Chapter 23
AMY
“It’s fun,” I say, glancing at Mariana. She’s… nice. Or at least she plays nice. It’s almost easy to forget she’s Hollywood royalty until she smiles just a little too perfectly.
“It is,” she agrees, her nod elegant and rehearsed. “It’s been a while since I spent time with someone outside the business. It’s… entertaining.”
I blink, unsure if that was meant as a compliment or an insult.
I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know either.
She’s breathtaking—there’s not a line on her face, not a flaw in sight.
She must be flirting with forty, but she doesn’t look a day over thirty.
I make a mental note to sneak a selfie later for Maya.
Proof that I sat this close to a woman most people only see on screens.
“Jake said you’re taking us for a girls’ day? A spa?” I offer, trying for common ground. “Sounds fun. My best friend and I do that sometimes.”
Mariana laughs—it’s light, airy, and somehow sharp. “Oh, darling, I don’t think it’s quite the same.” Her gaze sweeps over me from head to toe, calculating. “I’m taking you to my aesthetic spa. We’ve got a lot of work to do and only seven hours.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m… not sure what you mean?”
“Jake’s bringing you to the premiere tonight, isn’t he?”
I nod slowly, still not connecting the dots.
“Well,” she says, her voice like silk and ice, “we need to make sure you’re… presentable.”
The word lands like a slap, and heat crawls up my neck. “Jake likes me the way I am.”
“Oh, of course he does, sweetheart.” She waves her hand like she’s swatting away the thought. “Our Jake is so in love. Anyone can see that.”
For a moment, the tension breaks until she smiles wider. “But we don’t want to make his life harder, do we?”
Something cold sinks in my stomach. “Harder how?”
She sighs, all faux sympathy. “Your relationship is going to stir up negative press. And Jake?” She shrugs lightly. “He’s loyal. Too loyal. He’ll fight for you, burn through every bit of goodwill just to protect you. But wouldn’t you rather he saved that energy for something worth it?”
And it stings because maybe she’s right. I can’t stop thinking about yesterday at the park. About the girl. The camera. Jake’s voice, sharp and furious, on film. I already know it’s a PR nightmare in the making.
She places a manicured hand lightly over mine. The touch is soft, the meaning anything but. “Your relationship is already set to crash, darling. Let’s not make it easier.”
I yank my hand back and clench my jaw. “We’re not going to fail.”
Mariana offers a sad little smile that makes me want to scream. “Of course not, dear. You’ll be the exception.” She tilts her head. “Now your hair. I think we need to lighten it a little. You’re very pale. You’ll disappear next to him on the carpet.”
“I’m fine the way I am.”
Mariana hums like she’s humoring me. “Plenty of celebrities date normal people, sure. But tell me when’s the last time that actually worked?
And I don’t mean some old couple from before social media existed or a washed-up D-lister clinging to his high school sweetheart.
I mean, A-list heartthrobs like your Jake.
Name me one who’s lasted five years or more. ”
She lifts a brow, smug. “I’ll wait.” A glance at her watch. “Thirty minutes until Silver Spring Spa, darling. Think about it.”
“I love him,” I whisper.
“Of course you do,” Mariana murmurs, almost kind. “That much is clear. Maybe love is enough.”
“Will believes in us.”
That earns a laugh, unapologetic and somehow real.
“Will Winters?” She grins wide. “Oh, honey. Will believes in fairy tales. Hell, Will is a fairy tale—chaotic, messy, completely unrealistic.” She leans in.
“I’ve known him since the day he landed here.
Popped his Hollywood cherry—on-screen, don’t get excited.
” She winks, all teeth. “Ask him how his ‘normal’ worked out. He wants this for you because if you can pull it off, maybe it means he wasn’t a fool to try. ”
She leans back, swirling the olive in her drink. “Spoiler, sweetheart, he was.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard, forcing myself to look out the window.
Mariana sighs, all fake regret. “I can see I hurt you. Wasn’t my intention.”
Liar.
I say nothing. The city blurs past while my nails dig crescents into my palms.
She keeps going, soft and sweet now. “I do want Jake to be happy. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to help. To make sure—for one night—you look like someone who belongs in his world.”
I bite my lip until I taste blood. I don’t trust her kindness. Never did. And sitting across from Jake these past few days, ordering lasagna while he sticks to grilled chicken and brown rice, it only drives her point home.
Or the way he disappears for three hours every day to train, chasing perfection while all I want is to curl up next to him… so instead, I open my laptop and start working on that damn book.
By the time we reach the spa, it feels like I’m being delivered for execution. High walls. Cameras. Armed guards.
I swallow hard. “Are you sure this is… a spa?”
