And the Crowd Went Wild (Chicago Stars #11)

Chapter 1

Dancy Flynn was back.

With a wide smile and wave to the crowd gathered outside the Modern Wing of Chicago’s Art Institute, she moved gracefully

along the red carpet. Tonight was the first step in relaunching her career by making the world believe she wasn’t broken.

The hometown crowd had gathered for Hollywood spectacle, and that’s what she would deliver, even though she was dizzy and

nauseated and all she wanted to do was run back to the mind-numbing comfort of the couch that had been her refuge for the

past two months. She yearned for the blissful nothingness of drinking too much and not eating enough. But her home and her

couch were two thousand miles away, so she smiled more broadly, waved like a royal, and deliberately repositioned herself

off the outer edge of the red carpet where the lights weren’t as bright and where her strapless, ice-blue gown with its billowing

skirt could finally begin to do what it had been made to do. Light up. Literally.

In this darker space, the hundreds of tiny, fiber-optic light strands woven into the ball gown’s delicate French organza turned her into a high-tech Cinderella.

The onlookers crowding the sidewalk let out a gasp and then a cheer, while those who couldn’t see struggled for a view.

The gown, with its carefully concealed battery packs, glinted as she waved, smiled, and posed, first with her hands at her waist, then with a pivot, then looking over her bare shoulder, all to show herself off in the fairy-tale light-up gown that would remind the world she’d once had a career of her own, and that she was something more than another thirty-five-year-old Hollywood ex-wife discarded for a younger woman.

Cell phones clicked away. The crowd called out her name. This was what they’d come to see, a beautiful Hollywood celebrity

making a glorious spectacle of herself right here in Chicago.

Tonight was the Windy City’s turn to host the second-most famous charity event in the country, bested only by the Met Gala.

Last year, the famous Peacock Gala, which benefited children’s charities everywhere, had taken place in Manhattan, the year

before in LA, and now it had arrived in Chicago, with celebrities flying in from all over the country to be seen, photographed,

and interviewed. Dancy wasn’t nearly as famous as the ex-husband who’d discarded her, but she was famous enough, and no one

else had a gown that lit up.

With a final wave to the crowd, Dancy retreated to the center of the red carpet, where the gown merely shimmered in the brighter

light, and took the arm of her escort for the evening, her smooth-talking, ineffectual agent, Sebastian Chime. Since she was

five-ten without shoes and over six feet in her silver stilettos, she dwarfed him. “I thought this was a crazy idea,” he whispered,

handing over the jeweled evening clutch he’d held for her while she posed. “But you pulled it off. Next thing you know, you’ll

have all the jobs you can handle. Proud of you, babe.”

She hated when he called her “babe,” but she needed to conserve her energy for what really mattered—showing the world the truth, that her divorce hadn’t devastated her—and show the world the lie—that she was whole, sane, and competent, ready to pick up the remains of her abandoned career.

The Modern Wing of the Art Institute of Chicago was a vision in glass, aluminum, and steel. The long, atrium-like Griffin

Court, with its latticed ceiling three stories above, had been converted for the evening into a luxurious event space. Round

tables set with white tablecloths held towering Lucite centerpieces, slender at the bottom so guests could see each other

across the table, and trumpet-shaped at the top, supporting a cascade of roses, delphiniums, and cherry blossoms. On one side

of the court, a suspended staircase led to the glass half-walls of the second- and third-floor hallways that connected additional

galleries of priceless modern art.

Several hundred heads turned as Dancy appeared. The ice-blue gown, with its corseted bodice and voluminous skirt, didn’t glow

in well-lit spaces, but everyone in the gathering crowd still noted her arrival. Tall, with violet-blue eyes, perfect teeth

in a wide mouth, symmetrical features, and her trademark long blond hair pulled into a classic chignon to complement the gown,

she looked like the goddess she wasn’t. Her beauty, which had once meant everything to her, now was merely a tool to regain

the career she’d let slip away.

“Dancy, it’s wonderful to see you again.” A longtime studio executive greeted her beneath Warhol’s garishly painted silkscreen

of Chairman Mao.

“Dancy, darling, it’s been forever.” An aging actress and her producer husband stepped forward to exchange cheek kisses.

“Dancy, you’ve stolen the show.”

“Dancy, call me when you get back home to LA. Let’s do lunch.”

