41. Reese
Chapter 41
Reese
December 12th
WHERE IS REESE SINCLAIR? Star Goes Dark Amid Rumors
December 17th
brEAKING: Robyn Hood Destined for Box Office Disaster, Industry Insiders Say
“Fair warning: the entire Hastings clan will descend upon us the moment we get inside.” Dante laughs, pocketing his phone.
“Wait, let me do my family tree recitation one more time,” I say, inhaling deeply in what I hope is a calming breath but feels more like preperformance hyperventilation. “Alec, Brooklyn, Cameron, Ezra, and Francesca. Parents are Selene and Leo. Cameron’s with Daphne, Ezra’s with Hazel, and I’m currently having an existential crisis.” I tick off each name on my fingers like I’m counting down to launch. Luckily, his siblings are named in alphabetical order, from oldest to youngest, which makes them easy to remember.
“You know,” he says, “most people just wing it and hope for the best.”
“I just want them to like me,” I confess, my voice small. What I don’t add is that their approval feels like a life raft in an ocean of uncertainty—which is probably not the healthiest metaphor I’ve ever come up with, but hey, we’re working with what we’ve got.
Dante opens the car door for me, and immediately we’re bombarded by screaming paparazzi.
“Reese! Reese! Over here!” they shout, cameras flashing like strobe lights.
“Did you cut your hair during a breakdown?”
“How long have you two been dating?”
“When’s the wedding?”
“Reese, are you checking into rehab?”
“Is it true you’re taking a break from acting?”
The questions make my stomach turn. Not a single one about Robyn Hood . I push down the thought as Dante shields me from the chaos. The cameras continue their relentless assault as we make our way inside the elegant On Cloud Nine hotel overlooking the San Francisco coastline, where we’re greeted by a luxurious space filled with fashion-forward guests and the subtle scent of expensive perfume.
The Hastings family is clustered together, and I have to steady myself. Even after years in Hollywood, where beautiful people are basically a currency, this family is different. They’re unfairly, outrageously gorgeous, the kind of beauty that makes you want to check if there’s spinach in your teeth or if your dress is on backward. Dante’s father, Leo, is distinguished in sleek black, while his mother, Selene, shines in emerald green, her curls doing that perfect, caught-in-the-light thing that makes it look like she’s glowing.
Together, with their children around them, they’re startling.
“Everyone,” Dante announces as we reach them, “she needs no introduction, but I’ll do you all the honor anyway, my Reese.”
His Reese.
My heart flutters at the words, but not for long, as a whirlwind of energy in a shimmering metallic silver suit with sparkling flames dancing up the sleeves practically ricochets into our space.
“Is that my scarf?” She points at Dante’s neck, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“You forgot it in your car, so I put it to good use,” Dante drawls, tugging at the scarf with a cocky smirk. “Though I guess I can’t complain about you raiding my closet, little sister.”
“Ugh, he’s impossible.” The girl rolls her eyes dramatically before turning to me with practiced nonchalance. “I’m Frankie. Thanks for those signed posters, by the way. They look great in my trailer at the track.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“Hey, since we’re here…” Frankie pulls out her phone with a mischievous grin.
“Don’t you dare,” Dante warns, swatting the phone away.
“Oh, stop! I’d love a photo.” I laugh, earning an approving smile from Frankie. She bends down, and we take the photo, our cheeks pressed together.
“Oh my god, you are fucking ripped!” Frankie squeals, looking at my biceps, which are clearly visible in my gown. “Your arm muscles are nicer than Dante’s.”
I do feel strong tonight.
Another figure approaches, her movements graceful and precise. “Don’t mind our youngest,” she says with a gentle smile. “I’m Brooklyn. And can I say, we were obsessed with your movies growing up! We used to act them out in the backyard.” I notice how conversations around us quiet, replaced by scrutinizing glances that dart away when caught.
“Oh my gosh, you never told me that!” I exclaim, poking at Dante’s chest.
Frankie snorts. “Probably because he’d have to admit he dressed up as your character from Heartland Heritage .”
“Complete with cowboy boots and belt buckle.” Brooklyn’s pink lips curl into a smirk.
“I have no recollection of such events.” Dante puts his hands up, but the telltale redness climbing his neck betrays him.
“Oh, don’t deny it; he’s your biggest fan,” Brooklyn insists. Like Dante, she radiates that magnetic Hastings DNA.
“Well, I’m his biggest fan as well.” I laugh.
