Fallin' for the Fame - Chapter 8
Figure it out.
Previously: Sam left Seattle behind—her family, her ex, her comfort zone—all for a chance at something wild and uncertain in L.A. The nerves are real. The plan is risky. But being this close to Legend Blake? That alone feels worth it.
8
Make nice. Be a friend. Take notes.
I take a deep, measured breath—in, then out—just like Professor Natalie taught me, as the steel entry gate to Indigo Taylor’s Mansion glides open. Her estate stretches across an expansive lot, partially hidden behind towering sycamores. The house itself is a striking art deco masterpiece, all clean lines, a flat roof and stark white concrete exterior.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. God, why am I doing this?
Maybe because three years of secret DMs add up to something.
Because even though he’s a celebrity, he’s the only one who called—actually called—when I had a panic attack during finals.
Because the night Trey said I should be more like my dad—chasing stories worth dying for—Legend sent me a voice note at midnight. Just six words: He’d be proud of you, Sam.
I squeeze my steering wheel tight and force myself out of the car.
You can do this, Sam. Do it for Legend!
Making my way up the stamped concrete walkway, I step up to the door. I reach for the doorbell with trembling fingers but stop and throw my hands on my knees.
Oh, I can’t breathe… I think I’m gonna pass out, or barf, or both… She’ll step out, on her way to a meeting or Pilates, and she’ll find some random, twiggy chick, covered in green chunks, passed out on her walkway.
I’m preparing to turn and run when the door swings open.
A stocky Hispanic woman with rosy cheeks and side-swept bangs stares down at me. “You here for Ms. Indigo?”
I raise a brow, my stomach still churning like ice cream. “Hmm?”
“Ms. Indigo? You here to help?”
I stand up straight, forcing a nod, and she invites me in.
The woman—Eva, the house manager—barely spares me a glance as she informs me that Indigo’s upstairs and has a meeting in twenty minutes. She needs help getting ready. With a quick gesture down the long hallway toward a grand, winding staircase at the center of the house, Eva vanishes before I can ask a single question.
“Okay…” Inhale slow, exhale hard. “Here goes.”
Brushing some hair out of my face, I smooth my hands over my vinyl jacket and jeans. Then, with a deep breath, I make my way down the hall, wobbling in my slouch boots.
The glistening hardwood floors seem to stretch endlessly beneath my feet, the staircase drifting farther and farther away. The hallway feels infinite, lined with a repeating pattern of mirrors and self-portraits. Indigo smiling. Indigo pouting. Indigo captured in a charcoal sketch, a strand of hair curled around her finger.
At last, the hall opens into a grand space. A high-end living room sprawls to the right, and at the back, a sleek kitchen gleams with black countertops and matte-finish oak cabinets. More portraits of Indigo dominate the walls, surrounded by bold animal prints and tribal figurines, giving off this African-queen vibe.
This place isn’t just a house. This place is like a frickin’ museum.
“Hello?” I call softly.
Upstairs, hip-hop music thumps through the ceiling. I close my eyes and sigh, gripping the rail.
I am doing this for Legend. And Legend alone.
The bass grows heavier as I climb the stairs, leading me straight to the first room on the left. The door is slightly ajar.
I knock. “Ma’am?”
She doesn’t answer. I take a step inside.
Indigo’s bedroom—easily the size of a three-car garage—is bathed in rich hues of purple and pink. The lights are dim, slivers of sunlight peaking beneath plush velvet curtains. The floor is a mess of discarded underwear and empty liquor bottles, thick scents of whiskey and lavender in the air.
At the center of it all, sprawled across a massive California King-sized bed, lies a figure, a cascade of platinum blonde curls with dark roots obscuring her face.
Indigo?
My pulse kicks up as I rush to the lush pink carpet lining the bed. A colossal portrait of Indigo Taylor hangs above the headboard, gazing down at me with critical eyes. I jostle a glistening, golden arm.
Oh, my gosh! If she OD’d, they’ll totally put it on me. They’ll drag me in front of a grand jury on one of those nationally broadcast trials on TV, and no one will believe my story when I swear that I didn’t do a thing to harm Hollywood’s Sweetheart. They’ll throw the book at me. They’ll say that I wanted her dead because I wanted her man—and that’s something I couldn’t deny. Then they’ll lock me up, for the rest of my life, and no one will ever visit me… Not even Legend Blake.
Then a low groan escapes her. She shifts, rubbing her face into the purple satin sheets before going still. Slowly, she lifts her head, one thick feathery brow arching high. “Is there a Madonna concert in town or something?”
Huh?
Not seeming to care, she rolls back on the bed, running a hand down her face, her black lace bra peeking out from a silk emerald blouse.