She was doing it. She was convincing them she was healthy, ready to work, and no longer an object of pity, as she’d been for

the past ten months.

She moved between the tables, greeting actors and actresses, Kardashians and couturiers. Those who knew fashion history recognized

the gown and applauded its dramatic reappearance, but most hadn’t seen it.

Her pounding heart and shaky legs made it difficult to walk gracefully, but she was an actress, and as the cocktail hour progressed

she somehow made it look effortless. She smiled and laughed, sipping one drink for courage and another for endurance, chatting

gaily with everyone she met. Acquaintances as well as strangers wanted to talk to her, no one suspecting she was hollow inside.

Sebastian appeared to help her manage the dress as chimes rang, calling the illustrious guests to their tables. She corralled

her skirt to sit in one of the gilded chairs. The chairman of a major airline and his wife were also at the table, along with

a former Batman, his third wife, a drunken pop star, her latest boyfriend, and a real estate mogul with a woman who was either

his wife or his mistress.

The gown’s boning dug into her ribs, the tightly cinched waist kept her from drawing a deep breath, and the draft from the

air conditioning made goose bumps break out on her bare arms, but she kept a smile on her lips. She was doing it. Holding

it together.

The drunken pop star leaned across the table and spoke too loudly. “Roth made a big mistake replacing you. I’ll bet he already

regrets it.”

Dancy fixed a smile on her face. “Roth who?”

The other guests laughed uncomfortably.

Dancy downed her wine and let the server refill her glass.

“Watch the booze, babe,” Sebastian whispered.

She ignored him. She could do this. She had to.

The crowd was seated when the last guest arrived through the glass doors. If he had been anyone else, he could have slipped

in unnoticed, but he wasn’t anyone else. He was her ex-husband, Roth Hardy, and a jolt of electricity buzzed through the room.

Roth, with his chiseled profile, perfect physique, and the boyish grin that was as much a part of him as the dark hair that

flopped over his brow. Superstar Roth Hardy, Hollywood’s favorite nice guy action star, who had not been on tonight’s guest

list and shouldn’t be here. Couldn’t be here.

Nausea cramped Dancy’s stomach. He was supposed to be in England now, guest of honor at an international motorcycle show.

Moments before, she’d been chilly from the air conditioning. Now perspiration broke out on her skin, and her stomach roiled.

As people recognized him, heads began turning between Roth and herself.

Tonight his immaculately tailored tuxedo fit him with the same precision as the camo he wore in his Cole Legend action franchise,

but Dancy didn’t care about his tuxedo or about him, not any longer. Instead, it was the tiny, beautiful woman at his side

who drew her attention, Roth’s dewy-eyed, barely legal fiancée, Bisa, a makeup assistant he’d met on his last film and the

woman who’d replaced Dancy.

Her over-the-top red latex gown seemed to have been sprayed onto her body. The gown couldn’t have looked less like anything

Roth would choose for his future wife to wear. Except . . .

Dancy clutched her skirt in her fists, dizzy and sick as she understood the gown’s true purpose.

Her throat constricted and the room began to spin.

The gown’s body-hugging fit outlined Bisa’s rounded belly.

Roth had chosen tonight to announce to the world that this new, much younger woman he now loved was pregnant.

The man she’d been married to for six years—the husband who’d rejected her pleas to have a baby—would now be having a baby with someone else.

And the bastard hadn’t had the decency to warn her ahead of time.

Dancy’s palms were sweaty on the delicate fabric of the gown’s skirt. One of the event’s staff approached Roth, growing starry-eyed

in his presence.

“Jesus . . .” Sebastian whispered as the couple was gestured toward the very next table.

Roth hadn’t spotted her. He glad-handed the guests as he and Bisa passed through the tables. High fives, bro hugs, cheek kisses

for the women. Roth’s charm and charisma were on full display, illuminating him even more brightly than Dancy’s beautiful

gown had illuminated her.

Roth hated unpleasantness, and he would never have come if he had known Dancy was attending. His too young, soon-to-be wife

hadn’t yet learned the importance of keeping track of those kinds of details to ensure Roth was never put in an embarrassing

situation.

Dancy’s skin crawled. She felt the exact moment he became aware of her, his flicker of dismay quickly replaced by a stiffening in his sculpted jaw.

She imagined his mental wheels turning as he calculated how best to handle the kind of awkwardness he went out of his way to avoid.

