Tiwari sighed in relief. “So she did tell you. I was worried she didn’t have anyone to talk to. If you’re going to blame anyone, though, blame the director, he’s a horrible man. He practically tricked Dimple into signing the contract.”
Saffi couldn’t believe her luck. Kapoor had been interviewed by Andino and Taylor on Monday the twenty-sixth. Saffi had heard the tapes; she knew the men had explicitly told her about Singh’s death. Which meant she knew exactly why she’d been offered the role. Clearly, Kapoor wasn’t above lying to keep her image clean, even to those closest to her.
“How awful,” Saffi replied, this time unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone. “Poor Dimple Kapoor.”
Tiwari didn’t seem to notice her insincerity and nodded along enthusiastically.
Kapoor was a liar, that much was certain, but the question was why she’d lied. To keep her image clean or to cover up a murder? Saffi crossed her arms, staring down at Tiwari. She had no idea who she was dealing with. Then again, neither did Saffi.
Chapter Twelve
March 1, 2026
After a longfinal day of filming, the crew threw a wrap party.
There was a toast at the end of the night, led by one of the producers. “To topping the box office!” he said, punctuated with the rise of his champagne flute. They all conveyed their agreement with a chorus of cheers followed by the whole room knocking back the contents of their glasses.
It wasn’t just the sparkling water that made Dimple feel like she was floating. While nobody stayed on set longer than her and Jerome, Shyla Patel was always eager to run lines and gossip in their trailers after hours. Even Chris Porter was a better scene partner than expected, adapting to improvisation with ease, ebbing and flowing with their manufactured emotions.
The hard part was over and Dimple couldn’t believe it. The waking nightmares were less frequent and being the face of such an anticipated movie meant her name was gaining some traction. Julie was having a much easier time setting up opportunities for her.
A group of Dimple’s co-stars chose then to approach, faces bright and mouths stretched wide with laughter. Before she knew it, she was being corralled into a photo. Shyla Patel was the ringleader. She insisted on putting the leads front and center, which Dimple good-naturedly refused a couple times before embracing it with flushedcheeks. Her co-lead, Chris Porter, swung a leaden arm over her shoulder.
“We did it, gorgeous,” he slurred.
Dimple froze under his weight, but everyone else seemed too preoccupied to notice.
This uncomfortable weight against her side reminded her of those blurry photos of Dimple on set, completely unaware of a camera tailing her. Shots of her and Chris Porter through the window of a café. They were framed in such a way to look like the two of them were alone even though the entire main cast had been there as well.
Dimple tried to avoid it at all costs. Horrid words from Chris’s jealous fans always accompanied them. Insults to her appearance from a cluster of blurry photographs. Attacks on her character coming from people who’d never so much as crossed paths with her.
But there was nothing that could be done. The producers liked the implication that their two main leads were romantically involved. Apparently, it wasgood publicity.As though art had to be publicized. If it weren’t for Julie, Dimple might’ve deleted her accounts right then and there.
Surrounded by her co-stars, the heavy arm holding her down, she was utterly trapped. The flash of the camera lens couldn’t have come quick enough. She ducked away, unapologetic at the way Chris stumbled without her support. Claiming to the crowd at large that she needed a refill, Dimple fled across the room fast enough to avoid their chorus of disappointedboo’s. The poisonous phantom of Chris’s touch lingered long after she left him.
It was ridiculous. So what if he was drunk—they’d had tokisson set, for god’s sake. Five takes. That was how long it took to get it right. Shyla had teased her about it for days. The entire cast had a running joke about Chris having to stand on a platform so he could appear taller than her. He was annoying and arrogant, sure, but the man had never bothered her to this extent before. Dimple watched her coworkers shriek with laughter from across the room, unreasonably angry with herself. Had she even smiled for the photograph?
It wasn’t until she noticed someone approaching that sheremembered to put on her best face. She affixed her brightest expression and raised an empty glass in greeting, but faltered when she noticed who it was.
Jerome Bardoux looked around to make sure no one else was listening before leaning in close. Contrary to the champagne in his hand, he seemed sober. “I would say sorry for what it took to get you to take this job, but I’m really not.”
His words took a moment to register. When they did, Dimple was more shocked at his carelessness to say such a thing in public than at the words themselves. She tightened her grip on the stem of her glass. Other than to direct her, he’d never actually initiated a conversation with her. Not even ahello, how are you,or so much as a customarygood morning.This was an interesting attempt at their first, Dimple would give him that.
“I’m sure you’ll agree once you see the final product,” he continued, reaching out to pry her empty glass from her death grip and replacing it with a full one. Then, at full volume, “We work well together, don’t you think?”
Dimple stared at the clear bubbling liquid in her new glass. Raising it to her nose, she confirmed that it was indeed sparkling water. Jerome clinked glasses with her. When he pulled away, Dimple noticed he was picking his fingernail raw.
With that, the man was gone, leaving Dimple dumbstruck. She could do nothing but stare at his retreating figure, attempting to parse through mixed emotions. Jerome truly thought he’d conned her. It would be laughable if it weren’t so concerning that Dimple shared such a damning secret with an idiot. If he was acting so careless already, how much worse off would he be with pressure applied? Dimple was one step closer to effective immortality through art. If Jerome ever dared to stand in the way of that, she would have no choice but to deal with him accordingly.
For now, though, perhaps their tether could work to her benefit.
A small body barreled into Dimple’s side, breaking her free of her thoughts. She tightened her grip on her champagne flute at the last moment, saving it from a shattering death.
“Priyal,” she said.
“Sorry I’m late,” the girl breathed.
Dimple had invited Priyal to set after lunch, correctly assuming that the director would be far too busy to care about his more minor rules. She surmised it would be an interesting experience, getting to see up close how film projects wrapped. It was something Dimple wished she’d gotten insight on before being thrown into the deep end. However, according to the clock, it was seven in the evening. This was late, even by Priyal’s standards.
