CHAPTER 5 RED CARPET ILLUSIONS NORA
RED CARPET ILLUSIONS
NORA
"What the fuck!?” Camilla doesn't bother easing into it. Her voice is sharp enough to slice through the quiet of my bedroom. "Please explain why I wasn't made aware you were getting married before the rest of the world."
I sit on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to my ear, the cream carpet cool beneath my bare feet.
Outside the window, gardeners move methodically across the lawn—the low hum of mowers cutting grass into perfect stripes, shears clicking as they trim hedges into sharp, unnatural angles.
Everything controlled. Everything precise.
Everything exactly as it's supposed to look.
My room smells faintly of perfume and dry-cleaning plastic. A life half-lived out of garment bags.
"I didn't—" I start, then stop, because the truth is slippery and humiliating and lodged somewhere behind my ribs. "It all happened really fast."
“TMZ knew before I did!” Camilla says.
She's pacing. I can hear it in her voice—the way she moves when she's angry, quick steps across hardwood, probably still in her work clothes.
"Nora, it's everywhere. People, Us Weekly, E! News—'Nora Wells Engaged to Producer Wesley Grant.' 'Hollywood's Newest Power Couple.' 'From Page to Screen to Forever.' Articles. Photos. Headlines. And I found out through a push notification."
This is the side of Hollywood I can never get used to. Where everyone knows everything about your life before you're even aware of it.
"I know. I'm sorry. I haven't even told my mom yet," I say quietly. "Or Ollie."
There's a pause then. The kind that means she's softening even if she doesn't want to.
"Oh, Ollie knows." She pauses before taking a breath. “I know this isn’t about me. It’s just…Nor, is this what you want?"
The question lands heavy. Or maybe it lands exactly as heavy as it deserves to.
Is this what I want?
In my head, the answer doesn't come out clean or confident or singular. It comes out layered. Fractured. A thousand smaller thoughts talking over one another.
I've always wanted to get married. I've always wanted the kind of love that anchors you, that gives you a home inside another person. The certainty of it, the safety, the future stretching out clean and bright ahead of me.
But whenever I'd pictured myself standing next to my husband, he didn't have blonde hair and blue eyes that appraised me like an acquisition.
His eyes were hazel—warm and bottomless, catching light like honey held up to the sun. They came with a crooked smile that tilted higher on the left. The kind that made you feel like you were the only person in the room, even when you weren't.
“Camilla it all happened so fast and you know how news breaks here. But I mean why wouldn't I want to be married?" I say instead, because it's easier than untangling the truth.
Camilla exhales slowly. She doesn't push any further because she knows me well enough to hear the dodge even if she lets it pass.
"Listen, I love you and will always support you in anything no matter what. Just as long as it’s what you really want,” she says finally. "Call me when you need to start planning this wedding. And yes, I accept."
"Accept? Accept what?"
"Being your maid of honor."
I laugh because she's right. Of course she's right.
"I'm glad you accepted the non-existent offer."
"Love you."
"Love you too. I need to go and get ready for this awards night. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Oh you better, I need details!”
I hang up and stare at the black screen of my phone until my reflection stares back at me—eyes too bright, mouth set in a careful line, someone who looks composed and successful and nothing like how she feels.
There's half an hour until the awards ceremony.
Just half an hour until I need to slip into the version of myself that knows how to smile on command, how to stand with shoulders back and chin tilted just so, how to be gracious and grateful and glowing under lights that make everything feel both overexposed and somehow not real at all.
I should feel lucky. I know I should.
These nights are what people dream of—the gowns, the attention, the validation that your work matters.
But something about them always makes my skin feel too tight, like I'm watching myself perform from somewhere outside my body.
The conversations are hollow. The laughter sounds canned.
And I can never shake the feeling that everyone in the room can see straight through me to the girl who doesn't quite belong there.
Wes knocks once before opening the door, already dressed and polished. The tux fits him perfectly, of course. His Patek Philippe gleams at his wrist as he adjusts his cufflinks.
Everything always does.
He looks like a man built for rooms like this. For lights and applause and being watched.
“Jesus, you're still not ready?"
"I just have to put my dress on."
"Nora, you know how I feel about being late to these things. It's not a good look.” He lectures.
"Sorry, I just got off the phone with Camilla."
"And?"
