Page 309 of Rush

“Gorgeous. We’re so excited to see you presenting tonight. Have you bumped into Alexander Westerberg yet? You’re presenting in his category, right?”

There it is.

I force a smile, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to scowl. “No, not yet. I’m sure it’ll be a great moment for whoever wins. I’ve heard it’s a tough category.”

I brace myself. I’m bound to run into Alex tonight. It feels like the universe is playing a cruel joke—placing us in each other’s paths on purpose.

Kismet.

His voice echoes in my mind.

Kylie spent an hour drilling it into me: the cameras will be on. My face has to stay neutral.

Any reaction would be blood in the water.

Now she watches from the sidelines, her expression soft as she mouths,Face.

“And is it awkward at all,” the interviewer presses, “given your—uh—history?”

I tilt my head.

Dickhead.

“I think I’ll let the internet speculate,” I say lightly. “I’m just here to celebrate the wonderful movies…and drink the free champagne.”

He laughs like I’ve said something clever.

But inside, the ground buckles.

Because if I’m not obsessing over Broderick—wondering if I ruined my chance at something real—I’m thinking about Alex. The phone call I ignored a week ago. The thrill of seeing him again. The way he always knew how to command a room. The way everything between us felt like fire—right before it burned down.

“Thank you so much, Elena,” the interviewer says. “You’re a vision tonight.”

I smile again. Nod. Move on.

The box rattles. Then another, right behind it.

“One more interview,” Kylie adds, walking a little too close.

“No.”

I’m done.

No matter how much Kylie prepped me. I don’t think I’m strong enough to handle yet another interview where Alex is the topic of conversation. Thinking about Alex is one thing. It’s my dirty, private obsession.

But talking about him—saying his name out loud, letting it linger between me and a stranger with a microphone—I don’tknow if I can survive reliving it. Because thinking about Alex leaving me only reminds me of the way Broderick asked for space.

Kylie hesitates, then follows, and I can feel her wanting to push—wanting to remind me how many outlets are still waiting, how much visibility this moment has. How important it is to do my job.

But she says nothing. A silent understanding passing between us, and I’m grateful she respects my limits.

It’s a relief to be out of the line of fire. Inside, the air is cooler—laced with expensive cologne and nervous energy. I head straight to the bar, order a glass of champagne, and toss it back before an usher guides me to my seat.

The show is…actually fun.

I clap. I laugh. I even gasp at one surprise win. The room hums with that strange electric calm—famous people pretending not to be overwhelmed while cameras catch every blink. For a while, I let myself sink into it. Watching the culmination of years of work unfold in real time—dreams realized, others quietly unraveling beneath polite applause—the drama, the theatrics, the illusion of it all. The glitz and glamour feels almost cliché.

And yet, somehow, I’m part of it even if I’m not quite sure that I belong.