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“Cassie, no.”

“You said it yourself. There isn’t a cover story in the world that Heath Diehl won’t pick apart.” At least she was looking at him in the eye now. “This won’t be a lie. It won’t be something that makes them wonder if they’re being fooled. This’ll be real. Visibly, undeniably real.”

She was right. He hated that she was right.

He shook his head. “I don’t like this.”

“Believe me, I don’t either.” She paused. “Once it starts, I won’t be able to stop it even if I want to. You need to be ready to talk this up and get us out.”

That felt like zero compared to what she’d be going through. He’d do anything to reverse the roles, but that wasn’t an option.

“I’ll be ready.”

He could tell the exact minute she decided to let the spiral have her. She didn’t give him any warning, but what was she going to do, count it down?

They were in the common area. Arlo was at the kitchen counter nursing a beer, winding down from whatever he’d been doing all night. Heath was in the armchair on the far side of the room with his phone, doing whatever Heath did. Two of the crew were still up too, one scrolling his phone on the couch across from Cassandra, the other leaning against the counter near Arlo.

She’d been staring at the floor. Then she lifted her chin and looked at the man nearest to her.

Her eyes locked on him and stayed there. No flinch, no redirect to the floor.

The man didn’t notice. Nobody noticed. At this point, they were used to ignoring her.

Ryder was grabbing a beer he didn’t want, and he saw every second of it.

Her gaze shifted to Heath. She watched him without blinking, and her breathing changed. He could see her chest moving faster from across the room. Her hands tightened in her lap, and her posture shifted from stillness into rigidity.

Another crew member walked through her line of sight, and her head pivoted like a puppet on a string. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

She was trapped in it now. Unless he went over there and physically stopped this, she was going to cascade until she lost control of her own body.

She was already white-knuckling the edge of the couch. The color was draining from her face, and he was standing here holding a goddamn beer, watching it happen.

He didn’t move.

He wanted to. Wanted to stop this before it went any further. He could already see the price she was going to pay, and it had been less than a minute.

But that was the plan. He was supposed to let it build. Let the room get uncomfortable before he said a word. The Diehls had to want them gone.

He ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached, but he forced himself to look away.

When he glanced back a couple minutes later, she’d gotten visibly worse. The guy on the couch across from her looked up from his phone. Looked at her and found her staring at him. Looked away.

She was pale and trembling, and sweat was running down her temples. Fuckface didn’t know what he was seeing, but he didn’t like it. He got up and moved to the other side of the room.

Arlo noticed. He set his beer down and leaned forward on the counter, squinting toward the couch. “Hey. Your pet all right?”

Ryder glanced over like he hadn’t been watching. Like the sound of her breathing getting more and more labored hadn’t been pulling him apart for the last three minutes. “Holy shit. No, it doesn’t look like it.”

She tried to stand. Made it halfway and her hand shot out for the arm of the couch, missed, and she went sideways. She caught herself on her knees, and the sound she made—low, involuntary, animal—stopped every conversation in the room.

This was not acting. Nobody on earth could be this good at acting.

Then she vomited on the floor.

Not a polite turn-to-the-side. She was on her hands and knees and her whole body convulsed, and it came up hard, hitting the hardwood and the leg of the coffee table and the edge of the rug. Every man in the room stepped back instinctively.

“What the fuck—” Arlo straightened up behind the counter. “What the hell is wrong with her?”