27. Millie
MILLIE
I grab the phone and squint at the screen. Thirty-two notifications in the past ten minutes, all from various news apps and social media. My stomach drops before I even open the first one.
"Oscar Nominations Announced: Millie Harris and Janie Torres Both Nominated for Best Actress."
The headline sits there in bold letters, stark and real and somehow still impossible to process despite the fact I've been expecting this for weeks.
I scroll through the rest of the notifications with shaking hands.
Every major outlet is running the same story with minor variations: me and Janie, neck and neck, the scandal mentioned in every single article like a disclaimer nobody can avoid.
Behind me, Duncan stirs. "What time is it?"
"Early. Go back to sleep."
He doesn't, because of course he doesn't. Instead he shifts closer and peers over my shoulder at the phone screen.
I feel him go still when he reads the headline, then his arm tightens around my waist in a gesture I've learned means he's trying to be supportive without saying something that might come out wrong.
"Congratulations," he says quietly into my hair.
I set the phone down face-first on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling.
The morning light is starting to filter through the curtains in that gray pre-dawn way that makes everything look washed out and uncertain.
Next to me, Duncan waits. He's gotten good at this over the past month, at knowing when to push and when to let me work through whatever I'm feeling without commentary.
"I should be happy," I say finally.
"…But you're not."
"I am. I think I am." I turn to face him properly.
His hair is a disaster, sticking up in three different directions, and there's a crease on his cheek from the pillowcase.
"This is everything I wanted. The validation, the recognition, proof that I belong in rooms where people used to tell me I didn't. So why does it feel like I can't breathe? "
"Because you're also terrified."
The words land with uncomfortable accuracy. I am terrified. Terrified of losing, of proving everyone who doubted me right, of standing on that stage next to Janie Torres while she smiles with her perfect teeth and accepts the award I wanted more than anything.
But deeper than that, underneath the fear of failure, is something worse: the fear that even if I win, it won't mean what I thought it would.
That the Oscar won't fix the years of being overlooked or erase the memory of Duncan telling me I should have a backup plan.
That I'll accept the statue and feel exactly as hollow as I do right now.
"I don't know if I deserve it," I admit.
"The nomination, the attention, any of it.
My work should speak for itself, but everyone's going to look at this and think I only got here because of the scandal.
Because I manipulated my way into the narrative with a fake marriage that conveniently fell apart right before voting opened. "
Duncan props himself up on one elbow so he can look at me properly. His face has that expression he gets when he's trying to figure out how to say something true without making it worse.
"The Academy doesn't nominate people out of pity or because they have interesting personal lives.
They nominate based on performance." His hand finds mine under the blanket, fingers threading together.
"You were brilliant in that film. I watched it three times and teared up during the courthouse scene every single time, which you're not allowed to tell anyone because I have a reputation to maintain. "
Despite everything, I almost smile. "You teared up?"
"It was humiliating." He squeezes my hand. "My point is, you earned this. Not because of the scandal or the contract or anything else. You earned it because you're one of the best actresses working right now and the voters recognized that."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it makes my chest ache. But years of being told I wasn't good enough, wasn't the right type, wasn't worth the investment have built a voice in my head that's louder than any logic Duncan can offer.
"What if I win and it doesn't change anything?" The question comes out smaller than I intended. "What if I stand up there and give my speech and thank everyone, and then I wake up the next day and I'm still just me, still carrying all the same doubts and fears and insecurities?"
"Then you'll be you with an Oscar." He shifts closer, closing the small gap between us. "Millie, the statue isn't going to fix what's broken. It never could. But maybe that's not the point anymore."
"Then what is?"
"The point is you did the work. You showed up every day and gave everything you had to a role that terrified you, and you created something that made people feel things they didn't expect to feel.
" His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand.
"Whether or not you win doesn't change the fact that you did that.
The validation you're looking for can't come from a gold statue or a room full of voters. It has to come from you."
I close my eyes because looking at him while he says things like that makes it impossible to maintain any emotional distance. "When did you become so wise?"
"I've had a good teacher."
My phone starts vibrating again, a call this time. LaToya's name flashes across the screen with a photo from last year's Met Gala where she's pointing at the camera with both hands like some kind of deranged game show host. I let it go to voicemail.
It immediately starts ringing again.
"You should probably answer that," Duncan says.
"Probably."
I don't move. Instead I stay curled against him, listening to my phone ring and watching the morning light get brighter through the curtains.
LaToya can wait another few minutes. The press can wait.
The entire machinery of Oscar campaigning that's about to consume the next few weeks of my life can wait.
Right now I just want to be here, in my bed, with the man I love who somehow sees past all my defenses to the scared kid underneath who still doesn't quite believe she's allowed to want things.