Once Broken (Riley Paige #20)

PROLOGUE

The credits rolled, elegant white text against black, names that had long since passed into Hollywood legend.

The lights in the theater slowly brightened, revealing the rapt faces of film students, critics, and admirers of classic cinema, their expressions dreamy with the afterglow of celluloid magic.

A smattering of applause began, then swelled into something more substantial.

Veronica took a deep breath. At sixty-six, she had spent decades in the public eye herself, yet these small, unexpected moments still triggered a flutter of anxiety.

She smoothed the fabric of her navy blue dress—chosen deliberately for its understated elegance—and stood.

Gillian Sinclair, head of Magnolia Gateway Studios and the mastermind behind this week-long retrospective, gave her an encouraging nod from the aisle.

The path to the front of the theater seemed to stretch longer before her.

Faces turned her way, some smiling in recognition, others whispering behind cupped hands.

Veronica had carved out her own place in Hollywood, both as an actress and vocalist, yet she knew that tonight, she was primarily Roberta Rimes’ daughter—the living connection to the woman they had just watched become a star on screen.

She reached the small podium positioned before the now-blank screen. “Good evening,” she began. “Thank you all for joining us tonight for the opening film of this retrospective.”

The words came easier now. “Watching The Night Walker always takes me back—not just to my childhood memories of my mother, but to her stories about making this film. She always said that dying on screen in the first thirty minutes was the best career move she ever made.” A ripple of appreciative laughter swept through the audience.

“My mother never lost her love for Atlanta,” Veronica continued.

“Though Hollywood claimed her for decades, she always spoke of this city as home. The place that shaped her, that gave her the dreams she later pursued. And when she retired after her final film in 1975, Dandelion Days, it was to Atlanta she returned. She used to say that California gave her fame, but Georgia gave her soul.”

A murmur of approval hummed through the theater.

“What many of you may not know is that my mother was also a great supporter of Magnolia Gateway Films from its inception.

She believed in the vision of creating a vibrant film industry right here.

She would be thrilled to see how that vision has flourished, making Atlanta the ‘Hollywood of the South.’

“So as we embark on this journey through my mother’s filmography over the coming week, culminating on what would have been her hundredth birthday, I thank you for keeping her memory alive.

And I especially thank Gillian Sinclair and everyone at Magnolia Gateway Films for making this celebration possible. ”

The audience applauded, several people rising to their feet. Veronica stepped away from the podium just as Gillian moved forward, elegant in a crimson suit that complemented her silver-streaked dark hair.

Gillian embraced her. “That was perfect,” she whispered before turning to the audience.

“Aren’t we fortunate to have Veronica with us tonight?” Gillian’s voice projected confidence and warmth. “Before we all disperse, I’d like to invite Ms. Slate and any interested guests to join us for a special surprise. Something we’ve been preparing for months in honor of Roberta.”

Veronica tilted her head, genuinely caught off guard.

“It’s just a short walk to the studio,” Gillian continued, addressing the audience. “For those who’d like to join us, please gather in the lobby in five minutes.”

As the crowd began to disperse, Gillian turned to Veronica with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Don’t look so suspicious, Ronnie. I promise you’ll love it.”

“You know I hate surprises,” Veronica said, though she couldn’t help but smile at the use of her nickname. Only those who’d known her for decades dared to call her that.

“This one’s different,” Gillian assured her, linking their arms as they walked toward the lobby. “It’s a tribute, not a shock.”

The September evening welcomed them with a gentle warmth as they exited the theater. A group of about twenty had chosen to follow, creating an impromptu procession through the Atlanta streets.

Veronica felt an odd sense of anticipation. “You really won’t give me a hint?” she asked Gillian, who walked beside her, leading the group.

“And spoil the moment? Never.” Gillian’s eyes crinkled with pleasure at her own secret. “We’re almost there anyway.”

The distinctive entrance to Magnolia Gateway Films appeared ahead, the wrought iron gates framing the path to a complex of buildings that had grown steadily over the decades.

Even at night, the studio grounds hummed with purpose—security lights illuminating pathways, the occasional golf cart zipping between buildings, carrying crew members for whatever productions were currently underway.

