25. Millie
MILLIE
Ispend the next three weeks doing exactly what LaToya tells me to: show up, smile, act like the scandal didn't happen.
First stop is a Women in Film luncheon at the Peninsula, all white tablecloths and monied women in Chanel suits discussing representation while servers pour sparkling water nobody asked for.
I wear burgundy Dior and sit between a producer who keeps name-dropping directors I've never heard of and an actress whose last film went straight to streaming.
When someone asks about the contract leak, I keep my face neutral and say Duncan and I fell in love despite the circumstances, not because of them.
The producer nods like she understands. The actress looks skeptical but doesn't push.
Next is a Variety cover shoot where they pose me against a stark white backdrop wearing Alexander McQueen, hair slicked back severe enough to make my scalp ache.
The interviewer asks careful questions about authenticity and public perception and whether I regret the arrangement.
I tell her the truth: the contract was real, the feelings that developed were real, and I'm done apologizing for how I got here.
When the article runs two weeks later, the headline reads: "Millie Harris on Love, Scandal, and Why She Stopped Playing It Safe."
LaToya sends me a text with three flame emojis.
Duncan and I are photographed leaving my apartment together on a Tuesday morning, his hand at the small of my back as we navigate past photographers who've been camped outside my building since the leak.
Someone shouts a question about divorce and Duncan keeps walking like he didn't hear it. I follow his lead.
That photo ends up on every gossip site with captions ranging from "Trouble in Paradise?" to "Millie and Duncan Show United Front Amid Scandal."
Neither of us comments.
The Critics Choice nominations come out on a Wednesday. I'm in my living room when LaToya calls, her voice pitched higher than usual in a way that makes my stomach drop before she even speaks.
"You got it," she says. "Best Actress. You and Janie both made the cut."
I sit down on the couch where Duncan and I had sex three weeks ago and try to process what she just said. Best Actress nomination, the first of many. The thing I've been working toward for a decade, the validation I thought would fix everything broken inside me.
It doesn't feel the way I expected.
"Millie? You still there?"
"Yeah. I'm here."
"This is good. This is exactly what we needed." LaToya's already moving into strategy mode, her voice sharpening with focus. "The nominations prove the voters looked past the scandal and judged you on your work. Now we just need to keep momentum through the next six weeks."
Six weeks until the ceremony. Six weeks of campaigning and appearances and standing on stages next to Janie Torres while we both pretend we're happy for each other.
"What about Duncan?" I ask.
"What about him?"
"Do we keep doing joint appearances? Or does that hurt my chances?"
LaToya is quiet for a moment, which means she's calculating angles I haven't considered yet.
"Honestly? I think you lean into it. The voters clearly don't care about the contract leak as much as we thought they would.
And showing up with Duncan, looking happy and in love, reinforces the narrative that you two are the real deal. "
"We are the real deal."
"I know. That's what makes it work." She pauses. "How is he, by the way? I haven't heard from Jeremiah in a week."
"Good. Better." He's been staying at my apartment most nights, leaving early enough to avoid the morning photographers but late enough that we get a few hours of actual privacy.
We cook together, watch terrible reality TV, talk about everything except the Oscar campaign and what happens if I lose.
"He's coming to the nomination celebration tonight. "
"Perfect. Make sure you get photographed together looking like you're celebrating. The optics are important."
I hang up and stare at my phone for a long moment. Best Actress nomination. The thing I wanted more than anything six months ago when this whole arrangement started.
But what I actually want now is sitting across from me at my kitchen table three days later, reading the Times with coffee going cold in the mug I poured him an hour ago.
His hair is a mess from sleep, he's wearing sweatpants and one of my Columbia hoodies that's too small on him, and when he catches me staring he smiles in a way that makes my chest ache.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing. Just thinking."
"About?"
"How different this is from what I expected."
He sets down the paper and looks at me properly. "Good different or bad different?"
"Good. Definitely good."
The nomination celebration happens at a rooftop bar in SoHo that LaToya rented out for the evening.
Fifty people, all industry insiders and friends who've been carefully vetted to ensure nobody leaks anything unflattering.
There's champagne and small plates and a DJ playing music just loud enough to make conversation require effort.
Duncan arrives twenty minutes after I do, wearing dark jeans and a blazer that makes him look effortlessly put together in a way I've learned is actually the result of significant effort.
He finds me near the windows talking to Brianna and slides an arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple that's brief enough to be casual and long enough to feel genuine.
"Congratulations," he murmurs against my hair.
"Thanks for coming."
"Where else would I be?"
Brianna excuses herself with a knowing look, leaving us alone near the railing. Below, the city spreads out in a grid of lights and movement, completely indifferent to the fact that my entire life is being rebuilt in real time.
"You okay?" Duncan asks quietly.
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"Because you got a Best Actress nomination and you look like you're at a funeral."
I take a sip of champagne that's gone flat. "I'm fine. Just processing."
"Millie." He turns me to face him, hands on my shoulders. "Talk to me."
"This was supposed to be the thing that fixed everything. The validation, proof that all the work was worth it." I set my glass down on a nearby table. "But now that I have it, all I can think about is how none of it would mean anything if I didn't have you."
His face softens in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. "You would've gotten this nomination with or without me."
"Maybe. But I wouldn't have wanted it the same way."
He pulls me closer, wrapping both arms around me in a hug that feels like safety and home and every other cliché I've spent my career avoiding. I press my face against his chest and breathe in the scent of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent and something uniquely him.
"I'm proud of you," he says into my hair. "You know that, right?"
I nod against his chest because speaking feels too difficult right now.
We stay like that for a while, swaying slightly to music neither of us is really listening to.
Around us, people celebrate and network and position themselves for the next six weeks of campaigning.
But in this moment, standing on a rooftop with Duncan's arms around me, none of that feels as important as it used to.
Later that night, after most of the guests have left and LaToya is negotiating with the venue manager about overtime charges, Duncan and I slip out through a side exit. The photographers are gone, scared off by security or bored after three hours of getting the same shots.
We walk toward my apartment through streets that are quieter than they should be for a Friday night in SoHo. Duncan's hand finds mine and we walk in silence, just two people who love each other trying to figure out how to build something real in the wreckage of something fake.
"What happens if you win?" he asks when we're halfway home.
"Then I give a speech thanking everyone who helped me get here. Including you."
"And if you don't?"
I stop walking and look up at him. His face is shadowed in the streetlight, half hidden and half visible in a way that feels appropriate for this moment.
"Then I still have you," I say. "And that's enough."
He kisses me there on the sidewalk, slow and thorough and with the kind of certainty I'm still learning to trust. When we break apart his forehead rests against mine and we stand like that for a long moment, breathing the same air.
"I love you," he says quietly.
"I know. I love you too."
We keep walking.