A tall, brooding man steps forward. “Cameron Hastings,” he introduces himself, then turns to the vibrant woman with purple hair beside him, his eyes filled with unmistakable pride. “And this is Daphne.” The way he says her name makes my heart squeeze—it’s like watching someone describe their favorite constellation.
Daphne beams, adjusting the knitted bow tie at Cameron’s neck. “Hi! I’ve heard so much about you!” Her enthusiasm is infectious. Cameron never stops staring at her, tracking her movements like she’s the sun and he’s caught in her orbit.
“Your dress is absolutely gorgeous,” I say, admiring its intricate details.
“She made it herself,” Cameron interjects before Daphne can respond. His voice is so rich with obvious adoration that I blush hearing it. Daphne twirls, the handmade dress flowing around her like liquid starlight.
“Let me get us something to drink,” Dante murmurs, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Champagne for you?”
“That would be nice,” I say, still unsettled by the scrutinizing glances that seem to follow our every move.
“Be back in a sec. You good here?”
“Of course.”
As Dante weaves through the crowd, Leo and Selene approach, holding hands. “We’re so glad you could make it tonight,” Selene says, her voice carrying a maternal comfort that instantly puts me at ease. “Let’s rescue you from this chaos. I’m Selene. Thank you for coming tonight and for your donation.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
“Welcome to the madhouse,” Leo adds with a bear hug. “Dante hasn’t stopped talking about you.”
“ So , about those premiere tickets…?” Frankie springs forward, earning an exasperated “Francesca!” from Selene.
“What?” She shrugs. “He’s being so cagey about it!”
“The whole family is welcome, and friends too. It would be my pleasure. This movie would not be what it is without your son. His help with my choreography was everything.”
“Yes, he’s mentioned,” Selene smoothly redirects. “We can’t wait to see you both on screen. And please, our home is always open to you. We’d love to have you.”
Watching Selene and Leo with their children, it’s hard to imagine them sending Dante away to boarding school. They seem so loving, so connected to each of their kids’ big dreams and adventures.
But maybe that’s exactly why Dante rebelled. Growing up in a family like this would be enough to make anyone feel like they needed to carve their own path and set themselves apart.
Before I can properly process the wave of belonging that crashes over me, the doors swing open to reveal four more figures.
I recognize Alec first; the entire room seems to shrink around him. Despite being the shortest of the brothers, he’s monumental in his own right. With Leo’s chiseled features and Selene’s chestnut curls, he’s the spitting image of both parents combined into something formidable. His tattooed arms fill out a crisp white shirt cuffed at the elbows, beaded bracelets and climbing ropes wrapped around his wrists like badges of honor. His eyes command attention. Dark, watchful.
“Before you ask, Mom—yes, we are still going on the K2 expedition,” he announces.
Selene’s groan is pure maternal concern. “I can’t discuss this death-defying adventure of yours anymore. I’ve made my point clear.”
“We’ll be fine,” Alec says with quiet confidence. He automatically positions himself between his family and the crowded room.
“Totally got this,” a man beside Alec says. His shirt matches his friend’s, his own wrists adorned with similar climbing tokens. “Hi, I’m Finn, by the way!”
Alec acknowledges me with a measured nod, his assessment palpable, checking to see if I’m worthy of his baby brother’s attention.
“And I’m Ezra,” says a striking figure with dirty blond hair that sets him apart from his siblings, though the sharp Hastings features are unmistakable. “This is my fiancée, Hazel.”
The woman beside him is breathtaking. Intricate tattoos wind up her arms like living art, and her dark curls cascade past her shoulders.
“Oh gosh, congratulations!” I exclaim, spotting the ring.
Frankie groans dramatically. “Don’t get too excited. These two are going to be engaged until we’re all in retirement homes.”
Hazel shifts, looking embarrassed. “Oh, you know, just taking our time. No rush,” she says, waving her hand dismissively, as if trying to brush away the attention.
Dante returns with champagne flutes balanced expertly in his hands. “I see you’ve met the oldest and youngest of the Hastings clan,” he says, passing me a glass. “And some of our adopted family members too.”
Dante drapes an arm around me, and I nestle into his side, taking in the scene before us. Even now, he holds himself slightly apart. Sure, he shares Brooklyn’s sharp steel edges, and his tattoos match Alec’s intensity, the way Leo’s chain echoes Dante’s rings. You can see his fire doubled in Frankie’s spirit.