Nevertheless, her eyes fell upon a familiar but unwelcome face—a uniformed security man.

She nudged Gillian and asked, “Is that Malcolm Hartley?”

“Why yes,” Gillian said. “How on earth do you happen to know him?”

Veronica shuddered a little at bitter memories. But now was no time to let this reminder of the past interfere with whatever surprise was in store for her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said to Gillian. “I’ll tell you about him later.”

Veronica’s apprehension quickly vanished, and she felt a familiar flutter of belonging as they passed on through the gates.

This wasn’t Hollywood, with its relentless spotlight and perpetual performance.

This was something else—a place where her mother had found peace in her final years.

As they approached one of the larger soundstages, Gillian’s smile widened in anticipation.

“Ready?” she asked, her hand poised on the door handle.

Veronica nodded, suddenly eager to see what lay beyond.

The heavy soundstage door swung open with a theatrical groan, revealing a scene that made Veronica’s breath catch in her throat.

Before her, meticulously recreated down to the smallest detail, stood the Midnight Lounge—the fictional nightclub where her mother’s character had met her doom in The Night Walker.

The familiar curved bar gleamed under soft blue lighting, cocktail glasses catching prisms of light along their cut-crystal edges.

Cigarette smoke—theatrical haze, she realized—drifted in lazy tendrils through the air, backlit by amber stage lights that created the perfect noir atmosphere.

For a moment, Veronica felt suspended between decades, the boundary between 1954 and the present dissolving like sugar in a bitter cocktail.

“Oh, Gillian,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft murmur of appreciation from the small crowd behind them. “How did you...?”

“Do you like it?” Gillian’s face was illuminated with pride, her eyes searching Veronica’s for approval. “We’ve been working on it for months. Our set designers used original photographs, production notes, even frame-by-frame analysis of the film.”

Veronica stepped forward into the space.

Every detail was eerily perfect—the checkered floor tiles, the velvet-upholstered booths along the perimeter, even the distinctive mural of a jazz band on the wall behind the small stage.

In the corner, a jazz quartet played softly, the same haunting melody that had underscored her mother’s iconic scene.

The musicians were dressed in period attire—dark suits with thin ties, hair slicked back in the style of the early fifties. The saxophonist caught her eye and nodded respectfully without missing a beat.

“We sourced period-appropriate furniture,” Gillian explained, gesturing toward the tables with their heavy ashtrays and art deco lamps. “The bar is an exact replica, and those martini glasses? They’re authentic vintage pieces from the early fifties.”

Several extras in period costume milled about—women in pencil skirts and men in suits—creating the illusion of a busy nightclub. They chatted in low voices, occasionally laughing or clinking glasses, all while maintaining a respectful distance from Veronica and the other guests from the theater.

“The smoke,” Veronica said, watching it curl upward toward strategically hidden vents in the ceiling. “It’s perfect. Just the right density. Mother always said that was one of the hardest things to get right on set.”

“Non-toxic theatrical haze,” Gillian confirmed. “Mixed with a hint of sandalwood—I remember you mentioning once that your mother always associated that scent with nightclubs.”

The small detail—something Veronica had mentioned in passing years ago—touched her deeply. She turned to Gillian, momentarily speechless, and squeezed her friend’s hand in silent appreciation.

As Veronica absorbed the scene, a few attendees instinctively reached for their cellphones, eager to capture the moment. The soft glow of screens flickered in the dim light.

Gillian noticed immediately, her eyes narrowing with playful reproach. “Ah, ah,” she chided gently, her voice carrying just enough authority to prompt compliance. “Show some respect. Remember, there were no cellphones in 1954.”

The guests exchanged sheepish glances before tucking their devices away, chuckling at their own oversight.

One woman in a sleek pencil skirt offered an apologetic shrug as she slipped her phone into her clutch.

A man in a sharp suit mimicked the gesture with a wink, his device vanishing into his jacket pocket.

“Thank you,” Gillian said with a smile that softened any lingering embarrassment. Her gaze returned to Veronica, who stood mesmerized by the authenticity surrounding her.