“America’s sweetheart probably needs a taste of something stronger than vanilla rom-coms,” I drawl.
Mari looks at me over her Chanel sunglasses. “Dante, you absolute devil. Some of us actually admire her work.”
“Maybe I’ll give her a cultural exchange. My world of champagne and scandal for her world of sweet tea and southern charm.”
“Sources say she’s still mourning her fling with Jaxon Elio,” Susan says.
“I saw an early showing ofLove and Loathing, and they were marvelous together,” Mei chimes in. “But if those rumors are true, you could show her that nothing cures heartbreak like a fling with a bad boy.”
“I told you, not my type,” I lie.
Susan tucks her notebook away and loosens her shoulders. “Well, I hear that filming is happening around Redwood National Park later this month through late November.”
“It’s an undisclosed location,” I tsk.
“Can’t you fill me in a little? I’m dying for a good scoop.”
“You are always so well-researched, Susan,” is all I say, confirming her suspicions. “Though all of this stays between us. Off the record, of course.”
I laugh softly, masking the unfamiliar tension in my gut at the thought of the Los Angeles table read next week.
Acting feels like a half-forgotten language—something I haven’t touched since Princeton theater, and now here I am, opposite big stars like Reese Sinclair.
No sweat.
I’ll walk in there, let my natural charm do its work, and show them exactly why they made the right call.
“This is why we keep you around, darling! You’re our dealer of delicious scandal and fun.”
Mei’s words hit like cheap vodka. Bitter and hollow. At times, it feels as if they toast to my failures like they’re collecting fine art, but no one has asked how it feels to watch your Olympic dreams shatter.
It’s why I don’t get too close to any of them.
Don’t let them see all of me.
My entourage of trust-fund babies and professional party-crashers. Everything’s been handed to them on monogrammed silver—their names etched in privilege.
But me? Every medal, every victory was carved from raw talent and brutal determination. I had to prove I was more than another rich boy playing with swords.
I push the thoughts away.
“I never get this enthusiasm for my movies,” Mari pouts.
“Cast Reese Sinclair, and I’ll wear Harry Winston to opening night.” Mei shoots her an air kiss.
“After it wraps, you must introduce us, Dante. I’d kill to work with her.”
“Add it to your tab of favors, darling. Along with borrowing my yacht for the rest of the summer.” I wink.
“Yes, yes.” Mari dismisses me.
The rest of the conversation swells like the waves against the hull. But I can’t listen to it for much longer. “Another round for my beautiful people?”
Catching my reflection on the polished bar surface stops me short. The man staring back at me isn’t the one who stood atop that Olympic podium. My eyes hold shadows that no amount of Mediterranean sun can chase away. I adjust my tousled hair and drain my glass.
One year.
Just one year of playing the reformed fencing bad boy before I can return to the piste where I truly belong—where the roar of the crowd means something real.
