She knew her cousin, even if her cousin knew next to nothing about her.
She wrapped her arms around her middle in a futile attempt at self-comfort, even as a hush fell over the enormous, packed hall. Her knees watery, she dropped back into her seat and curled in on herself, hiding the tears that glazed her vision.
Alex had incinerated his career. Because of her.
Two decades of such hard, hard labor and dedication; all those endless days he’d had to show up on set and harness his towering energy in service to work he loved, even if he didn’t always love his scripts; the reputation he’d painstakingly built … he’d tossed all of it away.
For her.
She didn’t think she’d ever felt so small before. So racked by shame. To have been the means by which Alex got hurt wasunbearable.
He was done.
And maybe it shouldn’t matter, compared to the flaming shreds of Alex’s reputation, buttheywere done too, she and Alex and whatever they’d had together. Because there was no way Ron wasn’t firing her. Within minutes, most likely.
Alex was still speaking, still setting his professional reputation ablaze, even as she covered her face with both hands, bowed her head, and tried not to let her tears fall.
“Those stories will also give you some insight into my feelings about the show in general,” he informed the audience, all razor-edged good cheer. “Also, fair warning: Cupid gets pegged in my fics. Delightedly and often. It’s not great literature, but it’s still better than some of this season’s—”
He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to.
Everyone knew what word he’d playfully omitted:scripts.
“Well, never mind about that,” he said, and she couldhearthe smirk in his voice.
She huddled tighter in her chair, because he’d ensured there was no way to misinterpret what he’d said, no spin that could explain away or disguise his loathing of his employers. The power brokers in Hollywood wouldn’t forgive such open disloyalty. She knew almost nothing about the entertainment industry, but even she understood that.
There was a moment of silence, and she was afraid to look.
“No, that’s everything.” Alex’s words were muffled through the ringing in her ears. “I’m done.”
Then he was gone. The crowd erupted into scattered applause, then shocked laughter and conversation—Can you believe what he said about the scripts? I’m looking at his AO3 handle, and holy shit—as Lauren continued to sit in her special damn chair, motionless.
Minutes later, as a new crowd began to fill the hall, her phone buzzed. Slapping away the wetness on her cheeks, she read her incoming text.
It was from Alex.
Marcus ordered me to go to our suite and call everyone in my camp. Come on up, Wren. It’s a party!After a moment, another message appeared.I know you aren’t happy with what I did, and I’m sorry for that.
He was sorry for her unhappiness. Not for the damage he’d done to his career.
Then again, he had years ahead to mourn that. Decades. The rest of his life.
Her legs shook as she got to her feet and headed for the exit. She was going to her room, because nothing she could say, nothing she could do, would help Alex now. With one exception.
In the elevator, she texted him back.Promise me you’ll listen to what your team and Marcus say. Promise me you’ll do your best to salvage this situation.
He wrote back immediately.I promise. Unless they tell me to do something that’s wrong. In which case, I won’t budge.
It was a deliberate echo of what she’d said about her experiences at the hospital. The times she’d run afoul of her colleagues or patients or supervisors.
She sagged against the elevator wall, bereft.
Another buzz.Where are you, you intolerably plodding harpy?
She didn’t answer.
When she got to her room, she let the door slam shut behind her. Her phone buzzed several more times as she emptied the few drawers she’d filled with clothing and other odds and ends, but she ignored the peremptory summons.
