Twenty minutes later, she steps back. “You look lethal.” The Givenchy gown clings like a second skin, its neckline a perfect V that suggests rather than reveals. My reflection stares back—all sharp angles and dark promises, the cat eye could cut glass, and my red lips make me feel like I’m moments from staining my teeth. I run my hands over the impossibly smooth fabric and half-love what I see.
Jessie appears in the lobby, phone pressed to her ear, negotiating “backend percentages” and “keeping Lena out of the tabloids.” We tumble into a limo and slip through streets lined with budding trees of cherry and chestnut, families strolling beneath woven awnings.
The industry soiree is at a retired director’s penthouse—white cube walls, minimalist art, and a terrace with an unobstructed view of Montmartre dappled in April sunlight. The room pulses with under-thirty French stars, half of America’sstreaming talent, and a fellow Lena swears might be Lithuania’s future president. All dressed in black, all pretending not to notice us.
Jean-Paul Bressard waits on the terrace, a flute of champagne in hand. He’s in his fifties, with an asymmetrical nose hinting at an unspoken past. Two young protégées flank him in crisp blazers and bow ties, barely old enough to toast. When he spots us, he lights up like the Arc de Triomphe.
“Emma Rowan,” he calls, voice rich with delight. “The next wave of American decadence!”
He pecks my cheeks, then Lena’s, then Jessie’s, and back to mine for extra luck. A flashbulb storm erupts—Variety, Le Monde, maybe Lithuania’s president-in-waiting—and we’re swept into his circle of rapid-fire conversation.
“My vision,” Bressard says, leaning so close I can smell the expensive cigar on his breath, “is not just crime, not just tragedy—but both.” His hands slice the air between us, sketching invisible bodies tangled in sheets. “The lovers will make love like they are dying, because they are.” He pauses, swirls his champagne. “In Hollywood, you sanitize passion. Here—” he taps his chest, “—we bleed.” Lena catches my eye over her wine glass, her lips twitching dangerously as she struggles not to laugh.
I laugh, but my mind drifts to Asher. I check my phone, find nothing but the faint pulse of connection. The party blurs into one long tapestry of gorgeous people talking too close, sipping cocktails too pretty to drink, jockeying for space on low-slung sofas.
At some point, Bressard leans close and murmurs, “You are the only one not playing a role.”
I almost tell him: I’ve never stopped. Instead, I offer a half-smile—Asher taught me that—and slip away to the bathroom.
Inside, the tile is cool underfoot, and spring light filters through a frosted window. I lock the door, press my back to it, and count back from ten. Out in the party, the soundtrack shifts to soft jazz, and laughter rolls down the hallway. I splash water on my face, reapply the homicide red. My phone buzzes. It’s Asher.
Landed. Save some champagne.
Suddenly, I’m not tired or lonely. My pulse hums with anticipation. I drift back through the door to where Lena and Jessie are still entranced by Bressard’s vision of cinematic revolution.
Lena catches my eye and tilts her head: Yougood?I pinch my lips into a grin, then point to the screen: he’s here. She returns a conspiratorial smile.
Forty minutes later, I slip onto the terrace alone. The view is a Monet dream: rooftops pierced by spires, the city aglow in the soft blue-pink of dusk. A cool breeze carries the scent of magnolia. I shiver—cold, nerves, I can’t tell. Then footsteps, and Asher’s voice:
“That’s a view.”
I spin. He stands at the rail in a worn leather jacket and black jeans, hair as tousled as ever, as though he’s stepped straight out of a daydream. I want to launch myself at him, but here, with eyes everywhere, we’re still performing. He joins me at the railing, taking in the skyline, then turning to me with that blurred-blue gaze of his.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi.” The word hangs between us, heavy and true.
The pause is deep, not awkward. I’ve never missed someone like this. I laugh softly, then wince at how small it sounds.
He tilts his head. “Did I miss much?”
“Just a lot of people pretending they’re not pretending.”
“That’s Hollywood, Paris, and half my childhood birthdays.”
I smile. “You made it.”
He shrugs, but his eyes say otherwise. “Wouldn’t miss the real show.”
His scent finds me first—cedar and rain-soaked earth. My fingers itch to grab his jacket and pull him through the doorway, but I settle for a whispered, “Welcome to Paris.” When he takes my hand, the city beyond the terrace rail blurs into watercolor.
“We should head inside before you freeze,” he says, noticing my shiver.
“And miss my chance to push you over the edge and claim temporary insanity?” I smile.
One eyebrow lifts. “Imagine the headlines.”
He grins, all quiet assurance, then guides me by the wrist into the party. We pass clusters of glittering guests—French financiers and American columnists flooding their feeds with gossip. Jessie spots us, gives a thumbs-up, and a victorious brow wiggle. Lena, perched on a sofa, is hosting a cellist and a femme in metallic brocade. She raises an imperious salute as we glide by.
