“I have to go,” she added, stopping me from pondering this further. “And so do you. Have a safe flight, Lou. We’ll talk another time, okay?”
My phone beeped and Liza used the distraction to slip away, back to her colleagues.
First, I noticed the Instagram notifications, the dozens of new followers, and more coming while I was checking the app.
There were a few new direct messages, too.
I’d never heard about you before thatDis-Moi Toutstory, one new follower wrote.
What the hell was happening? Still standing outside the restaurant, I tapped on theDis-Moi Toutaccount.
There I was.
Or rather, parts of me. It was a photo taken at the bottom of the steps on premiere night. You could see a lot of my bare legs and only little pieces of silver sequins. That dress really didn’t cover much at all. Just enough to adhere to the festival’s dress code—and their “no nudity requirement”—but no more than that. Mostly, there was Dorian Fisher, his arms around me, his face way closer to mine than I’d remembered.
And then I read the caption.
Dorian Fisher and his new flame hiding in plain sight.
They’re in Cannes, they’re in love, and they don’t care who’s watching. The usually extraprivate Dorian Fisher surprised us all when he arrived two hours early to the premiere ofDon’t Be Sad!And now we know why: he ditched the walk up the stairs with the cast to spend some quality time with his new leading lady. We’re still trying to figure out the mystery woman’s identity as she hasn’t been seen in public with Dorian beyond this hot moment of PDA.
Edited to add: Thank you to our followers who identified the lucky girl! It’s Lou Ocean Utley, a rising actor. Guess we’re going to be hearing alotmore about her now. Stay tuned!
I tried to reread the caption, but so many notifications popped up on my screen that I couldn’t focus.
I’d already paid for my flight home, which was leaving in a few hours.
I was so very broke.
And obviously, I had no business staying in Cannes.
Or maybe I did?
Cannes Film FestivalDay Six
Constance
The call came two excruciating days later. It was Omar, Dorian’s security guy, casually informing me that he would be picking me up in thirtyminutes. I don’t want to know what it says about me that I didn’t ask for more details. My head was never screwed on straight when it came to Dorian Fisher. I craved the attention so much, it emptied me of everything I was.
In the space of an hour, I went from ripping cardboard boxes open with my bare hands on the floor of Marielle’s broom closet to Dorian Fisher’s extravagant Cannes suite. I’d had just enough time to swing by my hotel to change into a black mesh fitted dress. It was slightly sheer and hugged me tight. Not really appropriate for a work meeting. Go ahead, judge me all you like, but I lookedgreatin it. For a man like Dorian Fisher, you would have wanted to look good, too.
Dorian’s suite featured a curved living room opening onto a sprawling terrace. The palette was cream and earth tones, all about that quiet luxury. When I arrived, he was sitting on one of the two long couches, reading what looked like a script. If he knew I was there, he didn’t let it show.
I stood by, not knowing what to do with myself, as I awaited instructions. Omar had disappeared already. A young man—an assistant, probably—was at the dining table, speaking on the phone in a low voice. The doorbell rang and the assistant went to answer the door. It was a representative from Tom Ford, who’d brought with him a rolling rack on which were hung outfit options for tonight’s premiere. As a producer, Dorian was involved in more than one film featured at Cannes this year. As a movie icon, he had an open invitation to attend any premiere he felt like gracing with his presence.
Dorian got up then and greeted us both in the same warm, professional manner. He didn’t introduce us to each other, and even though I was crumbling on the inside, I felt like I had to take charge. Maybe it was a test. I would not fail this time. I would keep it all together.
“Hi, I’m Constance. I’m a stylist.”
It had the benefit of being both neutral and the truth.
“Fred,” the man said. “With Tom Ford.”
Fred was French and in his early thirties. He wore his hair in a buzz cut, and his arrogance like a badge of honor.
We got to work, which mostly involved listening to Fred talk about the pieces he’d brought with him.
“Tom thinks this is very Dorian,” Fred said as he pulled out a ruby-red satin suit from the rack.
