“Why not?”
I fight with the seatbelt that’s suddenly too tight and exhale hard. If I don’t tell her where I’m going, I’m in breach of contract. Still, I keep it vague. “I’m heading out of town. Just… taking a break.”
“A break?” she repeats. “This is a terrible time for a break. Is this because of those creepy letters?”
“No. I have someone taking care of that.”
Which is true.
Bizarre fan mail comes with the territory, and I’ve learned not to give it oxygen. But this time was different.
He was in my dressing room. Touching my things. Close enough to?—
I shove the worst of it out of my head.
Gabe insisted I leave town while he dealt with it. No argument. My brother went full protective mode, and for once, I was grateful.
And the timing couldn’t have been better.
“Then what’s the problem?” Myra presses. “You need to come back and work this out. Display a united front with your fiancé.”
United front?
Is she kidding?
A low, humorless snort slips out. “Ex-fiancé.”
“Ex?” A pause. I can practically hear the panic set in. “You can’t mean that.”
“Oh, I absolutely can.”
The distinct click of one long fingernail tapping against her marble desk suddenly stops. “Detaching yourself from Pierce Maddox is not your best move, Ava.”
“Isn’t it?” I lower my voice. “When the man I’m publicly attached to shoves his dick down another woman’s throat in a viral, ten-million-downloads-later kind of way, consider me detached.”
She exhales in that impatient yet controlled way she’s mastered. Then she levels me with, “It’s a bad time to go gallivanting off while your career is circling the drain.”
I shut my eyes. She’s not wrong.
“Do you or do you not want the role of Princess Luna?”
My brain hiccups. It’s the role every top-tier actress is gunning for. The one I’d already crossed off because, frankly, my chances of winning the lotto were higher.
And I’m still paying dues. And I’ve paid plenty. Just not enough. Not yet.
Still… Myra doesn’t dangle carrots she can’t deliver.
I need more details. “What do you mean?”
“A certain someone,” Myra says coolly, “who shall remain nameless, may have overindulged in vodka and pills and is currently enjoying a very… controlled and discreet situation.”
I blink. “Are you telling me Brookie Hale is in rehab. Or jail?”
“I never said she was in rehab,” she snaps. “Those words did not leave my mouth. And spreading gossip about an A-lister is unconscionable.” Then, without missing a beat, “But if she overdosed, her engagement to a certain NFL quarterback may be over.”
Whispering, I press the phone to my ear. “Ty is leaving her? What a shithead. He can’t just abandon her when she needs him most.”
Myra exhales softly into the line. “Grow up, Ava. This is reality. Not a fairytale. Eight-figure endorsement deals were tied up on both sides. They evaporated the second insurance flagged her as high risk.”
