Nothing to distract her from the thing that kept dragging her attention back. Across the room, two flat screens showed the panel stage from different angles. Four empty chairs in a wide semicircle. The Comic-Con eye on the backdrop glaring at her, multiplied a hundred times over.
And then there was the countdown clock at the bottom of the screens, which ticked relentlessly down. Fifteen minutes. Still no other panelists in sight. And where the hell was Leah?
She’d stepped out five minutes ago to take a call with a focused frown and a finger lifted in a wordless promise that she’d be rightback. Emma had almost asked her to call them back later—she really could have used the company.
Pride stopped her. She was supposed to be a professional, and Leah was a busy woman. It was probably someone from her firm needing advice on a Leah-grade crisis. Or maybe Kay Bellamy, ready to sign on as the new star client of Leah Davies PR.
Kay Bellamy—sharp, untouchable, always looking mildly unconvinced the world deserved her. Maybe it would be a nice change for Leah to manage someone with that kind of confidence.
Emma bit the inside of her cheek, forcing the thought away. Comparing herself to Kay Bellamy was the last thing she needed right now. She stood up abruptly and crossed to the snack table, grabbing a bag of M&M’s and squeezing it like a stress ball.
How hard could it really be? It was just a quick conversation, about a topic she really cared about.
Aside from the tiny detail that she’d be talking to strangers in front of a thousand-person audience.
And that was if the other panelists even bothered to show up. Aside from staffers darting back and forth, the only other person in the room was the moderator—Karen something, an entertainment journalist. She’d greeted Emma with overwhelming excitement, then immediately retreated to a corner to mutter over her speaker’s cards.
It felt grossly unfair that the moderator got to have notes while the actual panelists were expected to just wing it and still be clever, funny, and charming.
Someone entered the room. Emma spun too fast, but it wasn’t Leah. Jenna Vexley strolled in languidly, like she was practicing her dramatic entrance for the actual stage.
She was impossible not to recognize: latex corset, hair like a flame over her shoulders, sunglasses indoors. She looked as if an avant-garde fashion designer had sculpted her.
For a moment, Emma caught herself genuinely fascinated, wondering what Jenna looked like first thing in the morning and whether she even owned a pair of sweatpants.
Jenna didn’t glance around. She headed straight for a chair in the center of the room, sat down, and pulled a tiny glass bottle of green juice from her purse.
Might as well get it over with.
Emma forced herself forward.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Emma Whitehart. I look forward to the panel.”
She didn’t offer her hand. Jenna didn’t seem like the type, and Emma wasn’t particularly keen on presenting her clammy palm, anyway.
Jenna tilted her head and gave her a once-over—slow and coolly curious.
“The writer?” she finally asked.
A redundant question, given that the other panelist was a male actor built like a cyborg, but Emma nodded.
“Thought so.” She uncapped the juice, slipped in a black metal straw, and took a sip through crimson lips.
“Someone gave me your book. I skimmed it.”
Nothing else. Emma’s brow furrowed. “Thank you?”
Jenna shrugged, nose crinkling under her sunglasses. “Not really my thing. Too, like, wholesome, you know what I mean?” The words were whispered like gossip, as if they were talking about someone else entirely.
“Right.” Emma couldn’t tell if Jenna was being dismissive on purpose or if she was just truly eccentric. “Well, I haven’t seen your movie,” she said dryly, “but I’m sure Shakespeare would have been proud.”
Jenna looked at her properly for the first time. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses, but her pale face seemed completely sincere. “Oh, he would.”
With that, she immersed herself in her phone, scrolling while humming under her breath.
“Okay,” Emma mouthed to no one, retreating to her chair. Why did the weird ones always seem so damn sure of themselves?
Everything about this panel was starting to feel like a terrible idea.
