Again.
Damn it!
His brows raised in polite confusion. For a moment, she just stared at the megastar, perplexed. Then she blinked, veering off abruptly in a different direction.
“Sorry, Keanu,” she muttered, her face blazing.
She kept moving.
On her third sweep past the main green room, she caught a familiar silhouette—sleek black hair, a catsuit clinging to every line. Darren’s co-star. Indira...something.
Emma swallowed, steadying herself. Good. At least she knew he’d be here. Now she just had to wait.
She slipped inside and grabbed a coffee from the machine, clutching it like a prop. Phone in hand, she pretended to scroll, glancing at the doorway every few seconds. Soon, the show’s comic relief wandered in too, wearing a lilac unicorn sweatshirt that belonged on a four-year-old.
Fifteen minutes left. Darren could appear at any second. The anticipation was unbearable—like gripping a live wire.
Finally, with only five minutes to go, the lead actor strode in, sunglasses perched on his head. Emma’s skin had gone clammy, fingers stiff around her phone. Darren had to be right behind him.
The three stars formed their own small epicenter, laughing and bantering, handlers circling.
But there was no sign of Darren. No Max. No Sienna.
Panic surged, hot and instant. She jumped to her feet and crossed the room before she could think better of it.
“Indira.”
The trio turned. A few of the handlers, too, brows knitted in warning. Emma ignored them. She was running on too much adrenaline to feel self-conscious.
Indira’s eyes narrowed, recognition flickering. “It’s you, isn’t it? The writer.”
Emma nodded, jaw tense.
“I’ll catch up,” Indira told her costars. They exchanged a look Emma was too wound up to interpret.
“Do you know where Darren is?” she asked, the words tumbling out. “I was hoping to catch him.”
Awkwardness crossed Indira’s face. “Oh, darling. Darren’s not coming. He canceled this morning—said he wasn’t feeling well. He’s already on his way back to London.”
Emma’s stomach clenched so violently she thought she might be sick.
“He’s gone?” The words scraped out of her throat.
Indira gave a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.” She tilted her head gently. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen his eyes light up the way they did when he talked about you.”
She touched Emma’s arm, her hand cool and brief, before slipping away.
The ground dropped out beneath her.
Too late. All the tenuous strength she’d gathered—wasted. He was gone.
She should have told him right after the photo leaked. Told him she trusted him—because she did. She knew it in her bones.
The rest had just been her insecurities talking—too scared, too quick to believe it couldn’t be real. Even when her gut had screamed the truth from the start. From the first time she’d heard her own name in his voice.
Ithadbeen real.
And now she’d lost it.
