He sat with one ankle resting casually on his knee, hands folded in his lap. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to just below the elbow, showing tanned arms. No jewelry, no overstyled flair, just a classic leather wristwatch.
He could have been a teacher or a colleague at her job if not for his movie star looks. It was impossible not to stare at him, the way the eye is automatically drawn to something beautiful.
“So, Darren,” the moderator finally said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve played a character that walks a thin line between antihero and pure villain...”
Someone in the crowd screamedSebastian Valeat the top of their lungs, and a ripple of laughter went through the hall.
“Right, thank you,” the moderator said, before turning back to Darren. “Kael has clearly become a fan favorite. Why do you think people respond to him the way they do?”
Emma felt herself leaning forward for the first time, warmth spreading low in her stomach. There were hundreds of people between them, yet when he spoke, she had the strangest sensation that he was talking directly to her.
Then again, it was entirely possible that every single person in the room felt the same. Darren seemed to have that effect on people.
He folded his arms on the table. “Well, people aren’t black and white,” he said smoothly. “They break. They bleed. They make awful choices for good reasons. Or good choices for awful reasons. And Kael...he makes people wonder what they’d do in his place. That’s uncomfortable. But also kind of intriguing.”
The audience cheered, but Emma caught herself frowning as he finished. There was a subtle...distance in the way he spoke. Something that just didn’t sit quite right. He wore an easy smile, magnified on the giant screens, but that dark gleam in his eyes—the one she’d been all tingly about getting to see in real life—was missing.
She was probably reading too much into it. Projecting, because she herself wasn’t a fan of the show.
The next question went to the showrunner, and Darren’s face was replaced on the screen. Emma sat back again, listening only with half an ear. But every time Darren looked out over the crowd, a quiet current ran through her.
Absurd, really. He couldn’t possibly see her through the spotlights, through the sea of faces. But her body just didn’t listen to reason when it came to him.
So she let it happen—absorbing the dizzying fact that she was in the same physical space as Darren Cole and allowing herself to fangirl just a little.
Chapter 8
Strong-armed meet-cutes and literal sparkles.
The rooftop bar glowed like a film set.
Golden hour painted the sky rose and amber, casting a soft light over the high-top cocktail tables scattered across the terrace. Fairy lights twinkled overhead, strung from pergolas, and a low hum of ambient music threaded beneath voices and laughter.
Emma stood near the edge of the crowd, prosecco in one hand, the other tightly wrapped around her clutch. This day felt like three crammed into one—had it really been this morning she was on a flight from Minneapolis?
Despite scrubbing thoroughly in the shower, she kept finding tiny flecks of silver on her skin. Occupational hazard of judging cosplay contests, apparently.
An unapologetically retro Edward Cullen had hurled glitter at the judges’ table, yelling “Glitterpires!”like a deranged performance artist.
Emma had given him the lowest possible score.
The glitter was just another thing making her feel self-conscious. Not that she needed help in that department.
The dark blue pencil dress she’d chosen was her most reliable work-dinner outfit. Elegant, discreet, a perfect choice for all occasions.
Except here, everyone was either completely casual or more edgy, making her sober outfit stand out by sheer blandness. Emma felt like an accountant who had wandered in by mistake.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to loosen. This wasn’t a war zone. It was a party.
A party full of stunning, confident people who looked like they were born into it—laughing, orbiting each other, forming little constellations that Emma had no idea how to approach. Like stumbling into a Hollywood Narnia.
It wasn’t that she was shy, not really. Just...unequipped. Whatever gene made people glide effortlessly into conversation, hers must’ve mutated into observation instead. Initiating small talk with strangers was a special kind of torture all on its own—and with this type of crowd? Like being thrown into the deep end of the pool when she’d barely graduated from floaties.
She scanned the roof for someone even remotely approachable. Nothing. Everyone was already locked deep in conversation, half of them famous enough that she wouldn’t have dared, anyway.
Well then, Plan B. She took out her phone, pretending to check an urgent message rather than scrolling Instagram. She’d already dealt with most of her work emails while Leah was in the shower, aside from a few more complex ones she’d have to do tomorrow. Miranda’s email, she’d conveniently decided to forget about.
“I thought I told you to mingle.”
