“You might as well have called in,” Dimple said, raising her brows.
“I know, but I promise I got you your coffee at noon,” Priyal said.
Dimple frowned. “And is this coffee in the room with us now?”
“No, I kind of spilled it all over your friend.”
Dimple blinked. “My…friend?”
“I’m just now realizing that I never asked for her name.” Priyal said. “You used to work together. She’s from Arizona? About your height, black hair. Some kind of businesswoman, I’m guessing?” When Dimple showed no signs of recognition, Priyal continued. “She looked pretty angry, even when she said she wasn’t.”
Dimple knew no one by that description. “Ah, yes,” she said. “Was she all right?”
“Yeah! It was an iced coffee, so no burns, thank goodness.”
Dimple resisted the urge to pinch her brows and sigh. The one day Priyal actually bought her an iced coffee and it never made its way to her. She felt more despair toward the lost drink than she did for the con artist it ended upon.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re late,” Dimple said.
“Well, we got to talking and I lost track of time. And then I took her to get her shirt dry-cleaned because I felt bad,” Priyal recounted. “And then I was hungry, so I—”
Dimple tuned out the rest of her explanation. It was possible this stranger would target her assistant again. Perhaps she needed to speak to her manager, Julie, about potential security measures. She didn’t want to scare the girl, though. Especially if it was nothing. Perhaps she really did know someone by that description. Dimple wasn’t exactly one for remembering people who didn’t catch her interest.
“What did you talk about?” she asked.
“Mostly you,” Priyal admitted. “You should really call her, by the way. It seems like she misses you.”
“I’m sure she does,” Dimple said dryly.
“She sends her condolences about Irene. Oh, and…” Priyal leaned in conspiratorially, “she told me to tell you that she hates Jerome just as much as we do.”
Dimple’s heart stuttered. It took a moment for her to find her voice. “She told you to tell me that?”
Priyal nodded, a secretive grin stretched across her lips.
Dimple had never told another soul about anything relating to her work, Jerome, or even Irene. There was a good chance she had a new blackmailer on her hands. And so soon after she’d dealt with the last one. To make matters worse, this one seemed much smarter than Isaac Klossner. Bolder too. This would be a problem.
Priyal’s phone chimed. “Oh wow, did you hear?” Dimple hummed, half listening. “The Singhs aren’t going through with the lawsuit anymore.”
That had her attention at once.
“What?”
Priyal showed her the headline, sending Dimple’s stomach twisting into knots. Either a chill had washed across the room or Dimple’s heart had stopped beating altogether. The full article revealed nothing as to why the Singhs had suddenly changed their mind. It did, however, offer several quotes from the family stating that they’d been too hasty in assigning blame and that they were confident that Salomé had nothing to do with their daughter’s death. But if Salomé no longer held the blame, then who did?
This coupled with the mysterious stranger who’d approached Priyal couldn’t be a mere coincidence. It was never ending, this practice of setting fires only to put them out again. Dimple had already decided that from now on she wasn’t just going to survive. She was not going to take the gift of her life for granted. She would make sure her likeness lived on even longer than she did. Whatever it took to break the cycle—even if it meant burning the whole world down—she’d have no choice but to doit.
Dimple reached into the shallow pocket of her dress and traced the shape of her lighter. She had enough presence of mind not to pull it out and ignite the flame like a madwoman, but knowing it was there was enough to ground her.
She had found the thing under the fridge of her first Los Angeles apartment, discarded by the previous tenants. A deep red lighter with two scratches at its base, completely out of fuel. She’d been about to toss it, but something had stopped her. Her waitressing job had kept her on her feet nearly every day of the week, dealing with entitled, angry patrons and managers with no respect for her time. And she’d still barely made rent every month. Dimple had figured she might as well get something out of her lease. So she’d kept it, refueling as soon as she was able. She’d landed her first speaking role not too long after.
No matter how far Dimple had come, though, or however far she would go, it seemed Irene Singh was determined to reclaim what should have been hers. Her role, her trailer, her wrap party. But Dimple was not willing to let itgo.
Chapter Thirteen
March 2, 2026
“You look likeyou’re having fun,” Taylor remarked, letting himself and Andino into Saffi’s office.
