Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Anne lives in Bel-Air with her husband, Rich Conway—a mega-producer and a major reason her clients land the best roles. I was lucky to land her as my agent.
By the time I reach the gated community, I’m frazzled from traffic. God, I hate driving in this city. It would’ve been a nightmare if I didn’t know the back streets. In L.A., those who master the side routes win the war. And thankfully, I know my way around.
Anne and Rich’s home is modest by Bel-Air standards. A Spanish-style, white-stone two-story tucked behind towering hedges, framed by blooming jacaranda trees that look like lavender clouds. It’s tasteful. Quiet. Like they’re hiding from the industry that made them.
A housekeeper leads me through a cool, open foyer, where a tall olive tree stands beneath a skylight.
My entire place in Encino could fit inside their first floor.
But it still feels cozy. Every piece is curated without being pretentious—soft beige walls, pale oak floors, and art chosen with taste, not just money.
A massive black-and-white portrait of Eartha Kitt winks at me from above a console table. That feels like Anne.
We pass through a sunken living room: cream sofas, a faded Moroccan rug, books stacked like sculpture. A fireplace that looks unused. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus and something herbal—like Anne has her own candle line she’s keeping secret.
Floor-to-ceiling sliding doors are open to the backyard. The ocean breeze drifts in, light and warm. I really have to think about moving out of the Valley. It’s blazing hot at my place. The A/C never turns off.
Outside, under a wide veranda wrapped in flowering vines, a cozy wooden table is set for dinner. String lights hang in soft lines overhead.
Anne is already there, barefoot, in linen pants and a sleeveless white eyelet top, wine in hand, looking like her day just exhaled.
“You made it!” she says, pouring me a glass from the chilled bottle.
I raise my hands, wiggling my fingers. “I have.”
“Good.” She hands me the glass. “Sit. Rich had a new brick pizza oven installed. We’re having his famous loaded pizza. You’ll love it.”
“Right,” I say cautiously. “You’re talking fast. Am I still in trouble?”
“Remember how we met?” she asks, skipping right past my question.
And just like that, my mind drifts back to one of the most pivotal nights of my life.
We met by accident. I was working a catering gig in Holmby Hills.
The uniform was black, A-line, and way too short.
The top plunged so low I spent most of the night terrified a boob would pop out.
I hated the job, but I needed the money.
Rent was due. My fridge was empty. I’d missed minimum payments on all five credit cards.
Yes—I was sexualizing myself for the paycheck. But I was there to serve food, not the jerk who cornered me during a bathroom break, shoved me against the wall, and tried to pull my panties down.
It happened fast. One second I was pinned—the next, I heard a splat. His eyes rolled back, and he hit the floor.
There stood all five feet, two inches of Anne Park, holding a full glass water bottle like a weapon.
“He’ll live,” she said, coolly.
“I could’ve handled it,” I mumbled.
“I’m sure you could. But it won’t ruin my career,” she said. Then, cocking an eyebrow, “Let me guess—you’re an actress?”
Of course she was right. The man she clocked was powerful. But Rich was more powerful.
When I asked how she knew what was about to happen, I’ll never forget her reply:
“He’d been watching you all night. He’s done this before. Three women tried to report him. He denied it every time. I had a feeling he’d try again. So I waited.”
She saved my career that night. I would’ve fought back. That’s my red line. I don’t sleep with anyone—or let anyone take advantage of me—for a part.
While he groaned on the floor, Anne explained everything to security. He didn’t press charges. Didn’t even look at me. Just slithered out.
Then she turned to me and asked, “Do you have a job?”
“Yeah. I have to get back to work.”
“No. An acting job.”
“Not yet.”
That’s when she handed me an audition. Said if I booked it, she’d represent me. It was for Agent Laura Merton on the primetime drama Emergency.
I booked it.
From that moment on, my life changed. I never thought I’d make it in this city. Not really. I thought I’d crawl back to Indio, defeated. But I didn’t. All thanks to Anne.
And so, to answer her question now, I say, “I’ll never forget it.”
She pats her chest. “Me neither. When I saw you, I thought: This girl has the it factor. But can she act? Then you booked that role, out of the gate. You’ve gone further, faster than any of my clients. So why are you self-sabotaging?”
“I’m not,” I say, sealing the weak denial with a sip of wine.
Anne shakes her head. “Roger’s worried. He thinks you’re a risk to Jaxon’s career. That’s why, after you left, he pulled Jaxon from the deal. That’s why I invited you here.”
My heart drops into my stomach.
“But,” she says—and I love her ‘buts’—“he called back after my meeting. Right before I phoned Jan Marshall, who’s producing Next In Line. Your spot is still contingent on your public image staying intact.”
“What did Roger say?” I ask, now leaning forward.
“Jaxon’s back in. Barely. You need him more than he needs you. According to the focus group, he’d be out of the doghouse if he’d picked Ashley—who, by the way, is still an option.”
I deflate. “Why didn’t he pick her? That would’ve worked better for both of us.”
Anne twists her mouth. She does that when she’s weighing her words.
“Truth?”
“Truth.”
“He didn’t want to commit to any of them. That’s what made you the perfect choice.”
“His commitment issues aren’t my problem.”
Anne tilts her head. Then slowly sits back and takes another sip of wine.
“What?” I ask, seeing the look on her face. “I’m the problem?”
She snorts. “You are the problem, Zara. I’ve tried to wrap my head around this.
I don’t think you feel remorse for what you did—or any real appreciation for what I did for you.
If he’d sent you home in week one, that would’ve been it.
You were rude. Entitled. Oblivious to how dire things were.
So no, it’s not just a him problem. You’re his problem.
You’re my problem. And frankly, you’re your own problem.
So get it together.” She points at me. “I love you, but if you mess this up—I’m done. ”
“Dinner’s ready!” Rich announces, appearing with a giant pizza balanced on one hand. The smell is divine. My stomach turns anyway.
“Oh,” he says, catching the tension.
“I know I made it hard,” I mutter. “I didn’t want to fight him. I wanted to like him. But…” I drop my head. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
“Good!” Anne lights up. “That’s all I ask. And you better, do better.”