I clear my throat. “Ma’am, I’ve been informed that you have a meeting in about twenty minutes. If you’d like my help—”
Indigo groans again, flopping onto her belly. “Shut up! Nobody needs your help.” She tries to push herself up, but her hands slip, and she faceplants right back into the sheets with a muffled oof.
I take a step forward, grabbing her arm. “Here, let me—”
“Get your sticky hands off me!” She snatches out of my grasp. “I said I don’t need your damn help!” Then she gags—and hurls all over my boots.
I freeze, stomach twisting as warm, lumpy brown vomit trickles across my feet.
Indigo hiccups, staring down at the mess. “They were ugly anyway.”
From what I’ve seen in the headlines and on social media, Indigo is known for her partying and late wild nights. But since she ended things with Legend, it’s been on another level. I had no idea that things were this bad.
“What the…?”
A woman stands in the doorway, frowning. She’s Asian, with bold blue eyeshadow and ruby-red lips, rocking a leather jacket and thigh-high boots. Her black shoulder-length hair is razor-sharp, the blue ombré tips catching the light.
The woman pinches her nose, fanning the air. “Ugh! It smells like potpourri and beer in here.” Her assessing gaze rests on me. “Who are you?”
“I’m Samara Allen.” I’d step over and shake her hand, but… boots. I give a gentle wave. “Temporary assistant.”
Emphasis on the temporary.
The woman couldn’t care less. She rushes to the other side of the bed, barks a command at the wireless speaker to cut the music, and grabs Indigo’s ankles. With a firm tug, she slides her down to the edge of the mattress, then lightly pats her cheek.
“Indigo, honey, it’s Kelly. You’ve gotta wake up, sweetheart.”
Oh! This is Kelly! Legend mentioned her. The publicist… or was it the manager? Either way, she’s clearly the one who cleans up the mess.
Indigo releases a guttural whine, her head thrashing back and forth. “I’m up. I’m up!”
Kelly doesn’t look convinced. “The media team will be here any minute. We’ve gotta get you cleaned up.” Kelly flicks her stern gaze to me. “Can you help?”
Ten minutes later, we’ve got her in a marble, luxury alcove tub as Kelly helps her bathe. “How many times are you gonna do this, Indigo? You keep this up, and you’ll tank your career,” says Kelly.
I quietly rinse my boots in one of several black granite sinks, watching murky water swirl down the drain. The stench still clings to my shoes. Not to mention, my dignity.
Meanwhile, Indigo reclines in the tub like some tragic queen—mascara smudged, platinum curls damp and lifeless—as Kelly scrubs her down.
What did Legend ever see in this train wreck?
Indigo glowers at my reflection in the mirror. “Who’s that?”
Kelly glances back at me, exhaustion etched in her features. “That’s, uh…”
“Samara. Allen,” I say.
“Samara Allen,” Kelly nods, seeming to remember. “She’s here to, uh—”
“Help,” I say.
“Help?” Indigo scowls, her plump lips drooping. “I don’t need help.”
She needed my help getting off her face a few minutes ago.
I turn, plastering on my best smile. “I heard you needed a personal assistant. Ruby sent me.”
“Ruby?” Kelly’s brow shoots up. “Ruby sent you?”
I nod. “Mmhmm.”
They both stare at me as I return to my boots.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting in the living room on a lengthy camelback sofa. Across from me, a brass vintage coffee table rests atop a zebra skin rug, its bold stripes clashing with the room’s otherwise sleek aesthetic.
Above the fireplace, a TV the size of a baby elephant looms, dark and silent. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire room, framing the outdoor pool like a museum exhibit—shimmering, pristine, and completely unnecessary
I exhale slowly, glancing toward the front door. I could get up and walk out right now, and I doubt anyone would notice or care.
Before I can decide whether to make my covert exit, my phone chimes.
LEGEND: How’s it going, beautiful?
I close my eyes and breathe a heavy sigh. That’s right… No one would care but him.
SAM: Great! We’ll be BFFs in no time. 😊
I throw my head back against the sofa, squeezing my eyes shut, hoping to block out the feeling of being trapped in this world that isn’t mine.
“Why would you do that?” shouts Indigo, making her way down the stairs with Kelly in tow. “I would’ve been fine!”
“You would’ve been a mess,” says Kelly. “We’ll just have to reschedule.”
I guess the meeting is canceled.
Indigo halts when she spots me in the living room, her gaze zeroing in like a hawk’s. She charges my way, the silk of her kimono trailing behind her like a cape.
I sit up straight as she takes a seat in the throne-like armchair across from me, crossing her sculpted dancer legs. Her high-waist athletic booty shorts make them appear ten times longer. The loose white crop top she’s wearing shows off her perfectly chiseled midriff, as if she was born in a gym and molded by angels.
