Chapter 1
one
. . .
Natalie - Three months later
The anxiety makes me nauseous.
I roll onto my side and shove my face into the pillow, breathing in laundry detergent. Light slices through the gap in my blackout curtains, striping my floor in the harsh Los Angeles light. Deep breath in. Slow breath out. My pulse still skips like it’s late to its own meeting.
Big day. Career-changing day. Let’s not puke on it.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Then again. Then again. Whoever’s messaging is certainly committed, so I grope for it and squint at the screen.
The writers’ group chat is going off.
Jonah
Still can’t believe you actually did it!
Wren
FlixPix!! Do you know how huge this is??
Eric
When’s the contract signing? We need to celebrate properly
Iris
You are my idol.
Brody
Does this mean you’re going to forget about us little people?
A slow, stupid smile creeps in despite the nerves jangling in my stomach. They’ve been hyped since I told them last week, but seeing the words this morning makes it feel less like a dream and more like my actual life.
Seven years of writing. Five pilots that went nowhere. An inbox full of polite “no” emails that said the same thing in slightly different fonts.
And then Spellbound happened.
My phone buzzes again, pulling me away from the group chat. Stella. My best friend since she took my yoga class three years ago and declared we were soulmates over post-class smoothies.
Stella
Don’t forget we’re getting drinks tonight to celebrate. And by drinks I mean YOU’RE buying because you’re about to be RICH and FAMOUS
Me
I’m not rich yet. And definitely not famous.
Stella
Details. See you at 7!
I finally peel myself out of bed. My feet hit the cool hardwood and I shiver as I shuffle to the kitchen. The electric kettle is already full, because last night Me set it up for this morning Me. Thoughtful bitch.
I flip it on and open my laptop while I wait. Nineteen new emails since I crashed at two in the morning.
Most are trash. One isn’t.
From: Victoria Wexler
Subject: This morning – see you at 9:45!
My stomach flips so hard it feels like whiplash.
Natalie,
Confirming we’re all set for 10 a.m. at Hays it only knows how to plan.
My phone rattles across the desk again.
Mom
Big day for my favorite daughter! Call me after. I want to hear everything. Love you so much.
My chest tightens, in a good way. My mom doesn’t gush, exactly, but she never misses when it matters.
She was twenty-two when she got pregnant with me after a one-night stand with a guy on his way to law school on the East Coast. She could have called him. She didn’t. She pressed pause on her own law school plans instead, raised me, and then went back when I started elementary school.
She graduated at the top of her class and then built her own family law firm. And she never once made me feel like I was the thing that derailed her life.
Me
Love you. I’ll call later.
A second text pops up as I hit send.
Dad
See you this morning. So proud of you, kiddo.
I smile before I can stop myself.
Because that extremely prestigious entertainment law firm I’m heading to?
It’s my dad’s.
When my mom found out he’d moved back to LA, she eventually told him about me. I’d just started fifth grade and he had a wife and a baby on the way. Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it.
But I’ll give him this, he stepped in without hesitation and hasn’t missed a moment of my life since.
Most people don’t know he’s my father. Partly because I kept my mom’s last name.
Mostly because I didn’t want anyone assuming the only reason I made it in Hollywood was because Ryan Cole happens to be the guy who helped raise me.
Don’t get me wrong—I had advantages. A solid education.
Connections I could tap if I was desperate enough.
A safety net most aspiring writers would kill for.
But I also worked my ass off. Every pitch, every draft, every rejection—that was mine.
The privilege opened a few doors. My work is what kept me in the room.
When I told him about the FlixPix offer last month, he practically vibrated through the phone. Then he got quiet and said he wanted his firm to handle my contract.
Contracts? Legal landmines? That’s where I’m perfectly happy to ride the nepotism bus, right up in the front row.
I take another sip of matcha and push away from the desk. Time to face the other big question: What the hell do you wear to sign your first TV deal?
My closet is a collection of thrifted band tees, yoga gear, vintage jackets, and black.
A lot of black. I push hangers aside until my fingers hit the black blazer I bought for pitch meetings.
I tug it out and pair it with dark jeans and boots.
Professional, but still me, and maybe some writer chic vibes.
Reaching back in for an old band tee I know I have somewhere in my closet, my hand brushes soft cotton. I pull it free without looking.
A faded gray T-shirt.
My heart stutters.
Jake’s shirt sags between my hands, smelling faintly like fireworks and the ghost of a cologne that isn’t really there anymore, but which my brain insists is.
Heat creeps up my neck as the memory crashes in.
His hands on my hips. His mouth at my throat.
The easy way he made me laugh. How his eyes, almost translucent in the low light, tracked every move I made, like he’d been waiting for me.
How it felt when I pulled this shirt over my head after, skin still humming, and he just watched, looking like he wanted more.
I’d told him it was one night. No complications.
He’d actually listened.
We haven’t crossed paths once since. Not at premieres, not at mutual friends’ parties, not even on social media. It’s like the ground swallowed him up.
Probably better that way. Cleaner.
And yet, sometimes I catch myself scanning crowds at industry events. Wondering if he’s thinking about me too. Not that I’ve been missing him or keeping an eye out. Of course not. I don’t do that.
I clutch the cotton for a second too long, then shake my head and shove it back into the closet.
Today is not about a one-night stand with a ridiculously hot guy.
Today is about Spellbound. About the fact that some junior executive at FlixPix read my pilot and didn’t send a form rejection.
About the years of working two jobs and writing on my breaks and watching everyone else move on with their lives while I chased this thing that might never work.
I take a quick shower, and get ready, keeping my makeup light but polished.
Concealer, liner, mascara, a swipe of berry on my lips.
I make a few attempts to twist my dark hair up and clip it, then pull loose a few lavender streaks around my face.
In the mirror, I look like a woman who signs TV contracts on weekday mornings.
Perfect.
I grab my bag, double-check I have my notebook and a pen, then head downstairs to meet the Uber idling at the curb.
As we pull away from my place, I press my forehead lightly to the window and watch my city slide by. My stomach roils, a queasy flutter. Just nerves, I tell myself. Excitement mixed with terror mixed with the reality that today actually matters.
I was born here, raised here, and even attended UCLA. LA isn’t a dream to me; it’s just home. Messy and loud and overcrowded and mine.
We pass the coffee shop where I wrote the first draft of Spellbound in between yoga classes. The studio where I still teach three times a week to keep my body and bank account from collapsing. The bar where the writers’ group meets once a month to celebrate any win, no matter how small.
All these tiny, ordinary places that got me to this very un-ordinary morning.
By the time downtown rises up ahead of us, glass and steel catching the sun, my palms are damp again.
The Uber stops in front of a high-rise that looks like it was designed to intimidate people. It’s filled with law firms. Hays & Cole takes up the top floors, because of course it does.
I stare up at it, heart thumping. I head inside to the lobby where everything is marble and glass and very intentional art. My boots squeak faintly on the polished floor.
Victoria stands near the elevator bank with her phone to her ear and gesturing like she’s closing another big deal for the day.
She’s in a sleek red blazer, black trousers, and heels that could be used as weapons.
Her face breaks into a grin when she spots me.
My agent has been with me for the last eighteen months, and believed in Spellbound even when it was still rough around the edges.
She was also one of the only agents who agreed to respect my need to make it on my own terms.
She ends the call, slips her phone into her bag, and waves me over.
Here we go.