"How did the news of this engagement break before I even had a chance to tell my family?"
"I told a few people last night. I was excited and it must have been accidentally leaked."
Accidentally.
"Hey," he says, stepping closer, hands settling on my shoulders. His grip is light but firm, grounding and possessive all at once. "It's just noise. It'll blow over."
"It doesn't feel like noise," I say. "It feels like my life."
He smiles, indulgent. "Tonight is important, Nora. For me. For the studio. Tomorrow, we'll call your family and share the big news together. Now, go put on your dress."
I nod, because it's easier to move forward than to stop everything and ask the room to wait while I figure out how I actually feel.
The red Valentino dress feels like a small act of rebellion when I slip it on. The material is cool against my skin, the color deep and grounding.
I look at myself in the mirror and, for a brief moment, I recognize the woman staring back.
When I step back into the bedroom, Wes's eyes flick over me.
"Why that one?" he asks. "I thought we picked the gold Versace?"
"I just like this one more," I say, instantly aware of how small my voice sounds.
He tilts his head. "Are you sure you don't want to change?"
The question hangs between us, deceptively gentle.
My chest tightens.
I swallow the feeling, and turn back toward the closet.
The Versace is heavier. Louder. The gold demands attention I don't want.
When I step out again, he beams.
"That's better," he says. "You look beautiful."
He kisses me, quick and confident, then reaches for my hand.
"Wear the ring. It'll be a PR nightmare if you're seen without it."
I’d taken it off when I went running this morning and hadn’t put it back on since. The ring is cold when I slide it on. The diamond catches the light, brilliant and unmistakable.
I stare at it in the mirror—gold dress, bare shoulders, engagement ring—and something in my stomach drops. A hollow, sinking sensation like missing a step in the dark.
This doesn't feel like mine.
The awards ceremony is everything it's supposed to be.
Cameras. Cheers. Names I recognize and names I don't. The air buzzes with perfume and ambition and the faint metallic scent of nerves. Flashbulbs go off in rapid succession, white light bursting behind my eyes.
Wes moves through it all effortlessly, a hand at the small of my back, guiding me where he wants me. He shakes hands, laughs, speaks to people he doesn't bother introducing me to.
When they do look at me, their eyes go straight to my left hand.
"Congratulations," they say, smiling wide. "Wes is a lucky man."
I smile back because the world expects me to.
Inside, I'm hollow. Like I'm watching myself from somewhere above.
I answer questions about the adaptation, about the book, about how surreal it all feels, and every word sounds rehearsed even when it isn't.
I keep glancing around the room, tracking Wes's movements the way you track weather—unpredictable, always shifting.
At some point, he drifts toward a reporter, leaning in too close, laughing a little too easily.
I watch it happen without feeling the spike of jealousy I know I should. Mostly, I'm just tired.
I slip outside for fresh air.
The night is cooler, the city stretching out below us in a wash of lights. I lean against the stone balustrade and breathe, trying to ground myself in the solidness of the moment.
My phone rings.
Mom.
I stare at her name until the screen goes dark again.
A text follows almost immediately.
Mom
Call me back as soon as you can xx
Guilt floods me, hot and immediate.
She found out through the news like everyone else. Like Camilla. Like the entire world.
I put space between us through years of short phone calls and vague excuses. Years of choosing this life over the one I left behind. And now she's learned her daughter is getting married through a tabloid headline.
But if I hear her voice right now, I will fall apart. I will cry, and the makeup, the dress, the illusion of control will shatter, and I cannot afford to break here.
Not tonight.
I stay outside until my fingers go numb, until the noise inside feels distant again.
I tip my head back and look up, searching for stars the way I always do, even though I know I won't find them. Not here because LA swallows them whole—too much light, too much noise, too much of everything except the things that actually matter.
But the moon is still there. Full and steady and unchanged.
It's strange how that helps. How something so far away can feel like the only solid thing left.
When I see stars, I think of Dad. Of Jake. The people I loved who became part of the sky.
But the moon—the moon makes me think of something else. Someone else.
It makes me feel less alone. Because no matter where I am, no matter how lost I am, he might be looking up at it too.
And for just a second, the distance between us doesn't feel so impossible.
When I go back in, the ceremony is reaching its peak.
Speeches blur together, applause swelling and fading like waves.