Chapter 3 — Collision Course
Taylor Morgan
The glow of Taylor Morgan’s laptop illuminated her face as she sat cross-legged on the plush rug of her apartment, surrounded by a fortress of open books, printouts, and color-coded folders. The faint hum of the city seeped through her cracked window, a reminder of the metropolis grinding tirelessly outside, but her focus was elsewhere. She scrolled through pages of articles, interviews, and social media posts, each one dissecting Ben Hartley’s life and plastering his failures across the internet in unforgiving detail.
Her eyes hovered over a particularly brutal headline: *“Ben Hartley’s Career in Free Fall: Can Hollywood’s Golden Boy Get Back Up?”*
The words were relentless. Some accused him of being a manipulative heartthrob who couldn’t keep his personal life out of the tabloids. Others lambasted his so-called “entitlement,” relishing in his downfall. She hesitated before clicking on a link titled *“10 Reasons Why Ben Hartley Is Hollywood’s Biggest Mess.”* Her finger hovered over the trackpad for a moment. Reading further felt like voluntarily stepping into a storm, but she clicked anyway. A sharp pang of frustration tightened her chest as she skimmed through the biting criticism. The public had turned on him with almost gleeful savagery.
Taylor had seen this all before—a celebrity torn apart by the same public who once adored them.
But for Taylor, this wasn’t just another case. This was her chance.
She leaned back, tapping a pen against her lip, trying to block out the familiar knot of self-doubt tightening in her chest. The stakes weren’t just high—they were astronomical. This wasn’t just about rehabilitating Ben’s career; this was about proving herself, not only to her boss, Mr. Hartman, but also to the relentless inner critic whispering that she wasn’t good enough. That Vanessa Thompson might be right about her after all.
Her gaze drifted to the dusty stack of notebooks tucked into a corner of the room. They were filled with half-finished stories and ideas she hadn’t dared to revisit in years. For a moment, the thought of her abandoned dream crept into her mind, but she shook it off. There wasn’t time for distractions—not now.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, breaking her thoughts. It was Sophia, her best friend, and a rare burst of light in Taylor’s otherwise all-work-no-play life.
“Tell me you’re not still buried under a mountain of research,” Sophia said without preamble.
Taylor smiled faintly, picturing Sophia’s teasing smirk. “What else would I be doing on a Friday night?”
“Literally anything else,” Sophia shot back. “Like breathing. Or eating. Or, I don’t know, not torturing yourself with Internet garbage?”
Taylor glanced at the untouched granola bar beside her laptop. “Not tonight,” she admitted, her tone softer.
Sophia groaned theatrically. “Taylor, you need more than caffeine and ambition to survive. Listen, I know this Ben Hartley thing is huge, but you’ve got this—you always do. Don’t let it eat you alive. And for the love of God, please eat something that isn’t sadness-flavored.”
Taylor wanted to believe her. She really did. But the weight of the assignment felt like a ten-ton boulder pressing on her chest. “It’s complicated, Sophia. The guy’s reputation is in shreds, the internet hates him, and I’ve got Vanessa breathing down my neck, just waiting for me to screw up.”
“Vanessa is a viper, but she’s also predictable,” Sophia said firmly. “She’ll pull her usual tricks, and you’ll outsmart her. You always do.”
Taylor let out a short laugh, though it lacked conviction. “Thanks for the pep talk, coach.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Sophia said, her voice warm. “Now go save that Hollywood heartthrob and remind everyone why you’re the best at what you do. And seriously—have some actual food. You’re making me anxious.”
Taylor hung up with a small smile, Sophia’s words lingering like a balm on her frazzled nerves.
---
The next morning, Taylor stood in the sleek, glass-walled lobby of Ben Hartley’s building, clutching her tablet like a lifeline. Her tailored navy blazer and polished low heels betrayed none of the inner turmoil swirling beneath her calm exterior.
This is it, she thought as she glanced at the mirrored elevator doors reflecting her image. No turning back.
