"Wear the ring. It'll be a PR nightmare if you're seen without it."
I’d taken it off when I went running this morning and hadn’t put it back on since. The ring is cold when I slide it on. The diamond catches the light, brilliant and unmistakable.
I stare at it in the mirror—gold dress, bare shoulders, engagement ring—and something in my stomach drops. A hollow, sinking sensation like missing a step in the dark.
This doesn't feel like mine.
The awards ceremonyis everything it's supposed to be.
Cameras. Cheers. Names I recognize and names I don't. The air buzzes with perfume and ambition and the faint metallic scent of nerves. Flashbulbs go off in rapid succession, white light bursting behind my eyes.
Wes moves through it all effortlessly, a hand at the small of my back, guiding me where he wants me. He shakes hands, laughs, speaks to people he doesn't bother introducing me to.
When they do look at me, their eyes go straight to my left hand.
"Congratulations," they say, smiling wide. "Wes is a lucky man."
I smile back because the world expects me to.
Inside, I'm hollow. Like I'm watching myself from somewhere above.
I answer questions about the adaptation, about the book, about how surreal it all feels, and every word sounds rehearsed even when it isn't.
I keep glancing around the room, tracking Wes's movements the way you track weather—unpredictable, always shifting.
At some point, he drifts toward a reporter, leaning in too close, laughing a little too easily.
I watch it happen without feeling the spike of jealousy I know I should. Mostly, I'm just tired.
I slip outside for fresh air.
The night is cooler, the city stretching out below us in a wash of lights. I lean against the stone balustrade and breathe, trying to ground myself in the solidness of the moment.
My phone rings.
Mom.
I stare at her name until the screen goes dark again.
A text follows almost immediately.
Mom
Call me back as soon as you can xx
Guilt floods me, hot and immediate.
She found out through the news like everyone else. Like Camilla. Like the entire world.
I put space between us through years of short phone calls and vague excuses. Years of choosing this life over the one I left behind. And now she's learned her daughter is getting married through a tabloid headline.
But if I hear her voice right now, I will fall apart. I will cry, and the makeup, the dress, the illusion of control will shatter, and I cannot afford to break here.
Not tonight.
I stay outside until my fingers go numb, until the noise inside feels distant again.
I tip my head back and look up, searching for stars the way I always do, even though I know I won't find them. Not here because LA swallows them whole—too much light, too much noise, too much of everything except the things that actually matter.
