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“Watch out, here comes the diva,” Sophie warns, dazzling in her gold sequined dress.
Grace Montgomery basks in her fifteen minutes of fame on the red carpet, then leaves the crowd to join the other actors in the VIP viewing boxes reserved for them.
More discreetly, the director and his team pass quickly in front of the cameras and make their way inside.
Kate Monroe arrives shortly before 8 p.m., on her husband’s arm, in a breathtaking Gucci dress. My boss is radiant. When she spots me, she gives a knowing wink, as if to say “You see? I was right to torture you all!”
Tyrant.
A few minutes before the show is about to begin, Vadim King makes an entrance that turns every head. He steps out of his car in a designer suit, a confident smile on his lips, his piercing gaze facing the flashes as if he had been doing this his entire life.
The man of the hour walks around the vehicle, then opens the passenger door. May Sim emerges, draped in a mesmerizing, flowing designer gown. Whispers erupt within the crowd. The “it couple” has just stolen the spotlight from the Hollywood stars, no less.
When they reach the red carpet, the two VIPs stop to pose for the photographers. The beautiful May nestles in my lover’s arms and whispers a few words in his ear—enough to spark curiosity, to make people believe in their supposed intimacy.
I look away.
The little charade comes to an end, and the fake couple makes their way into Europe’s largest movie theater, one after the other. Before he disappears from view, Vadim turns around for a moment, his gaze locking with mine. I’m hurting, and it doesn’t escape his attention. Only a few steps away, he gives me a sincere smile that almost reassures me.
He knows.
Knows that seeing him with her is torture for me. That it should be me on his arm.
***
Seated in the second row, between Sophie and Clarence, I watch as the lead actors come on stage and do their interviews. When the actual movie screening begins, I’m having a hell of a time concentrating, but in the theater, all eyes are glued to the screen. The audience holds its breath. Hangs on every moment. Tries to separate truth from illusion. When the final scene plays out, no one expects the twist. The credits roll, and the spectators leave the venue with smiles on their faces.
I should feel proud and relieved, should take a moment to recognize how far we’ve come and what it took to create such a success story, but my mind is elsewhere.
I go looking for Vadim, weaving my way through champagne flutes and batting away the congratulations people offer me as I pass. I finally spot him in the large reception hall, deep in discussion with the director. The brunette is still sticking to him like glue.
A hand rests on my shoulder. I turn around and almost bump into Lena Belle, a journalist and influencer with millions of followers. She signals to her cameraman to start filming and begins by complimenting my outfit. Then, the conversation takes a dangerous turn. I soon realize the young woman isn’t really here to talk about the movie.
“Can I call you Alma?”
“That’s my name.”
“As director of the French subsidiary, you work closely with Mr. King every day. In just a few months, he’s become the talk of the town. So, we’re dying to know: what’s he really like as a person?”
“Deputy director,” I clarify. “And our relationship is strictly professional. We work together.” I force myself to smile, despite the unease rising within me.
“I feel like I’m going to have to work hard to get anything out of you.”
“Ask me questions about the movie, and I promise I’ll be forthcoming!”
“Okay, let’s do that. Grace Montgomery makes a brief appearance in Pretty Little Murders. What do you think of her performance?”
“It’s excellent, but I should be asking you that question. I’m afraid I might not be very objective.”
“You want my opinion? I think she joined the cast because of her relationship with Vadim King.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. You’ll have to ask him.”
My jaw hurts from smiling so much.
“Can we conclude that May Sim will star in the next movie produced by King Productions?”
“Next question?”