“Fantastic. You won’t regret this.”
“I better not,” I whisper, mostly to myself.
Because I’m not doing it for fame. Not for money. Not even for revenge.
I’m doing it because my daughter has a future I’m going todraginto existence with my bare goddamn hands if I have to.
And if I’ve got to sell the truth of my pain to buy her safety?
So be it.
CHAPTER 22
LIORA
My hand shakes when I sign the damn thing. Not from nerves. From rage, maybe. Or disgust. Or grief that’s decided to move in and make itself comfortable under my skin.
The contract is thick enough to choke a cybelemoth and full of more legalese than a HoloNet scam agreement. I sign every page anyway.
Because the rent’s due. Pepper needs fuel cells for her image inducer. And last week, I almost sold my blood to a black-market biotech lab just to keep the lights on. So yeah, I’ll take the payday. Even if it means letting some sleazy studio exec package my trauma into a popcorn flick.
Planetary Pictures assigns me a driver. Not glamorous. Not discreet. He’s got a ponytail and plays synth-jazz on the ride over like he’s scoring a noir movie in his head. I don’t ask his name. He doesn’t ask mine.
The studio lot looks like a slice of dream gone sour. Glossy towers rising out of forgotten sprawl, all chrome sheen and fake optimism. There’s a giant holo-billboard over the gate with a mockup of the film’s title:THE MAZE: HEART OF REAPERS. Font looks like blood spatter. I want to throw up.
“Here we go,” I mutter as I step out of the hovercar, tugging my coat tighter around my middle.
Inside, the set smells like sawdust, overheating power couplings, and somebody’s lunch from three days ago. The air’s thick with stress and caffeine and the buzz of bad energy.
“LIORA RIN!” a voice bellows, and suddenly there’s a man sprinting toward me in a trench coat made of silver vinyl and a face full of stubble that looks glued on.
“Miles Maximus,” he says, grabbing my hand with both of his like I’m a visiting dignitary instead of a desperate woman with a contract and a child to feed. “Visionary. Auteur. Yourbiggestfan. You’ve made the bravest choice of your life, letting us tell your story. It’s gonna change the galaxy.”
I try to smile. It comes out more like a grimace. “Sure.”
He smells like espresso and energy gum. His eyes are too bright, the kind of bright that means the man hasn’t slept in at least three days. Behind him, a woman with a clipboard and a thousand-yard stare appears like a summoned demon.
“Deb,” she says, not offering a handshake. “Assistant director. Keeper of the chaos. Please don’t die on set. It complicates insurance.”
I actually laugh. Just once. Then the nausea comes back.
“Wardrobe’s through there,” Deb continues, gesturing with her stylus. “Your dressing room’s technically a repurposed storage closet. Don’t lean on the walls. One of them isn’t real.”
I blink. “Noted.”
They lead me past the set for the Maze interior. It looks nothing like the real thing. The lighting’s too clean. The walls are fake-rusted foam, and everything smells like fresh paint and cheap plastic.
And then I meethim.
Kane DeSoto.
Playing Gyon.
He’s built like a gladiator and wearing body armor that looks like it was designed by a committee of horny teenagers. His hair’s dyed silver and slicked back into a warrior-ponytail. He turns to me, grins wide enough to flash caps on every tooth, and says:
“Kane DeSoto is honored to meet the lady of the hour.”
My soul leaves my body.
