He exits the elevator as both he and his swarm of admirers shuffle right by me. He delivers one final grin—calibrated for maximum impact—before raising his hands in that universal gesture of benevolent dismissal. “Alright, folks,” he says, “thank you, but the building can only handle so much star power before the lights blow out.”
I retreat into the now-empty elevator like someone backing away from a wildlife encounter, shaking my head at the surreal theater of celebrity.
Then I remember: Zoe loves this guy. The thought sparks something approaching optimism. Maybe I can redeem myself in her eyes with one decent photo of him.
I fumble for my phone, finger hovering over the camera as the elevator doors begin their slow conspiracy against me. Through the narrowing gap, I aim desperately, trying to capture something, any scrap of proof that might redeem my spectacular failure as an uncle.
The doors are nearly closed when I finally manage to snap a picture. But what appears, captured in my frame, makes my stomach churn.
There, just outside the studio, Petra plants a kiss on Gavin Bradford’s lips. Not a friendly peck. Not a polite European greeting. This is a kiss that suggests they’ve had extensive practice.
The elevator lurches downward, carrying me away from the scene like a stagehand yanking the curtain mid-show. I wait for a hollow drop in my stomach, the familiar thud of disappointment to break my spirit once more.
But something else rises instead, and it feels electric. Almost like optimism. Because speaking with Petra lit me up in a way nothing has in months. And if a kiss with Hollywood’s golden boy is what I’m up against? Fine. At least it means I’m awake again, wanting something badly enough to feel the sting.
Hope is a fragile, fleeting thing, but its current rushes through me now. And for the first time in forever, the future doesn’t feel like a sentence. It feels like a dare.
Now, I think.Where do I find a pair of black ballet slippers?
Chapter Six
The dining room of Noir & Nectar breathes pretension like a waiter’s judging eyes after he asks, “Still or sparkling?” and you respond with “Tap is fine.”
Low lighting catches the edges of crystal glasses while conversations amongst the diners buzz with the careful modulation that begslook at me, but don’t really see me. In the center of it all, Petra Montgomery sits across from Gavin Bradford at a table positioned like a stage which, she’s beginning to realize, is exactly what it is.
Her sleek black dress feels like armor tonight. Wrong kind of armor. The kind that draws attention rather than deflects it. She reaches for bread, her fingers brushing wine glass stems while phones flash not-so-discreetly from neighboring tables.
This is Gavin’s ecosystem. He feeds off it, grows stronger in its dim, artificial light.
“This place is great, isn’t it?” Gavin says as he leans back. “Tough to get a reservation, but you know me. I find a way.”
Petra forces a smile. “You do.”
Her truffle-dusted pappardelle sits untouched, growing cold while the room’s collective gaze grows heavier. She can feel it pressing against her shoulders like an unwelcome coat.
“You know, babe, I’m not really about this kind of thing though,” Gavin gestures vaguely toward the bustling theater around them. “All the flash, the attention. It’s not me.”
Petra’s eyebrow arches. “You’re not about the attention, but yet you always seem to find it.”
His smile could sell toothpaste. Hell, it’s probably sold worse things. “Strictly business. It’s about my brand. Visibility.” He spreads his hands as he indulges himself. “When the new James Bond eats at the hottest restaurant in New York, people talk. They post, and the algorithms get to work. Free publicity. That’s how the game is played.”
Before Petra can untangle the contradiction betweennot being about attentionandplaying the visibility game, a young woman approaches their table, phone clutched like a lifeline.
“Excuse me, but…I’m such a huge fan. Would it be okay if we took a picture?”
His face lights up with the brightness that makes people believe in magic, in goodness, in the possibility that celebrities are just like us but better.
“Of course.” Gavin rises, places a hand on the girl’s shoulder. The iPhone camera flashes.
“Thank you so much!” The girl practically levitates with joy. “You’re amazing! I can’t wait for theBondmovie to come out!”
She scurries back to her table. Gavin settles into his chair, wine glass resuming its position in his hand like he’s picking up a conversation that was never interrupted.
“See?” Ruby liquid swirls lazily. “She’ll post that on Instagram or TikTok or whatever. Now theJames Bondbuzz is alive on her feed. More visibility, more hype for the film.”
Petra forces another smile as she takes a sip of her wine. “It’s convenient, isn’t it? How visibility just finds you.”
“Convenience has nothing to do with it. It’s strategy. You have to create opportunities, Petra. Visibility doesn’t come to people who hide in the shadows.” The comment finds its target. Not a direct hit—more like a paper cut that stings worse than it should. But Petra doesn’t bite.
