I expect Asher to play coy, but he doesn’t. “Honestly? If they pay attention to Emma, that’s all I care about.”
I feel my face go warm, and for a second there’s no photo line, no crowd, no marketing plan—just me and him, in this weirdly honest feedback loop.
“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” I say. “They’re supposed to care about you.”
He shrugs, face unguarded. “You’re the story.”
The press line shifts and we’re pulled away, the moment dispersing like dry ice on a soundstage.
In the theater, we’re escorted to front row seats. The house is so dark I can just make out the other actors, all of them playing their own parts in the festival’s endorphin economy: Ciaran, thigh crossed over knee, already deep in whispered conversation with a YouTube starlet; the director arguing in the aisle with someone wearing a festival badge and a sportscoat made of actual velvet.
The lights dim. The festival emcee, a man with a not-so-super-secret career in standup, launches into an overlong introduction that includes the phrase, “She’s the brightest sunbeam in the dystopian galaxy that is modern Hollywood.” Then right before the house lights drop, Asher leans into my ear and says, low, “You got this.”
The movie comes at me in waves. In the dark, I forget to watch myself as a product, just see a girl who wants to break out, who’s always a little bit outpaced by the action, who’s never quite sure when she’s the joke or the punchline. There are good scenes, some with genuine pathos, and a few so overwrought I want to slide out of my seat—but when the lights come up, the applause is both sharp and real. Even the cynical crowd can’t fake this pitch of surprise.
Someone taps my shoulder. It’s Frances, eyes glassy. “You’re trending,” she stage-whispers. “There are five hundred new memes, and they already want you for the sequel.”
My first impulse is to scan for Asher, and he’s right there, grinning in a way I’ve never seen before, like maybe—for a minute—he doesn’t regret a single thing about this.
There’s a rush to the exit, and suddenly it’s all noise and color, the night outside warm and sticky with possibility. Asher and I are swept along, high on the shared vertigo, past the velvet ropes, into the street where the crowd parts for us.
It feels, for a second, like we’re the last two people on earth. He stops me under the sticky glow of a streetlamp and says, “You did perfectly.”
I don’t know whether he means the performance, the junket, or just getting through the day, but it doesn’t matter—I believe him.
And when he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, and I let him, for the first time, I don’t care that someone might be watching.
CHAPTER 6
EMMA
Two kindsof people go to exclusive industry parties: sharks and those looking to be eaten. I never intended to be chum, but the moment Lena Carson bursts onto the poolside terrace, all eyes automatically snap to her, and I realize, with resigned clarity, that I am absolutely the latter tonight.
“Lena-fucking-Carson,” someone hisses, reverent, as she descends the stairs like she owns the place—which, in a way, she does. That’s Lena’s magic. She’s immortal in every room, burning at thirty frames per second while the rest of us flicker and fade. I watch her take the air, fold it into her lungs, exhale, and bend the mood to her will. Her skin glows with that Argentine sun, a souvenir from six weeks filming some arthouse piece where she apparently lectured generals about gender equality. The black jumpsuit she’s wearing defies both gravity and the unspoken rules of festival parties—fabric slashed in places that would get anyone else escorted out, yet on her it’s so effortlessly right that I suddenly feel like I’m wearing my mother’s hand-me-downs.
Her eyes find me before her mouth does. She mouths, “I’ll kill you,” then barrels straight through the animated corpse of a producer to wrap me in a tight hug. I burrow my face in her hairand, for half a second, I don’t care about cameras or hashtags or the fact that I am absolutely, one hundred percent lying to her about what’s happening with Asher Dixon.
She pulls back, pinning me in a serious-lipstick scowl. “You bitch. You’re famous now, and you’re not even answering my texts.”
"I did! You were on a glacier with no service.”
It’s true. The last video call was of her, impossibly small at the bottom of a sweep of blue, wind shrieking so loud I could only read her lips as she screamed, “I almost shat myself!” before the call died. I saved the screenshot for days when I need to remember who I am.
She doesn’t want to fight; she wants gossip, so she grabs my hand and hustles us through the thicket of Hollywood personalities clumping around the bar and into the relative sanctity of the pool house bathroom. The mirror is rimmed with what appears to be a halo of paparazzi bulbs. The air tastes like citrus and secrets.
“Okay,” she says. “From the top. You and Asher Dixon, explain, explain.”
“It’s for PR. The studio cooked it up. It’s basically court-mandated dating.”
She arches a brow. “So you’re telling me those Instagram photos where he’s looking at you like you’re the last cold beer on a desert island—that’s all just PR magic?”
I stare at my nails, which are painted the same shade as my dress. “I sincerely hope so.”
She crosses her arms and leans into the sink. “You could have fooled me. Exhibit A: the way you looked at him on the red carpet tonight. That’s not method acting, babe.”
I try to roll my eyes, but catch myself in the mirror instead. Something in my expression looks starved, and it has nothing to do with the tiny appetizers circulating outside.
“Fine,” I say, “he’s hot. He smells good. I’m not dead inside. Can we talk about you? I need fresh foreign drama.”
