I'm moving before I consciously decide to. We meet in the middle of the lobby, and her arms come around me with enough force to nearly knock my clutch from my hand.
I hold on just as tightly.
Her scent is unchanged. Vanilla and something floral beneath it. The familiar scent of my oldest friend. For a moment, I'meighteen again, sharing a too-small apartment and dreaming about careers neither of us had built yet.
“You’re crushing me,” I murmur into her shoulder.
“Good.” She squeezes harder. “You deserve to be crushed. Look at you. You’re glowing. It’s disgusting.”
I laugh against her dress. When I pull back, her eyes are bright. She isn't crying—Nadia never cries in public—but something soft crosses her face before she tucks it away behind her usual composure.
“Thank you,” I say. “For all of it. You know what I mean.”
She waves a hand. “Please. I did the bare minimum. I showed up and repeated obvious things until you finally started believing them. Any friend would have done the same.”
“Maybe.” I smile. “But you're more than a friend.”
Her expression softens. “Well, we're related in every way but blood,” she says.
“Exactly.”
She points at me. “Don't make this emotional in a theater lobby.”
I smile at that.
Over her shoulder, I catch movement.
An alpha I recognize from the supporting cast is standing near the bar, his attention fixed on Nadia with an intensity that feels familiar in a way it wouldn't have two months ago. Every time she shifts position, his eyes follow. Every time she laughs,something in his expression softens by a fraction I doubt anyone else would notice.
I notice.
A few months ago, I wouldn't have.
“Nadia,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “The guy by the bar. Third supporting role. The one who plays the brother. He's been watching you since you walked in.”
She doesn't turn. Doesn't even glance in that direction. “I have no idea who you're talking about.”
“Sure, you don't.”
“He's probably looking at my dress. It's very nice.”
“He's not looking at your dress.”
She presses her lips together and changes the subject with all the subtlety of a freight train. “Are you nervous?” she asks. “About the carpet?”
I let her have the escape route. “Terrified.”
“Good. You should be. Everyone's going to be looking at you.”
“That's what I'm afraid of.”
She takes my hands and holds them at arm’s length, her expression shifting into something more serious than her premiere persona usually allows. “Listen to me. They will look at you because you are standing next to three of the most sought-after alphas in the industry, you are wearing a dress that cost more than my car, and you have bond marks on your throatthat literally everyone can see. But they will also look at you because your name is in the credits of this film as the person who kept the entire production from collapsing, and because in approximately forty-eight hours you will walk onto another set as the most competent coordinator any of them have ever worked with, and because you, Maya Collins, are exactly where you belong.”
My throat closes. I squeeze her hands once, hard, and she squeezes back.
Then the headset woman returns, and the moment breaks. “Ms. Collins, they’re starting the walk. You’re with Mr. Wells, Mr. Kane, and Mr. Stone in the second group.”
I nod. Nadia releases my hands and steps back, already shifting into her public face. “Go be famous,” she says. “I’ll find you inside.”
