Chapter 12
AMY
Isaid it before, and I’ll say it again. Chronic illnesses really suck.
They always hit when it’s least convenient. Well, realistically speaking, stress increases flare-ups, and upcoming events equal stress, so it makes sense. But I don’t want it to make sense.
I did everything right to make sure I’d be at my best when I finally met Eli.
I finished all my work ahead of schedule, staying late at the office more nights than I should have.
I traveled up north twice to help with wedding and Christmas shopping—just in case Eli and I decided to spend Christmas together somewhere, just the two of us.
And now? Now I feel like I’m coming down with the flu.
Except it’s not the flu; I know the difference. When I flare up, everything flares up. So for the past three days, I’ve been on strict rest, rotating through my cocktail of flare-up meds: hydroxychloroquine, cyclobenzaprine, and my short course of prednisone.
Which means I’m missing Melinda James’s signing tonight.
I sigh, my gaze drifting toward the dress hanging in my wardrobe.
It’s midnight blue, shimmering under the soft glow of my bedside lamp.
The sheer mesh bodice is delicate, scattered with tiny crystal stars that catch the light like a constellation stitched onto fabric.
Long sleeves taper at the wrists, and a velvet band cinches the waist before the skirt spills into elegant pleats, flowing like ink down to the floor.
It’s stunning. The kind of dress that belongs in red-carpet photos and dream sequences.
Not on me.
I swallow hard. On the hanger, the dress is magic. But when I put it on… will I see myself as a fraud in someone else's fantasy? Will the cameras see the impostor I feel like?
I didn’t even know you could rent designer dresses past a size 16. I always thought those rentals were made for sample-sized women who don’t have to worry about whether their arms will fit in the sleeves or if the waist will actually sit at their waist.
But somehow, this one exists. For me.
Maya marveled over it, saying it made my big boobies look good enough to eat. And despite my furious blush, I want Eli to look at me like that. Like I’m good enough to eat.
Especially since our first meeting will be on that red carpet.
It’s a rental, of course. There’s no way I’d buy a dress that costs half my rent. Even the rental price, ￡250 for two nights, is scandalous.
But if I’m going to stand next to Eli in front of cameras, I have to look the part.
I just hope, when the moment comes, I feel like I belong.
I already feel better—the forced house arrest worked, and I probably could have pushed myself to go to the signing. But Eli is far more important, and I wasn’t about to take any chances.
Besides, Maya is so firmly on Team Bang the Hot Nerd that she offered to go in my place, braving what she lovingly refers to as the crazy dorks, aka me and the other die-hard Persefia fans, to get my book signed.
She even offered to slip Melinda a little note I wrote.
Because apparently, I am that person now. The kind of person who writes heartfelt letters to their favorite author, like they’re in some kind of coming-of-age film.
But honestly? I don’t even care.
As if on cue, Pea hops off the bed just as the jingle of keys echoes from the front door.
There’s a hiss, followed by Maya’s muttering, “Move, Satan.”
I can’t help but laugh.
Seconds later, she bursts into my room, practically vibrating with excitement, a pile of books stacked precariously in her arms.
“You do realize you were only supposed to pick up one book, right?” I say, arching a brow.
“Oh, but you wait!” She slams the books down on my dresser with a dramatic flourish, and I wince at the impact.
I barely have time to open my mouth before she steamrolls right over me.
“Your fave author wasn’t the only one there. Guess who else showed up?”
I sit up a little straighter, suddenly way more interested. “Who?”
Maya’s grin is wicked. “Maggie Myers.”
My jaw drops. “Wait—what?”
We love her. She was phenomenal as Elizabeth in Midtown Castle.
“But, why?”
Maya flops onto the foot of my bed, kicking off her heels. “They announced, exclusively, that she’s playing Selena.”
I frown. “Who?”
“Celeste?”
Realization clicks into place. “Celandine?”
She waves a dismissive hand, her red-tipped nails slicing through the air like tiny daggers. “Yeah, yeah, if you say so.”
I squeal. “Oh my god, she’s perfect!”
Maya smirks, then sighs dramatically. “Also, I’m sorry to say this, but… I think Jake Hollander is in love with me.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what now?”
“Yep. Your beloved Prince Smolder was there, too, and let me tell you—girls lost their minds.” She flops onto her stomach, kicking her feet up behind her, and suddenly, I’m transported back to our teenage years—lying on my childhood bed, whispering about boys like we were cracking some grand mystery.
I narrow my eyes. “Jake Hollander was there?”
She nods, grinning.