She chuckles. “It’s many things, dear. But mostly? It’s private.” She traces the perfect line of her nose. “They work miracles here. You’ll need one.”
I don’t reply as the car stops. Four women wait outside, no smiles, just clinical efficiency.
“She’s got a premiere,” Mariana says, bored. “She needs… everything.”
The women eye me like a problem. A before photo. And then they’re pulling me away.
For five hours, I’m scrubbed, poked, waxed, and reshaped. My hair is washed, glossed, and straightened until it falls mid-back, gleaming with honey highlights I never asked for. My nails? Long, fake, polished to a rich neutral pink that screams expensive.
And my face… god. Layers of makeup until I barely recognize myself. My skin is flawless, my cheekbones sharp, and my eyes wide and hollow.
They shove me into a glass-walled room where Mariana waits, drink in hand. Another woman stands beside her, clipboard tucked under her arm, her eyes like knives.
“This is Sam,” Mariana says. “One of the best personal stylists in LA. We need to… fix this. She’s Jake’s girlfriend.”
Sam’s eyes narrow. “Hollander?”
Mariana sighs. “I can’t explain it either. Just—fix it.”
“I’m right here,” I snap.
Neither of them blinks.
Sam circles me like she’s sizing up livestock. “Breasts are decent. Waist… hips… thighs… we’ll need control. Shape it. Contain it.”
Control it? Jesus.
She clicks her tongue. “I’ve got a few pieces for… plus-size.”
The word hits like a slap. My stomach twists, and my breath hitches so hard it feels like my ribs might crack. My throat burns, but I force the words out, small and shaky. “I’m a US twelve.”
Mariana grins, swirling her drink lazily. “By Hollywood standards, darling, anything over a six is plus-size.” Her gaze drags down my body slowly. “Clearly.”
Bitch.
I bite down hard, but I don’t flinch. Not in front of her.
Sam snaps her fingers. “We’re going pin-up. Classy. Sexy. Timeless. Something that commands attention.”
Mariana smirks. “At least it’ll keep the curves in check.”
I bite my tongue so hard it bleeds.
An assistant wheels in a dress bag. Sam unzips it like it’s a weapon, revealing deep crimson satin that glows under the lights.
“Your armor,” Sam says simply.
Off-the-shoulder. Sweetheart neckline. Bodice tight and full swing skirt. A goddamn vintage dream.
“You’ll wear it with this,” Sam adds, pulling a wide black patent belt. “Snatches the waist. Classic hourglass. Hollywood eats that up.”
“But I don’t even look like me anymore.”
“That’s kind of the idea.” Mariana hums, her eyes gleaming. “And it keeps the attention where it belongs—on the décolletage. Not… the thighs.”
I stiffen. “Are you always this horrible, or just saving it all for me?”
She gasps, hand to heart, but the glint in her eyes gives her away. “Sweetheart, I’m helping. If you can’t take a few jabs from me… you’ve got no idea what’s waiting out there.”
I stand there, still as stone, wishing I could disappear. Not from Jake. Not from love. But from all of this. From them.
But disappearing? That’s exactly what they want.
So I square my shoulders, bite the inside of my cheek, and let them paint me into something they can stomach.
And just like that… I know.
If this is Mariana being kind, the world waiting outside? It’s going to destroy me.
By the time we pull up to the house, the sun’s long gone. Security lights flood the driveway, bright and harsh, flashing like paparazzi bulbs.
The driver kills the engine, but I don’t move. I just stare at my reflection, at the stranger staring back, flawless and perfect.
Hair like silk. Nails pristine. Makeup airbrushed into something otherworldly.
The red dress hugs every curve, the patent belt cinches my waist so tight I can barely breathe, and the black stilettos on my feet scream Hollywood.
It’s everything Mariana wanted. And none of it is me.
When I finally gather the courage to step out, he’s there—leaning against the sleek black limo like he stepped off a movie poster.
Tuxedo sharp enough to cut, tie perfectly knotted. Effortless. Untouchable. Every inch the movie star.
Then his eyes find me. And for a moment… he stops breathing. The whole world seems to hold its breath with him.
“Fangirl…” His voice is low and rough, like the word hurts to say. “You’re… absolutely mesmerizing.”
And I know he means it. I know.
But all I can hear is Mariana’s voice, echoing in my head like poison. See? I told you. With the right polish… you could almost pass for someone worth choosing.
He steps closer, his fingers brushing lightly over my waist carefully, like he’s afraid to wrinkle the fabric. Afraid to ruin the perfect picture.
“I mean it,” he murmurs. “You don’t even look real. Part of me wishes we could skip all this… go back inside, and I could just worship you.”
It should thrill me. It should make my heart race, but instead, it stings.