agency that specialized in "influencer houses" and shady livestreams.

By the time I found out, Wyatt was drowning in debt, trying to find a way to pay a massive kill-fee for a contract hed barely read.

His roommate told me the truth: "Wyatt didn't want you to know. Hes humiliated. But Sylvia, hes in over his head. They're trying to force him into these... weird 'fan meetups' and scripted 'dating' streams."

I fixed it.

The problem that had been crushing his spirit was solved with one phone call from my father's legal team. I tried to be discreet, but Wyatt wasn't stupid. He saw the shift in the agencys attitude. The predatory manager suddenly became a groveling assistant, handing over the release papers with a trembling hand and even offering a "settlement" for the trouble.

When he got home that night, he didn't look happy. He looked small.

"Was it you, Sylvia?" he asked.

I hesitated. "Would you have preferred I did nothing?"

He didn't answer. The silence was heavy. I wanted to tell him that if he chose to be with me, he had to accept the reality of who I wasand what I could do. He needed to get used to the power imbalance.

But the words felt too cruel. Instead, I kept it light. "Do you really want to be in this industry? Because if you do, Ill just start a company for you. Well do it right."

He looked at me and laughed, a bitter, mocking sound. "I guess I'd be a fool to turn down a silver platter, wouldn't I?"

"Think of it as an investment," I said. "Well sign a real contract. Who knows? Maybe youll be the one making me rich in five years."

That seemed to soothe his ego. His face softened. "Does it really pay that fast? The entertainment business?"

I didn't answer.

He let out a self-deprecating snort. "Right. Even 'fast' isn't your kind of fast. Your trust fund probably grows by a house every minute."

His debut project was a high-end indie romance. I made sure he was the male lead. And I chose Tinsley Hart to be his co-star.

Tinsley was the "National Sweetheart." She was talented, she had a massive following, and everyone loved her. I thought her star power would rub off on Wyatt.

I went to the set on the first day of filming.

The cast and crew were gathered for the kickoff. Wyatt stood next to Tinsley, looking striking in the morning light. His amber eyes caught the sun, and for a moment, he was so beautiful it hurt to look at him. He completely outshone the veteran actors around him.

I didn't expect him to become a superstar overnight. It was a small film.

But when it was released, Wyatt was the only thing anyone talked about. He became the internets new obsession. The "shippers" started editing videos of him and Tinsley, crying over their "tragic" onscreen chemistry.

And that leads us to now: their second project together. A project I explicitly told him not to take. A project he signed onto behind my back.

Our first real fight was about that script.

"The fans want this, Sylvia," Wyatt had argued, his confusion genuine. "Why wouldn't I give them what they want? The buzz is already insane."

It wasn't just that the script was a repetitive teen drama. I had worked my connections to get him an audition for a major directors new feature. If he did the show with Tinsley, hed have to pass on the movie. It was the difference between being a flash-in-the-pan idol and a serious actor.

I tried to explain the long-term strategy.

Wyatt just laughed coldly. "You're just jealous of Tinsley, aren't you?"

I froze. Jealousy was an emotion I didn't know how to process.

I didn't like Tinsley, that much was true. The first time I met her on set as Wyatts manager, she had looked at me with this long, searching expression. Then she turned to Wyatt and said, "I know you were a 'civilian' before this, so having a girlfriend makes sense. But why are you letting a girl who knows nothing about the industry handle your career?"

"Wyatt," she had continued, "some girls just want to cling to someone famous to feel important. They're afraid you'll outgrow them. You have so much potential; you don't need an anchor dragging you down."

The "National Sweetheart" wasn't so sweet when the cameras were off. She looked like a classic mean girl.

But I could see why she was confused. I kept a low profile. Most people thought Wyatt had built his own studio with his own money. Everyone assumed he was some "Secret Billionaires Son" playing at being an actor.

Wyatt had started to explain who I was, but I cut him off. "Miss Hart," I said coolly, "your acting in real life is much more convincing than your acting in the script."

Tinsley glared at me, then turned back to Wyatt, grabbing his arm and whining in a playful, sugary voice, calling him by his character's name. "Liam, look at her... she's so mean to me!"

Wyatt didn't pull away. He looked at me, frowning. "Enough, Sylvia. Shes just blunt. Shes a 'free spirit.' Dont be a bully."

I looked at his hand on her arm, then up at his face. I wondered if he was lost in the role or if he was just losing his mind.

They were "method" during filming, which meant a lot of flirting off-camera. It was blurring the lines of what was acceptable for a man in a relationship, but there was never any "proof" of an affair.

I had tried to be the "cool girlfriend." I tolerated it. But I didn't like it.

I told him as much. I suggested he keep a professional distance.

Wyatts response was a cold sneer. "Sylvia, Im not your property. Why don't you just buy a leash and lock me in your basement?"

"Is this because you love me so much? Or are you just that possessive?"

"If I ever left you," he said, mocking me, "would you actually die of a broken heart?"

He thought hed found my weakness. He thought he could use my "devotion" to buy his freedom.

"If you don't want me to leave, Sylvia," he said, "then stop trying to control me."

I looked at himat the makeup, the stylized hair, the arrogance in his eyesand I realized he looked less and less like the man I was trying to remember every day.

I drove to the set to deliver the contract myself.

When I arrived, Wyatt and Tinsley were rehearsing a scene. The set was a chaotic mess of grips and PAs, so no one noticed me. I stood in a corner, watching them.

Wyatt was leaning down, tilting his head to catch Tinsleys lines. She was looking up at him, radiant and glowing.

The midday sun was brutal, and I noticed Wyatt shielding her with his script, creating a patch of shade for her. It was a small, thoughtful gesture.

It was a level of tenderness he hadn't shown me in months.

They looked perfect together. A matched set. For a second, I felt like laughing. Wyatt must have felt my gaze, because he suddenly looked over.

He didn't look guilty. He looked expectant. He said something to Tinsley, she glanced at me, and then he started walking toward me.

We went to his luxury trailer. I handed him the contract. As he flipped to the final page, his eyes widened.

He knew what this meant. Howards brand was a household name. They didn't need "influencers." Getting this deal was a massive coup for Wyatts prestige.

A smug smile touched his lips. But then, he looked at me and asked, "Sylvia, can we turn this into a joint endorsement? For me and Tinsley?"

He asked it casually, but the air in the trailer shifted.

I stared at him. He was wearing colored contacts for his roledark, flat brown. The amber was gone. I let out a short, sharp laugh. "What did you just say?"

If he were smart, he would have dropped it.

But he doubled down. "I want to do this with Tinsley. Our 'couple' brand is at an all-time high. Its better for the company if we do it together."

He paused, then added the ultimatum: "If its not a joint deal, Im not signing."

The smile stayed on my face, but the light in my eyes went out. I looked at him for a long timeor maybe it was only a few secondsand then I set the contract down on the table.

I stood up and walked to the door. I gripped the handle and looked back at him. I had never used this tone with him beforepolite, distant, and utterly final.

"Wyatt," I said, nodding toward the paper. "That contract isn't a career move. Its a parting gift. Youve been a decent distraction these past few years, and I wanted to settle the bill. Whether you sign it or not is entirely up to you."

I watched the color drain from his face.

"There is no third option," I said.