Page 313 of Rush

We step out into polite applause, the audience a blur of perfect posture and camera-ready smiles. Everything feels slightly unreal, like I’m watching myself from a few inches above.

Mike hits his mark at the microphone, glancing out at the crowd before dropping his voice into mock seriousness. “Just a heads-up, Elena—this next category is stacked. Are you sure this isn’t just a list of your exes?”

I give him a flat look. “Wow. Dumping me already? And we just made it official backstage.”

The crowd laughs. He smirks.

I feel light. Airy.

Untouchable.

“Oh, come on—you’re far too gorgeous for a schmuck like me. Isn’t she stunning, folks?” He makes a show of raking his hand up and down as the applause builds.

I arch a brow. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mike.”

Another wave of laughter.

“Alright, alright—we’d better present the award before I get in trouble with my wife.” He chuckles. “This next category celebrates the performances that held us captive?—”

“—and occasionally made us cry into our popcorn,” I add.

“A collection of unforgettable roles,” Mike continues, “and heartbreakingly handsome leading men.”

I tilt my head, confused. “Was that your line or mine?”

He grins. “I think it’s safe to say we both felt it.”

We laugh together.

“The nominees for Best Supporting Actor are…”

I read each name listed on the prompter. Applause rising and falling around us.

I open up the envelope in my hand and see his name.

I look up—Alex sits composed in the front row. Devastating in a navy tux. His smile is picture-perfect.

But his eyes—locked on mine—burn.

And no amount of drugs can quiet what slams into me. The feelings come fast and feral. My heart thuds so loudly I’m sure it’s echoing through the theater.

“And the Oscar goes to…Alexander Westerberg forThe Kingmaker.”

He stands and makes his way up the stairs like he’s done it a hundred times.

Mike hands him the trophy and shakes his hand.

Alex leans in, his lips grazing my cheek.

“I need to talk to you,” he murmurs, barely audible. “It’s important.”

Now? Here?

The urgency in his voice sends a chill straight up my spine—but I keep smiling. Nod once. Step aside.

He turns to the microphone, trophy in hand. The crowd thunders.

Everything slows—my heartbeat, my breath, the shape of my mouth still fixed in that polite, composed smile.