She could see him deciding his best course was pretending not to see her.

He held out a chair for his future bride and immediately engaged in conversation with the big-time record executive seated next to him.

People’s eyes ping-ponged between Roth and herself. Her muddled brain swam from too many cocktails, too much wine, and a bottomless

well of despair. She yearned to dive under the table and hide there until the night was over. This was supposed to have been

her chance to reclaim her life, to convince people she was ready to work again, ready to relaunch the career that had meant

everything to her. Prove the divorce hadn’t ruined her. Instead, the pitying gazes of everyone around her said that all she’d

gone through to get herself here was for nothing. They expected her to crumble.

“Poor Dancy . . .”

“She totally disappeared from sight.”

“This is the first time anyone has seen her in months.”

“Rumor is she wants to act again.”

“She’s thirty-five now, too old for the only parts she’s good at.”

“Although she did play a Bond Girl, remember?”

“But that was—what—seven years ago? And she hasn’t done anything since.”

“Poor Dancy.”

A waiter passed behind her, and without taking into account how much she’d had to drink, she saw the perfect way to reclaim

her pride and show everyone that Roth no longer meant anything to her. It was time to take charge. Coming awkwardly to her

feet, she snatched one of the open bottles of champagne from the waiter’s tray.

“Dancy, sit down,” Sebastian hissed.

Her plan was brilliant. Instead of cowering like Roth, she would offer a public toast to the soon-to-be newlyweds. A toast so gracious that everyone would see that she’d moved on. It was perfect. Genius.

She tapped her knife hard against the champagne bottle. It made a dull clunk. First the people closest to her quieted, and

then gradually the rest of the crowd turned in their seats, leaving Roth no choice but to also turn. She knew him well enough

to understand how hard he was struggling to maintain his prized composure, but he was a trained actor and only the faintest

tightening at the corners of his eyes betrayed his discomfort.

The champagne bottle grew slippery in her palms. She gripped it tighter as she raised it above her head. “Everyone!” She pasted

on a smile. “I’d like . . .” She cleared her throat. “I want to propose . . .” The words caught. She could do this. She had

to do this. “. . . want to propose a toast to”—the syllables began to slur—“a toast to the—the handsome groom and his beautiful. . . .”

Sweat broke through the makeup above her top lip. “His beautiful . . .” Across from her, the pop star raised her phone to

record the scene. Sebastian tugged on Dancy’s hand, trying to get her to sit. She shook him off and lifted the bottle higher.

“Roth and Bi-Bisa . . . May you both have many . . . many happy . . .” Something dripped from her chin. “I wish you—” Roth’s

eyes widened in alarm. People began shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Something wet trickled down her cheek, and one by one, members of the crowd began staring at their plates.

She realized she was crying, but the floor refused to swallow her. Sebastian half-rose to help her sit, but it was too late

for that. She should never have come here. Never believed Hollywood still had a place for her. She had to get out. Run away.

Disappear.

She grabbed her evening bag and pushed away from the table, knocking over what was left in her wineglass as the pop star continued recording everything. With the forgotten champagne bottle still in her hand, Dancy plunged unsteadily through the tables.

The doors that led to the street were miles and miles away, but the floating staircase leading to the upper galleries was

right in front of her. Music began to swell—an attempt to cover the awkwardness and bring the event back under control. As

the gala’s organizers hurried to the flower-decked podium to begin the introductory speeches, Dancy bolted. Up the open staircase

she ran, her evening bag clutched in one hand, the champagne bottle still in the other.

As she reached the landing, the music crescendoed and the event space went dark except for a faint light on the podium. And

in the darkness, her gown . . . the fairy-tale gown with its hundreds of tiny fiber-optic lights . . . the showpiece gown

that was supposed to mark her new life . . . her beautiful gown became—in that dark hall—something else entirely . . .

A fully lit, ice-blue ghost gown, its wearer completely invisible.

There was no hiding place in the second-floor hallway, not with its glass half-wall overlooking the main floor. Stunned, the

guests ignored the speaker at the podium to watch the disembodied gown flee along the corridor.

She tripped and sprawled to the floor like a shamed queen, the illuminated skirt ballooning around her. She wanted to rip

off the gown, rip off her skin. Instead, she crawled forward until she reached the end of the hallway. A few more steps. A

turn.

The ice-blue ghost gown disappeared.