Yet there’s something different about him, something you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him well.
I understand how being part of such an extraordinary family could push someone to either shine brighter or burn out trying.
A group of well-dressed executives is approaching us. The crystal glasses in their hands reflect the light like warning signals.
“Incoming,” I say to Dante and smooth my dress, mentally running through the talking points that Geraldine prepared for me.
Talk about Robyn Hood . Talk about working with Amara. Talk about all of the impressive stunt work I’m doing.
Focus on the important things.
“Dante!” A man in an impeccable suit completely ignores my presence. “The head of Red Bull wants a word about that charity initiative you brought up at our last meeting. Did you know he used to sit on the USFA committee? Could be a great connection for you to have with your review coming up.”
My tight smile falters. “Reese, come with me,” Dante says, his eyes bright with excitement. “There are some people I’d love you to meet.”
“No, no, you go ahead,” I say. “I think I saw some old friends from my last film.”
Dante kisses my cheek before he’s swept into a whirlwind of admirers. My stomach stirs with an emotion I’m actively filing under Do not examine too closely .
I should be happy for him. No, scratch that—I am happy for him. Getting to speak with someone who used to be on the USFA committee could be his chance to get his suspension lifted. His ticket back to the fencing world he loves and misses so much. The rational part of my brain is doing cartwheels of joy.
But there’s another part of me that feels exposed and scrutinized as I stand here alone. And based on the sideways glances and hushed conversations around the room, I don’t think my discomfort is just paranoia.
Across the ballroom, I spot a group from Love and Loathing , including Amrita Gupta, Kyna Wright, and Jaxon Elio, huddled near the bar with a few other A-list actors. I hesitate, my stomach churning at the thought of approaching them—especially after that weird interaction with Jaxon at his birthday. But as I scan the room, I realize I’m running out of options. The Hastings family has scattered to their own social circles, and I refuse to be the clingy outsider trailing after them all evening.
Besides, I reason with myself, these are my industry peers. If I want any chance at salvaging my reputation, I need to start somewhere. Even if that means facing the very people I’ve alienated. Taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I make my way over.
“Hey, everyone,” I say, my voice carrying a forced lightness I don’t feel. The response is a chorus of mumbled acknowledgments and awkward nods.
Amrita’s eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before she deliberately turns away, angling her body to close their circle. Kyna, who last summer was begging me to consider a role in their upcoming project, suddenly becomes fascinated with their phone.
Jaxon, however, doesn’t hide his disdain.
“Well, if it isn’t Reese Sinclair,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be over there with Dante?”
“I—”
“We were just discussing the upcoming pilot season,” Amrita adds, her tone clipped. She pauses, taking a calculated sip of her martini. “Though with all your recent…press, I imagine you might be taking a break?”
The implication hits like a slap. These people, who once clamored for my attention at every event, are now treating me like I’m radioactive.
Maybe I am?
“Actually, I’m attached to several promising projects,” I lie, but Amrita’s already engaging Kyna in an obviously forced conversation about their new beach house. Jaxon’s eyes roll as he mutters something about reputation under his breath.
I stand there, the weight of their rejection settling heavy in my stomach. I’ve been in this industry long enough to recognize a subtle execution when I see one.
Gathering up what’s left of my dignity, I make my way to a quiet corner of the ballroom.
The whispers, the averted gazes, the way bodies physically shift away. I snatch a champagne flute from a passing waiter. Fragments of desperate and train wreck float to my ears and make me want to sink through the floor.
Suddenly, I’m a pariah?
I cut my hair and stopped being their perfect girl, and I’m no longer acceptable?
This is so unfair, it hurts. It cuts deeper than Felix’s rage-filled directing, deeper than stumbling through fight sequences until my feet bled, deeper than countless humiliating interviews where they tried to strip away my dignity one invasive question at a time.
I’m embarrassed.
An abandoned table stands by the windows, and I settle at it. I search for Dante, wanting to curl up under his big arm, but he’s across the room, standing with the same executives who came by earlier, his easy laughter carrying over the crowd.
Things seem to be going too well for me to pull him away.
“Room for one more outcast?”
I startle, looking up to find Destiny Hope standing at my table. Her sleek black dress hugs her curves, strawberry blonde hair cascading in loose waves.
A year ago, her face graced magazine covers with headlines screaming about her latest scandal. Though now I can’t recall what it was. Back then, I might have politely excused myself from her presence, not wanting to be associated with someone the industry had labeled as “difficult.”
