3. Millie
MILLIE
LaToya shows up at my apartment at eight in the morning with two lattes, a leather portfolio, and the smile of a woman who has already made a decision and is just waiting for me to catch up.
I'm still in my robe. My hair is wrapped in a silk scarf, and I haven't had coffee yet, which means I'm approximately twenty percent less equipped to deal with whatever this is than I need to be.
"We need to talk," she says, pushing past me into the living room.
"Good morning to you, too."
She sets the lattes down on my coffee table and drops into the armchair like she owns it. "Sit."
I sit.
She opens the portfolio and pulls out a single sheet of paper with a list of bullet points I can't read from this distance. Her fingernail taps the top line twice.
"Duncan Ellington."
My brows furrow. "What about him?"
"His team reached out yesterday. They want to discuss a partnership."
I stare at her. "A… what?"
"An arrangement. They're calling it a collaboration, but we both know what it is." LaToya crosses her legs, one over the other. "I know his publicist. He's a good man, and from his tone, I can tell that Mr. Ellington is a bit desperate for some help right now. And that's where you come in."
The words take a second to land, and when they do I feel something burning within me. It must be the white hot rage bubbling under my skin." You're telling me Duncan Ellington wants to fake-date me."
"Fake marry. And I'm telling you his publicist floated the idea, yes.
Wait! Before you say no, I need you to hear me out.
" She leans forward, elbows on her knees.
"You need a human-interest angle, something that makes you accessible to voters who think you're too perfect to root for.
He needs an image rehab, and fast, because the tape that leaked is destroying him. "
"Good."
LaToya doesn't blink. "Good? Why's that?"
"He's a piece of shit, LaToya. You heard the audio."
"Well, sure. And I also saw the video this morning of people smashing his car with a baseball bat outside his office in Midtown." She pulls up her phone, swipes twice, and turns it toward me.
The video is forty seconds long, shot from across the street.
A black Tesla parked at the curb, and three people taking turns hitting it with a bat while a small crowd cheers them on.
Someone spray-painted MISOGYNIST across the hood in red letters.
The windows are shattered, the mirrors hanging by wires.
Duncan isn't in the frame, but I can see security guards trying to pull people back while someone else films on their phone.
I watch it twice, then hand the phone back.
"So he's getting what he deserves," I point out with a shrug.
"Maybe. Or maybe this is what happens when public anger stops being about accountability and starts being about performance.
Either way, it's not our problem unless we make it our problem.
" She sets the phone down and picks up her latte.
"Here's what I'm thinking. You and Duncan went to the same high school.
That's public record, easy to verify. You were rivals, he was a dick to you, you went on to become a star and he went on to become super rich.
It's a story people already want to believe. "
"Because it's true."
"Right. And if we reframe it, if we turn it into a second-chance romance where the guy who didn't see your worth back then finally grows up and realizes what he missed, that's a narrative people will eat up. You get your warm human-interest angle, he gets his redemption arc. Everybody wins."
I'm shaking my head before she's finished talking. "Absolutely not."
"Millie."
"No. Hell no. You're asking me to fake-marry the guy who spent junior year making sure I knew I didn't belong in the theater department.
He's the same prick who told me I should audition for backstage crew because some people are just better suited to supporting roles.
He made me feel like I was fucking invisible unless he decided I was worth mocking.
" I hadn't realized that I'm yelling until LaToya flinches slightly.
I suck in a deep breath and shake my head. "I'm not doing it."
LaToya waits until I'm done, then takes a slow sip of her latte. "Okay. I hear you. And if this were about anything other than your career, I'd agree with you. But it's not. It's about the Oscar."
"I don't need Duncan fucking Ellington to win an Oscar."
"You need voters to like you. Right now they respect you, they admire you, but they don't like you.
I've seen this play out before, trust me.
They want to see you be more messy and human and a little more carefree.
A relationship does that. Especially one with built-in drama that the press will cover for free. "
I stand up and walk to the window because sitting still is making my skin crawl.
Outside, the street is loud with morning traffic, delivery trucks double-parked, someone shouting in Spanish at a taxi that cut them off.
My tongue swipes across my teeth as I muse about the proposal.
No matter how I spin it, I can't make sense of this shit.
"There has to be another way."
"You're right. There are. You could get a puppy, do a reality show, or maybe even date someone for real and hope they don't sell a tell-all when it ends.
Or you could do this, control the narrative from start to finish, and walk away with exactly what you need.
" She pauses. "And if I'm being honest, there's something else. "
I turn around. "What?"
"This gives you leverage over him. You hated Duncan in high school. He made you feel small. And now you get to decide how this story goes. You get to be the one in control, the one calling the shots. He needs you more than you need him, and he knows it. If that's not revenge, I don't know what is."
Her words give me pause. Leverage. The idea that I could walk into this with the power dynamic flipped, that I could make Duncan Ellington perform for me the way I've spent my whole career performing for people who didn't think I deserved to be in the room, that's not nothing.
I sit back down. "How long?"
"Through the awards season. You do the appearances, the interviews, and the candid paparazzi shots with him. Then you break up quietly after the Oscars and everyone moves on."
"And his team agreed to this?"
"They're desperate. He's losing business partners, sponsorships, and speaking gigs.
The video this morning is just the start.
If he doesn't turn this around fast, it's going to follow him for years.
" She closes the portfolio and sets it on the table between us.
"I'm not saying you have to like him. I'm saying you have to let him be useful. "
I pick up my latte and drink half of it in one go, burning my tongue in the process. My brain is moving too fast, turning over possibilities and consequences and the look on Duncan's face when he realizes I'm the one who gets to say yes or no.
"I want final approval on everything. Photos, quotes, appearances, everything. If I'm doing this, I'm controlling how it looks."
"Done."
"And I want it in writing that this ends after the Oscars, no extensions, no renegotiations. Six months and we're out."
"I'll have contracts drawn up by end of day."
I set the latte down and look at her. "You already knew I was going to say yes."
"I know you, Millie. You're too smart to let pride get in the way of strategy." She smiles, just a little. "And you've wanted to knock Duncan Ellington down a peg since you were sixteen. Now you get to do it in front of the entire world."
She's right, which I hate. But she's also giving me permission to do something I've wanted to do for ten years, and the fact that it happens to serve my Oscar campaign is almost secondary.
"When do I meet with him?"
"His publicist suggested lunch tomorrow. Somewhere off the record, just the two of you to go over logistics."
"Fine. Set it up."
LaToya stands, picks up the portfolio, and heads for the door. She pauses with her hand on the knob and looks back at me.
"You'll be great at this, Millie. Think about it this way. You've been acting your whole life. This is just another role."
She leaves before I can decide if that's a compliment or an insult.
I sit there for another ten minutes, staring at the cold latte on the table and the thin slice of sky visible through the window. Somewhere across the city, Duncan Ellington is probably shitting himself over the public turning on him.
That gives me a small sense of satisfaction. I hope he's miserable.
I grab my phone and scroll back to the video of his car getting smashed. I hold back a smile as I watch it through one more time, just to remind myself what happens when men like him think they can say whatever they want without consequences.
Then I go take a shower, because I have lunch with my fake boyfriend tomorrow, and I need to figure out what to wear when you're planning someone's very public redemption while privately hoping they choke on their own vomit.