one
. . .
Sophia
Twenty minutes until showtime,and my bladder picks now to revolt. As I shift from one stiletto-clad foot to the other, the distant hum of voices filters in from the red carpet leading into the Dolby Theatre, home to the Oscars. The afternoon sun casts long shadows on the pavement, its warmth doing little to ease the anticipation coursing through me. Nearby, a cluster of assistants and security personnel mill about, their movements purposeful yet unhurried, creating a strange calm before the storm.
My silky pale blue Prada dress slides beneath my palms as I smooth out invisible creases. The dress is a work of art, hugging every curve exactly how my stylist promised, guaranteed to land on tomorrow's best-dressed lists. But the back view nags at my brain. Those pleats better behave for the cameras, and that seam along my hip? Definitely pulling a millimeter tighter than at this morning's final fitting. My stomach flips, partly from that cleanse—which, for therecord, absolutely works—but mostly from those persistent butterflies that crash every red carpet like uninvited paparazzi.
My hands clasp in front, and I take in the surrounding scene. The glaring lights, the fake smiles, the strangers who'll dissect every choice—the dress, the makeup, the precise angle of hair falling over my shoulder—it's all familiar territory. My body has starred in countless tabloid headlines and sparked endless online speculation.
A flash catches my eye—some early photographer testing their settings. The unspoken rules of the red carpet play through my head—chin down, shoulders back, smile bright but not too bright. My stylist's voice echoes in my thoughts,"Channel Grace Kelly, not Real Housewife."
"You're on in two minutes," crackles through a nearby radio, and my pulse skips into double time. The deep V of my dress needs a quick adjustment to keep the girls in check, and my heels click against the hard cement as I step forward. Wyatt catches my eye and wanders toward me, his hands stuffed in his pockets, wearing that signature big brother grin that's gotten me through every awards show since I was twelve. I'm up next, and the spotlight—with all its blinding expectations—awaits.
"I'll meet you at the end of the press line," Wyatt says.
"Tell Blair I'm going to need her help after this," I say.
Wyatt leans in for a hug, his grin easy. "Will do. Break a leg, Soph." He plants a quick peck on my cheek before stepping away.
At the same time, I notice Grant Hall at the edge of the staging area, his presence as commanding as the rumors suggest. My toes tingle—blame it on these ridiculous heels oron the way the head of Wonderland Studios carries himself with such effortless authority. He's close enough that I could count the silver strands at his temples if I weren't pretending not to notice him at all.
The pre-carpet shuffle drags on. I exchange air kisses with familiar faces, nod at publicists, and trade industry small talk with line monitors. It's the unglamorous intermission before the main show—the partE! Newsdoesn't broadcast. Last year, I walked this carpet as a surprise nominee, bright-eyed and clueless. Tonight? Tonight, I'm returning as a winner, and suddenly, every detail matters more.
Funny how fast things change. One Oscar win can transform you from "that girl from the kids' network" to someone whose every expression might land on tomorrow'sTMZ. The pressure sits differently now. Each twist and turn needs to be calculated, each step precise. Glide, don't stomp. Keep the face serene, the eyes forward. God forbid I react to anything—Twitter would explode.
A production assistant appears with a mirror for one last check. The routine highlights the absurd double standard of it all. In about two minutes, male directors will field questions about their artistic vision while I'll be asked to name-drop designers and show off my shoes. But that's a battle for another day. Right now, it's showtime.
The red velvet path stretches before me, a gauntlet of flashing lights and shouted demands.
"Sophia, over here!"
"Give us a twirl!"
"Who are you wearing?"
At least the Oscars try to keep it civilized—smile, pose,move on. The real circus waits in those cordoned-off interview hubs at the end of the line.
I shift into my signature over-the-shoulder pose as Grant steps onto the carpet behind me. Even with the careful spacing between celebrities, his presence fills the air. His black tux fits like a dream, all broad shoulders and lean lines, catching the light with each movement. The mix of chestnut and silver in his perfectly styled hair only adds to that effortless polish. Behind sleek black-framed glasses, his warm brown eyes survey the scene with practiced ease. He radiates old Hollywood charm—the genuine kind, not the manufactured version this town mass produces.
His breath hits my neck before his voice does.
"You look incredible."
His scent engulfs me—crisp and clean, with notes of coffee—and suddenly, these practiced poses feel a lot less steady. I pray my smile doesn't broadcast the embarrassingly massive crush I've been nursing since Blair introduced us at thePink Slippremiere last year. That night, Grant had completely shocked me. Most executives see right past you, already scanning the room for someone more important. But Grant? He'd locked in like I was the only person worth talking to, asking about everything from my childhood roles to my favorite books.
Over the past year, I've collected little moments that prove he's the real deal. He remembers every crew member's name and actually listens when they stop to talk to him. As long as his schedule allows, he'll take a meeting with anyone, not just the top elite. Those small kindnesses aren't for show. Now he's bought my first producing project, and we startfilming next week. Dreams really do come true in LA sometimes.
"Want to do a few interviews together tonight? We could tease your new project," he whispers, still close enough that I'm sure the photographers are having a field day.
"Sure, if you think Lucas would be ok with that?"
Lucas, Wonderland's PR mastermind, runs a tight ship when it comes to press strategy, though with his model looks and athletic build, he could easily be in front of the cameras instead of managing the narrative behind them.
"He'll be fine. We can stick to our excitement about working together." Grant pauses and then adds softly, "Do you mind if I put my arm around your waist?"
The unexpected thoughtfulness makes my chest warm.
