Page 119 of Lucky 22

“I’m aware.”

“No,” she snaps, her patience cracking now. “You thinkyou’re aware. You think everyone will just…stay interested. That Hollywoodwaits politely for actresses who choose domestic bliss over opportunity. Itdoesn’t. It replaces you. Quickly. Quietly.”

The words sting, not because they’re cruel, but becausethey’re true.

“I don’t want to disappear,” I say softly. “I’m notquitting. I’m just…choosing differently. Right now.”

“Right now turns into later,” she replies. “Later turns into‘maybe someday,’ and someday turns into never.”

She’s frustrated. Agitated. I can picture her pacing. Notheartbroken. Not hurt.

Just…calculating a loss.

“I appreciate everything you have done for me. Every accomplishmentin my career is because of you,” I say gently, because I do care about her. OrI thought I did. “But this is what I need to do.”

There’s a sharp exhale.

“Well,” Tracy says coolly, “then I should probably behonest, too.”

Something in my chest tightens because her tone doesn’t evenremotely imply that something warm and fuzzy is coming.

“If you’re not actively working,” she continues, her voiceturning crisp, professional, and unforgiving, “you’re not making me money. Andif you’re not making me money, you’re no good to me.”

My stomach drops, and my lunch slowly rises in my throat.

I blink. “I’m…sorry?”

“I’m not here to hold your hand while you play house and findyourself emotionally,” she says. “I build careers. I negotiate deals. Imake stars. I don’t babysit people who decide their husbands are their entirepersonality.”

The room feels like it’s spinning. My heart is racing sohard I fear I might pass out.

“Wow,” I whisper.

“I booked this meeting. I secured this opportunity. I’veinvested years into your trajectory. And you’re just…walking away frommomentum.” She sighs as if it’s exhausting. “So, I’m walking away, too. ButI’ll still be collecting my ten percent for everything I booked for you,” sheadds bitterly.

“You’re quitting?” I ask. Even to my own ears, I soundstunned.

“Yes,” she says simply. “I’ll have my office send thepaperwork. Best of luck, Ella.”

The line goes dead before I can respond.

For a moment, I can only sit there, staring at my phone inmy trembling hand. But my heart? It’s still racing but…not in heartbreak, oreven in anger.

Just…clarity.

I thought Tracy was in my corner. I thought she cared about me.The human. The friend. The woman whose life she was helping shape.

But no.

To her, I was a product. A brand. A revenue stream.

And now, I’m not.

It hurts. Of course, it hurts. But there’s something elsebeneath the sting.

Relief.

Because for the first time in a long time, the truth isclear.