“Wonderful. Best of luck to her—and enjoy your night, you two,” the reporter says before shifting to the next celebrity.
As Anna’s right-hand woman, I’m used to staying in the background. My job is to make her shine, and I’m good at it. Still, our little impromptu interview seems to have worked. Clipboard Guy’s back is now turned, checking in the next wave of guests.
“That was fun, yeah?” Miles beams.
“Totally,” I deadpan.
“Over here! Right here!” photographers shout.
Miles and I turn toward the flashing lights, smiles poised, the red carpet gleaming beneath our feet as the clicking of cameras sounds off. I smile and pose in a way I’ve seen Anna do a thousand times. At least, I hope I’m posing correctly.
I look up at Miles, and my smile grows. He’s effortlessly handsome and a natural behind the camera. The team has given him the nickname Hollywood, and I can see why. He was born to walk red carpets and look stunning doing so.
As for me, I’ve had all the attention I need in this lifetime. I’m more than happy existing behind the scenes. While Miles thrives on attention, I feel suffocated. Terrified to be recognized.
I squeeze his arm, and he tilts his chin, his big blue eyes assessing. “You ready to go in?”
“Yes, please.”
He nods toward the photographers, thanking them, and we continue down the carpet.
“You’re not a fan of the spotlight.” His words aren’t a question.
“Not really.”
“I find it so odd because you’re so charismatic and beautiful. Plus, you’re literally in the film industry. I would think you’d love it.”
“Anna’s in the film industry. I’m in…management, I guess. Completely different. Now…” I pause my step and wait for Miles to turn and face me. “There are assigned seats. We’re not on the main floor with Anna and Jaden and the other nominees. We’re on the second level. You can’t just decide where you’re going to sit, or we’ll get kicked out.”
Miles chuckles. “I know how assigned seating works.”
“You sure? Because that rogue red carpet run says otherwise.” I raise a brow.
He waves a hand between us. “That’s completely different. But don’t worry. I promise to be on my best behavior.”
I narrow my gaze, causing Miles to laugh.
“From now on,” he clarifies.
A second group of photographers, toward the end of the carpet, calls for us to pose for another round of pictures. Miles and I linger on the carpet just long enough for a dozen flashes to explode around us before a coordinator waves us toward the entrance. Once inside, the roar of the exuberant red carpet chatter softens into a low, elegant hum. We’re surrounded by glamour, and the air smells faintly of perfume, champagne, and polished wood.
The theater is breathtaking. Golden sconces line the curved walls, casting honey-colored light across red velvet seats that sweep upward in perfect rows. The ceiling is domed and glittering, a galaxy of tiny bulbs that make everything feel cinematic. I’ve seen this place a hundred times on TV, but being here in person is something else entirely.
We start our climb to the second level, following an usher in a crisp black suit. Miles practically vibrates beside me, craning his neck to take everything in—the chandeliers, the celebrity clusters, and the cameras flashing below.
“Do you realize,” he whispers, leaning close, “that we’re sitting in the same building as Meryl Streep right now? Meryl freakin’ Streep.”
I bite back a laugh. “Try to breathe, Miles.”
He smiles widely, taking everything in. “This place is sick.”
Our seats are near the front of the balcony, close enough to see the stage. The view is stunning; the giant velvet curtains are still drawn, but the glow from the footlights paints everything in amber warmth.
Miles settles in beside me, still buzzing. “Maybe they’ll pan the camera this way, and my parents will see me on TV.”
I shake my head, amused. “Your parents see you on TV every week, Miles.”
“I know, but this is different. I’ve told you how much we loved movies. Any time a movie was filmed in Detroit, my dad would take me to watch the production whenever possible. In my house, the Oscars were a bigger deal than the Super Bowl. We’d watch all the pre-show coverage of the red carpet, and my mom would rate all the dresses. I was always allowed to stay up late, well past my bedtime, to see the last award of the night—Best Picture. Prior to the show, we’d see as many of the movies as possible so we could have our own opinions on the winners.”