The ride up to Ben’s penthouse felt interminable. She reviewed her notes again, not because she needed to but because the act of doing something—anything—helped settle her nerves. The faint scent of floor polish and the low hum of the elevator seemed to amplify the tension threading through her thoughts.
When the elevator dinged to a stop, she stepped out into a marble hallway that screamed excess. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a panoramic view of the city, and the faint scent of leather and cedar hinted at the pristine luxury awaiting her on the other side of the door.
She knocked, the sound firm but not aggressive. Moments later, the door swung open, and there he was: Ben Hartley, Hollywood’s fallen golden boy.
He was taller than she expected, his frame broad but lean, dressed in jeans and a fitted black T-shirt that looked effortless on him. His blond hair was tousled, his piercing blue eyes scanning her with an intensity that was both disarming and guarded.
“Taylor Morgan,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with something harder. “The fixer.”
“Mr. Hartley,” she replied with practiced professionalism, stepping inside as he motioned her forward.
The penthouse was immaculate, every surface gleaming, every piece of furniture curated for an image of effortless affluence. Yet, as Taylor took it in, she noticed the subtle cracks in the veneer—a half-empty water bottle abandoned on the counter, a script lying open but untouched, and Ben himself, radiating an energy that was equal parts charm and exhaustion. A faint instrumental playlist hummed in the background, the kind of ambient music designed to fill silence without drawing attention.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries,” Ben said, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. “You’ve read the headlines. You’ve probably got some grand plan to turn me into the poster boy for redemption. So, let’s hear it.”
Taylor hesitated, caught off guard by his directness. “If we’re going to work together, I’ll need more than headlines to help you,” she said. “I need to understand your story—who you are beyond the scandals.”
Ben’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “You want the sob story? Fine. I’m the small-town kid who got lucky, made it big, and screwed it all up. Happy?”
She didn’t flinch, holding his gaze. “I’m not here to judge you, Mr. Hartley. I’m here to help you tell your story on your terms. But I can’t do that if you keep deflecting.”
His lips quirked into a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re good. I see why Hart Co. sent you. But here’s the thing—this isn’t a movie. You can’t write me a script and expect me to play along.”
Taylor’s patience frayed, though she kept her tone measured. “This isn’t about writing a script. It’s about giving people a reason to believe in you again. Right now, all they see is a scandal. We need to show them the person behind it.”
Ben studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he pushed off the counter and gestured toward the couch. “Fine. Sit. Let’s hear your pitch.”
She sat, her posture straight, her tablet balanced on her knee. “First, we shift the narrative. We highlight your strengths—charity work, personal development, anything that shows growth. Second, we address the scandals directly and authentically. No spin, no excuses.”
“Authentically,” he repeated, his tone skeptical. He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze shifting briefly to the windows. “You PR people love that word, don’t you?”
“It’s not just a word,” she said, her voice firm. “People can sense when something’s fake. If you want them to root for you, you need to give them something real.”
Ben leaned back, arms spread over the back of the couch, his piercing gaze never leaving hers. “And what if I’m not sure there’s anything real left to give?”
The vulnerability in his words caught her off guard, but she didn’t let it show. “Then we find it,” she said simply.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he smiled—a small, genuine smile that softened the sharp edges of his features. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.”
“It’s my job,” she replied, finally allowing herself a small smile in return.
Their gazes held, a flicker of understanding passing between them. The tension in the room eased, just slightly, and for the first time, Taylor thought that maybe—just maybe—this might work.
---
As she left the penthouse, the weight of the meeting pressed on her shoulders. Ben Hartley was a challenge, no doubt about it. But beneath the sarcasm and deflection, she saw glimpses of something more—something worth fighting for.
The elevator doors slid shut, and as she descended, Taylor allowed herself a moment to breathe. Ben’s words lingered in her mind: *What if I’m not sure there’s anything real left to give?*
Her grip on her tablet tightened. She wasn’t sure of the answer yet, but she was determined to find it. This was just the beginning, and it was already more complicated than she’d anticipated.
But she wouldn’t back down. Not now. Not ever.
