“Virginia. Blue Ridge Mountains.” I turned back to the mirror, starting to wipe away the makeup with cold cream. Dr. Brock Blaze’s face slowly disappeared, revealing the real me underneath—or whatever was left of the real me after seven years of this. “A place called Ashford Gap. Population four hundred, no paparazzi, no scripts, no—”
“No fun,” Chandra interrupted. “Sam, you’re going to lose your mind in the woods by yourself.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the door opened again—this time without the dramatic flair. My agent, Sabrina Winstead, glided in. She was fifty-something, blonde, and terrifying in the way only women who’d clawed their way to the top of Hollywood could be. She wore a cream-colored pantsuit that probably cost more than my first car and carried a leather portfolio that I knew contained nothing good.
“Chandra, darling,” Sabrina said without looking at her. “Out.”
“Excuse me?” Chandra sat up straighter. “I’m having a conversation with—”
“Out. Now.” Sabrina’s smile was all teeth, no warmth. “This is business.”
Chandra looked at me, and I gave her a helpless shrug. Picking a fight with Sabrina was like arguing with a shark—technically possible, but ultimately pointless. Chandra grabbed her shoes and phone, shooting Sabrina a look that could have melted steel.
“Call me when you’re back,” she said to me. “And Sam? Don’t let her talk you into anything you don’t want.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click that felt louder than Chandra’s earlier explosion.
Sabrina set her portfolio on the glass coffee table and settled into the chair across from my vanity, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. “We need to talk about your contract.”
“No.” I kept wiping away my makeup. “I told you, Sabrina. I’m not discussing this until after my vacation.”
“Samuel.” Her voice hardened, losing the honey coating. “You’re being offered three more years at double your current rate. Do you have any idea how rare that is? The network loves you. The viewers love you. You’re the face of Midnight At Magnolia General. You’d be a fool to walk away from this.”
“Maybe I’m a fool, then.”
She stood, her heels clicking against the floor as she moved closer. In the mirror, I watched her come to stand behind me, her reflection sharp and unyielding.
“You want to be a ‘serious actor,’” she said, making air quotes I felt more than saw. “You want prestige. Film. Broadway. I get it, sweetheart, I really do. But you know what those things require? Leverage. And you know what gives you leverage? Money. Security. A fanbase that will follow you anywhere.” She leaned down, her hands on the back of my chair. “You can’t afford to be an artist if you’re broke and irrelevant.”
Something ugly twisted in my chest. “I’m not irrelevant.”
“Not yet. But walk away from this show, and you will be.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost kind. “Daytime TV isn’t a stepping stone anymore, Sam. It’s a career. And it’s a damn good one. You’re making half a million a year to memorize ridiculous lines and look pretty. Why are you so desperate to throw that away?”
“Because I’m miserable!” The words exploded out of me, louder than I’d intended. I spun in my chair to face her. “Because I spend eight hours a day pretending to be Dr. Brock Blaze, and I don’t know who Samuel Bennett is anymore! Because I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve never done real theater, never auditioned for anything that mattered, never—”
“Never what?” Sabrina’s eyes were cold. “Never struggled? Or waited tables while going to auditions? Never slept on a friend’s couch because you couldn’t make rent? You skipped all that, Samuel. You got lucky. And now you want to throw your luck away because you’re having some kind of artistic crisis?”
The air felt thin, like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
“Why are you pushing this so hard?” I asked slowly. “You’re supposed to work for me. I tell you what I want, and you make it happen. That’s how this is supposed to work.”
Something flickered across her face—so fast I almost missed it. Guilt, maybe. Or calculation.
“I’m your agent,” she said carefully. “I’m supposed to guide your career in the right direction. And right now, that direction is signing this contract.”
“But I’m miserable,” I repeated, softer this time. “You know that. I’ve told you that. So why—”
“Because it’s good for you!” She cut me off, voice rising. “Because you don’t know what’s good for you right now! You’re burned out, you’re tired, you need this vacation. But when you come back, you’ll see things clearly. You’ll realize that walking away from this show is career suicide, and—”
“And what?” I stood up, facing her fully. “You’ll have convinced me to stay on a show that’s killing me inside? Brilliant plan, Sabrina.”
She stared at me for a long moment, and I watched her decide something. I’d known Sabrina for eight years, and I’d seen that look before—the one that meant she was about to do something she’d regret.
“Fine,” she said, her voice dropping. “You want the truth? I’m the one who’s been leaking the stories.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. “What stories?”
