It had also earned him a famously unhinged fandom—the Coleheads—who loudly campaigned for him to play every dark, alluring villain that ever came close to a screen.
Including Lucen.
Emma let the loop play again, feeling pleasantly dazed.
It wasn’t just his appearance, though he looked like he’d been designed by an overzealous god. Beyond his looks, it was the way he moved that got her. All coiled danger and casual grace.
And those eyes . . .
Uncannily close to what she’d written. What she’d imagined. What had kept her going those nights when every sentence fought her and she nearly set the script on fire.
She tapped through to the comments, stifling a chuckle at the screaming all-caps hysteria.
just GIVE HIM THE ROLE ALREADY
@netflix make this happen or we’re coming for you WE ARE LEGION
emma whitehart sweetie i know u based lucen on him don’t lie
The phone buzzed in her hand with a message from Leah. Her PR manager was already here, flown in from New York the day before.
Lobby’s full of influencer wannabes. About to whack someone with their own selfie stick. Come find me. Also, we got upgraded, don’t freak.
Emma gave a low huff. Upgraded? They were already staying at the most exclusive hotel she’d ever set foot in. She’d have been happy with a shoebox, let alone the comfortable double they had booked. But this was Leah—and Leah had her ways.
The ways of a bulldozer on steroids, essentially, but with flair and designer sunglasses.
The cab pulled up in front of the US Grant. It was a massive, humbling structure, all gilded accents and towering columns. A bellhop opened the door for her as soon as the car rolled to a stop.
“I’ll take it,” she said quickly when he retrieved her carry-on from the trunk. Probably breaking at least three unspoken luxury hotel rules in the process, but she preferred it this way. Doing things herself was usually neater.
Emma stepped inside, glancing up. The lobby stretched like a football field—if football fields had coffered ceilings and crystal chandeliers.
Despite its size, the place bustled like a human jungle: noise, bodies, and an impressive number of people in costume. Blazer-clad travelers scowled at a pair of kids dressed as Loki and Thor, who were loudly chasing each other between the pillars. An agitated Rapunzel was scolding a patient-looking hotel clerk. A Darth Vader apologized politely as he shoulder-checked her.
Emma stumbled through the chaos, luggage trailing behind her, feeling lost and lightheaded.
And then she saw Leah.
She was leaning against the check-in desk as if she owned the building, her thick auburn hair swept into a sleek ponytail. The tight one-shoulder top she wore lent her the aura of a modern Greek goddess.
Emma’s face lit up, her steps growing lighter as she crossed the last stretch.
Leah had a rare, mysterious talent for making everything feel like it was probably going to be fine. Like if the world tipped sideways, she’d bark it back into place with a well-placed glare and a killer outfit.
She turned as Emma approached, spreading her arms like a circus ringmaster, an iced coffee in each hand.
“There she is. Welcome to Comic-Con, Whitehart.”
Chapter 3
Tiny white lies are the key to first-class treatment.
Emma pulled her PR manager into a hug, sending the coffee sloshing. She ignored Leah’s grumbled protest to watch the clothes, grateful down to her bones to have her there. For someone she’d only met six months ago, Leah had quickly become one of the most important people in her life.
“Oh my god, Leah, this is insane,” she said, pulling back. “Please tell me we’re not sharing with five stormtroopers and a Hulk.”
Leah grinned, handing her a coffee. “Nope. We’ve got our own suite. Top floor. Just one king bed though, so if you snore, you’re sleeping in the bathtub.”
