"Some people are now questioning whether your relationship with Grant influenced the studio's decision to buySurvivor. There's talk about whether a first-time producer with a personal connection to?—"
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "The film is already shot. We're in post. It's done."
"I know. And the first cuts look amazing. But Soph…" Blair leans forward. "This is about future projects, too. You don't want to be labeled as a 'conflict of interest' hire."
I'm not sure what she's suggesting, exactly. If it's to break off whatever this is with Grant, I'm not sure that's going to be an issue anymore. The irony of this whole thing makes me laugh. I spent months, maybe even a year, fighting my feelings for Grant because I didn't want our relationship to affect my career. But it looks like it's going to anyway.
"We've had some interesting inquiries," Blair continues carefully. "That period piece shooting in London. The Netflix series filming in Vancouver. Both solid projects, both far from LA."
My throat tightens. "You think I should leave?" That's not what I was expecting at all.
"I think you should consider your options." Her voice softens. "Have you talked to Grant about any of this?"
The laugh that escapes me is hollow. "Grant's barely talked to me in two weeks. Besides…" I twist my napkin, remembering the way he talked about those paparazzi outside Hazel's school like they were a physical threat he needed to eliminate. "He's got enough to deal with."
"Sophia—"
"Start looking into the other projects." The words feel like giving up, but maybe that's what I need to do. "Quietly. We don't need to make any decisions yet, but…let's see what's out there."
Last night, I made one last attempt to return to some sense of normalcy between us. I invited him and Hazel to dinner tonight. My house is finally ready—new floors, fresh paint, and a kitchen that doesn't smell like flood damage. Maybe he will see that we can still work. I spent this morning arranging Hazel's favorite mac and cheese ingredients on thecounter, setting out the art supplies I bought her last week. A pathetic attempt at normalcy, maybe, but I had to try one last time.
My phone lights up with a text from Grant.
GRANT
Rain check on dinner? Some of the board members want to meet.
The words blur as I stare at them. I type and delete three responses before settling on a simple reply
ME
No problem.
Professional. Polite. Empty.
My finger scrolls up to the carefully composed invitation I sent last night.
ME
House is finally fixed. Thought Hazel might want to help break in the new kitchen? Dinner at 6?
Such casual words, each one agonized over, trying to sound breezy while extending an olive branch. Now the mac and cheese ingredients will only mock me from their perfect arrangement on the counter, and the art supplies will sit unopened, waiting for a six-year-old's imagination that won't be exploring them tonight.
The truth settles like cement in my stomach. Grant isn't just creating distance—he's erasing us completely. Therealization should probably hurt more than it does, but after two weeks of polite deflections and closed doors, maybe I'm running out of ways to be hurt. Or maybe I just finally understand that I've been refusing to see that whatever we were becoming, whatever I thought we might be, clearly meant something very different to him than it did to me.
Outside the restaurant, cameras start flashing before I've taken two steps. The questions come rapid-fire.
"Sophia! Is it true you're leaving LA?"
How do they even know this stuff? I just talked about it with Blair.
"Are you and Grant splitting up?"
"How does Geneva feel about your relationship with her daughter?"
"Is the studio pushing you out?"
I keep my head down as I rush to my car, but one question cuts through the chaos.