At least she seems sober now.
She gives me a once-over, tilting her head like I’m some kind of puzzle. “Ruby sent you, hmm?”
Okay, Sam. Get this right!
“Yes,” I say, reaching into my bag. “I was told you needed a temporary assistant, and there’s potential for a permanent position.” I pull out my phony polished resume and pass it over.
She rips it to pieces without a second glance, her expression stone cold. No emotion, just a flick of her wrist as she tosses the tiny shreds of paper over her shoulder. They flutter to the floor like confetti.
“Tell me about yourself.”
My throat goes dry. “Okay, um, I was born in Long Beach. I’ve been working in Hollywood for three years…” I recite the rest of my bogus experience with a straight face, fingers clasped in my lap, refusing to scratch or show any sign of nerves.
Kelly leans against the banister, watching the impromptu interview—the same way a bored lifeguard watches the hundredth kid cannonball into the pool.
Indigo leans back in her chair, arms crossed, her shimmering brown eyes studying me. She runs her tongue across her teeth, the diamond stud in her nose gleaming beneath chandelier lights.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s see how much you can help me.”
She has me sign an NDA, and the rest of my day is hell.
“Give me breakfast,” she says.
“What kind of breakfast?”
“Figure it out.”
It turns out that the chef only comes in to make dinner, so the rest is on me. I throw together some scrambled eggs, fresh strawberries, and toast. “Here’s your breakfast.”
Without so much as a glance, she heads downstairs to the gym. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
She’s finishing her Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu training when I return from the kitchen. “Bring me a warm towel,” she says.
“A warm towel? Where are the warm towels?”
“Figure it out.”
I find Eva in the laundry room, and she tosses a towel my way. She casually informs me that next time, I should have the towels in the dryer before breakfast. I thank her, then sprint back across the mansion.
“Here’s your towel.”
“I’ve already got one,” says Indigo. “Next time, pick up the pace. What’s on my schedule this afternoon?”
“Um…”
“Figure it out.”
I find Kelly in the library. “Do you know Ms. Indigo’s schedule?”
She glances up, scrolling through her phone. “Nothing special today. But there’s a magazine interview tomorrow.”
I let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
As I turn to leave, she grabs my arm. Extending a hand, she says, “Kelly Watson. Publicist.”
Publicist! I knew it!
“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking her hand.
“So, you know Ruby?” she asks, sizing me up. “From Rihanna’s team?”
My stomach drops and bounces like a carnival ride. I blink, forcing a smile. “Of course.”
Kelly nods, her gaze lingering jut a second too long, and I make my escape.
Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!
“Nothing special on the schedule today,” I tell Indigo. “But there’s a magazine interview tomorrow.”
She’s lying beside the pool, a masseuse giving her some sort of drainage massage. “Do better. Keep up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And, uh—what’s your name again?”
“Sam.”
“Sam.” She points at her phone on the patio table. “Check my DMs.”
“Huh?”
“Delete the useless ones.”
“How do I know which ones—?”
“Figure it out.”
By lunchtime, I’m completely spent, and my feet are killing me. I honestly have no idea what Legend sees in this chick. She’s rude, spoiled, and an all-around nightmare to work for. Sure, she’s gorgeous and famous, but up close? She’s even worse than her online persona.
Maybe getting rid of her will be easier than I thought…
I’m just delivering her lunch—a Caesar salad that her personal chef left in the fridge last night—when I overhear her and Kelly talking in the dressing room. And yes, she has an entire room dedicated to clothes and makeup.
“Look, I hate to tell you this,” says Kelly. “But I spoke with your agent. She hasn’t received a single decent offer for you in a month.”
Indigo waves a dismissive hand. “They’ll come around. It’s only a matter of time before they start craving real talent again.” She sits at the vanity, idly scraping at the rhinestones on her pink chrome nails with tweezers.
Kelly leans in, lowering her voice as she meets the starlet’s gaze in the mirror. “Indigo, the word ‘difficult’ is starting to get attached to your name. You know what that means in this town.”
Indigo stills, staring at Kelly’s reflection, the color draining from her face. “What should I do?” She whips around, panic creeping into her voice. “Kelly, acting is my life. I can’t fall off now.”
Kelly studies the floor, her lips pressed into a pensive frown. “Lay low. Get cleaned up. More exercise, no social media besides sponsored posts… Keep your image tight.”
Indigo nods, dropping her gaze to her hands.
“I’ll make some calls,” says Kelly, giving her shoulder a squeeze, “see what I can work out.” Kelly turns, and nearly jumps when she spots me at the door. With a small nod, she moves past me.
Indigo’s glassy eyes darken as they meet mine in the mirror. “What do you want?”