“Well, good thing I didn’t go,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “I’ll already have to be in the same room as him tomorrow. Twice in one week might have been too much.”
Maya snickers. “I know you hate him, but honestly? He was kind of adorable. Very charming, very knowledgeable. And Melinda really seemed to like him.”
I hmph in protest. Of course she did. That’s the problem, isn’t it? The world loves Jake Hollander. But I know better.
“Oh, and also?” She flips onto her back, shooting me a sly look. “You’re so lucky I’m happily married because the guy? Totally obsessed with me.”
It makes sense. Maya is stunning—even by Hollywood standards. Tall, toned, effortlessly elegant. She could easily give any starlet a run for their money.
“You are beautiful,” I tell her honestly.
She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. “Yeah, yeah. But you know what that means?”
I arch a brow. “What?”
Her grin turns wicked. “It means I’m officially your rival. Prince Smolder wants me.”
I groan, shoving a pillow at her face as she cackles.
“No, but seriously,” she says, pulling the pillow down, still grinning. “He spent so much time talking to me, and the line was just waiting. He kept asking why I was there, and when I said I was picking up books for my friend, he started asking about you.”
I freeze. “What?”
She smirks. “Mm-hmm. Asked what kind of person you were. Then, because I have zero self-control, I told him about your chronic illness, and get this… He actually cared. Like, genuinely interested. Not dismissive. Not awkward. Just… invested.”
I hmph again, crossing my arms and pouting.
Maya snorts. “Oh my god, you are so cute when you sulk.” She slinks up the bed and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Come on, grumpy, let’s talk about your actual date tomorrow.”
“It’s not a date,” I mumble.
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, sure. You’re just meeting your internet boyfriend for the first time ever at a glamorous movie premiere, looking like a literal goddess. But not a date.”
I glare.
She beams. “When’s lover boy getting here?”
“Late tonight,” I say, stretching my legs out. “But we’re meeting at the premiere. It’s… safer that way. Public. Less pressure.”
Maya wiggles her eyebrows. “Perfect. Rebecca will be here at three to work her magic—my treat.”
I blink. “Rebecca?”
She gasps. “Don’t tell me you thought I’d let you do your own hair and makeup for this?”
I groan, but she ignores me, continuing at full speed.
“I want my BFF to get laid.” She pauses, then points directly at my crotch. “Speaking of… did you take care of the, you know… situation?”
I choke. “Maya!”
She shrugs. “What? You don’t want to be caught unprepared in case you finally get some sexy nerd action.”
I bury my face in my hands. “Oh my god.”
She cackles, flopping onto her back. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
I huff. “I’ll be taking an everything shower tomorrow.”
That sends her over the edge. She squeals, sitting up so fast she nearly headbutts me. “My Ames is getting laid! My Ames is getting laid!” She sings it like a freaking victory chant, complete with a drumbeat against my mattress.
“Maya, stop!”
“It’s been so long,” she fake sobs, clutching my arm dramatically. “You probably have cobwebs.”
I shove her away, laughing despite myself. “Oh my god, I hate you.”
“No, you love me.” She smirks, flopping back onto my pillows. “And soon, so will Eli.”
I don’t reply. Because God help me, I hope she’s right.
By 4:00 p.m., the day of the premiere, I’m a bundle of nerves.
It’s ridiculous, really. I’m not the one walking a red carpet. I’m not the one about to be blinded by a thousand camera flashes or asked inane questions by reporters. But still, my stomach is a mess—a twisting, fluttering knot of anxiety and anticipation that won’t settle.
Rebecca hums as she finishes the last touch of my makeup, stepping back to admire her work. “Okay, now you can look.”
I exhale, then turn to the mirror.
For a second, I don’t recognize myself.
The dress. That dress is somehow even more stunning now that I’m wearing it.
Midnight blue, shimmering like a sky full of stars, the sheer bodice delicate yet daring, hinting at just enough without giving too much away.
The velvet band cinches my waist perfectly, and the way the pleated skirt flows down to the floor makes me feel like I belong in some kind of ethereal fairy tale.
And my hair? Rebecca outdid herself. It’s swept up in an elegant but soft updo, wisps of brown curls left loose to frame my face. My makeup is flawless, subtle but polished, just enough to make my features pop without feeling like a mask.
I look… beautiful. A real Persefia princess.
I can’t help but smile at the thought.
Maya lets out a low whistle from where she’s lounging on my bed. “Damn. Damn. The hot nerd is done for.”
I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch into a smile.
Speaking of Eli…