I lift the plate an inch. “I, uh—have your lunch—”
“Oh my gosh, Cyndi Lauper. Get lost!” She grabs a brush and hurls it at me. It clips the doorframe as I duck into the hall.
She barricades herself in her room for the rest of the day. I don’t know if I’m supposed to leave or stick around, so I hover, helping Eva with small tasks and making sure the chef delivers food to Indigo’s door. Not that she ever opens it.
It’s 7 p.m. when I slip into the kitchen. I haven’t eaten all day. Hunger gnaws at my stomach like a feral cat as I yank open the fridge. Why didn’t I eat those eggs she rejected?
“You still here?”
I slam the fridge, standing up straight. Indigo is at the end of the counter, her hair wrapped in a towel.
“I figured you left with Kelly,” she says.
“No, ma’am. I’m here to assist with whatever you need.”
“Please.” She waves a hand. “Stop calling me that.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean—Okay, Miss.”
She lets out a small laugh. “Indigo is fine. I honestly thought you quit this afternoon.”
I shrug. “Everyone’s entitled to a bad day.”
“Are you talking about me? ’Cause I’m not having a bad day.”
“Uh…”
Indigo busts out laughing. “Anybody ever tell you that you look just like a chihuahua?”
This chick… “No, Ma—I mean, no, Ms. Indigo.”
She stares me down, her full lips still curved in amusement.
Just grin and bear it, Sam. No complaints… just like Daddy taught you.
I clasp my hands in front of me, keeping my voice even. “Would you like anything else, Ms. Indigo? I could page the chef to send up more food if you like.”
“So, what—you trying to make me fat now?”
I blink, scrambling for the right response, but she’s already rolling her eyes.
With a swift step, she brushes past me, bumping me out of the way like I’m just another kitchen appliance. She yanks open the fridge and grabs a bottle of water. “Come back tomorrow. Seven AM sharp. Show up late and you’re fired. Got it?”
I nod as she heads up the stairs, her silk robe billowing behind her like it’s got its own attitude.
I fall into my bed, every muscle in my body aching. The drive home took nearly an hour thanks to traffic, and now I feel like I’ve run a marathon in heels.
Oh… Why did I ever agree to do this? I throw a pillow over my face.
And then my phone rings.
Oh no! What if she needs something! Tumbling out of bed, I scramble across the floor to my bag. But when I see the name on the screen, my breath catches. “Hello?”
“Hey, beautiful.”
“Hey… handsome.” It sounds like Legend is outside somewhere. The wind gusts in my ear. “You hang gliding or something?”
“Ha-ha,” he says. “I’m on my balcony.”
“Oh…” I fall silent, suddenly at a loss for words. We usually stick to texts and DMs—this is maybe the third time he’s actually called. And that voice… smooth as melted chocolate, rich enough to make me weak.
“Just wanted to check on you,” he says. “See how your first day went.”
Awful! It was an awful, horrific nightmare! She yelled at me. She barfed on me. She threw a frickin’ brush at my face! “Wonderful,” I say. “She’s so sweet.”
“Really? From what I’ve heard she’s kind of a nightmare.”
“Whaaat?” My pitch couldn’t be any higher. “No way.”
Legend chuckles. “You two hit it off, huh?”
“Mmhmm. In fact, she wants me to come back tomorrow.”
“That’s great!” he says.
I fall back on the thick, luxurious carpet, rubbing my temples.
I’d give almost anything to go back home right now. Almost.
Legend exhales into the phone. “So, any news yet?”
Of course, that’s why he’s calling. He wants to know if I’ve dug up any dirt. But how am I supposed to get intel when I can’t get within three feet of the chick without her projectile vomiting in my face?
“Not quite,” I say softly.
The line goes silent for a moment. Finally, he says, “It’s cool. You know, I really appreciate you doing this, Sam.”
“I know.” I just hope the verbal smackdowns and near-death-by-hairbrush are worth it.
There’s another pause on the line.
I’m just about to make it clear that I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, when he says, “So tell me more about your day.”
A smile slips across my lips.
It’s silly, how one voice can make all the chaos feel worth it.
Copyright © 2025 Kimberly R. Vargas. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission from the author.
Author’s Note:
Hey y’all! 💕
Thanks so much for checking out this chapter of Fallin' for the Fame! I hope you’re loving Sam’s journey as much as I’ve loved writing it.
New chapters drop every Wednesday, so be sure to stay tuned! And if you're enjoying the drama, romance, and all the twists in between, don’t keep it to yourself—hit that subscribe button and share with a friend who loves a good love story.
I’ll see you next Wednesday!
Kimberly R. Vargas
Romance Author | Storyteller of Healing & Love
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