The irony makes me want to laugh and cry simultaneously.
“Please.” I gesture to one of the many empty chairs surrounding me. “I seem to have plenty of space.” My laugh comes out more bitter than intended.
“Destiny Hope,” she says.
“Reese Sinclair,” I reply, then cringe at my automatic need to introduce myself—as if anyone in this room doesn’t know who I am, and for all the wrong reasons. “Loved your latest album,” I add, trying to fill the awkward silence with something, anything.
“Thank you.” She slides into the chair. “Couldn’t help but notice you’re getting the full freeze-out treatment tonight.”
My shoulders cave inward. “Obvious, huh?”
“People can be so vicious.”
“Oh no, they aren’t—” I pause, swallowing hard. “There’s no point in playing pretend here, is there?”
“They always love you,” she says, each word falling like a stone into still water, “until they don’t. You try to hide? They scream mental breakdown!” She jabs a finger into the air. “Show your face in public? Oh, you’re just seeking attention. Stay quiet?” A harsh laugh. “They assume you’re checked into The Meadows.”
“It’s brutal. I thought, maybe naively, that I was going to take control of my own narrative.” I shred a napkin into tiny pieces, watching the white fragments scatter across the dark tablecloth like snow. The room suddenly feels too loud, too bright, too exposed. “I mean, I’m sure you understand, but all I wanted to do was live my life outside of the woman I’ve been for twenty-nine years. I wanted to be—”
“Normal?”
“Unconstrained.”
“They always need someone to tear down. You’re it. Last year it was me, the year before it was what’s-her-face.” Is that what this is? A full-blown teardown? “When I released Disrepute and entered my new era, I wrote songs about my career struggles, about female friendship, about my own growth.” She rolls her eyes. “But since it was such a big shift away from my typical country love songs, they saw it as an opportunity to take my voice into their own hands.”
There’s a peculiar intimacy in shared exclusion—a sort of fellowship in falling from grace that feels both devastating and strangely freeing.
“I’ve never been on this side of it.”
“That can’t be true! What about that mess with Ricky way back when?”
I cringe. “You know about that?”
“Who doesn’t, darling? You were assaulted on stage, an underage woman accepting her first award.” She rolls her eyes. “I remember reading how his bombastic show of affection was swoon-worthy . No one dared to comment on how scared you looked after the kiss.”
I was disgusted, violated, and afraid. The only thing I remember going through my mind was, Smile, smile brighter, play it off, don’t be problematic.
Everything is different now. I don’t want to be smaller.
“How did you get through it back then?”
“Back then, the media attention wasn’t aimed at me. They saw Ricky as some lovestruck, committed boyfriend. But I guess if it wasn’t for my family, my agent, my best friend…I don’t know how I would’ve made it out alive. I felt so alone.”
“As long as you have people around you that you can trust, you’re going to get through this.”
I have all those people around me still, and I know they’ll stand by my side. I have Dante too—I scan the room to find him, and his eyes catch mine across the crowd. I love him, I know I do. The feeling blooms in my chest like wildflowers after rain, messy and inevitable and perfect.
Even though I can’t map out where we’re heading or if there’s a destination worth reaching, even though I’m as new to relationships as a baby deer is to walking and Dante has commitment issues tattooed across his heart in invisible ink, I do know we trust each other in a bone-deep way that makes everything else feel like background noise.
Maybe that’s enough of a starting point.
“How long did it take for everything to—?”
“Go back to normal? It never did,” she says, each word a hammer strike. “But it was a year of hell before it started to simmer down. Every outfit criticized. Every performance torn apart. Every relationship dissected.”
A year of this? The fake smiles, the whispers behind my back? How am I going to promote Robyn Hood in the face of all of this?
“To be honest with you, that just makes me want to hide in a hole.” I laugh sardonically.
“That’s exactly what you can’t do. I tried it—pulled myself out of the public eye for a month, then two. But I missed the freedom I felt after letting my real voice out there, and once you get a taste of that, you can’t let it go. Take it from me.”
Destiny’s hand finds mine, as if she can tell my mind is putting me through the wringer. “Honey, they’ve already decided what you are—too wild, too flawed, too real.” She sweeps her hand across the room. “And why wouldn’t they when they insist it’s their right to decide, like we signed away our right to be human? Like all those journalists aren’t turning our pain into their entertainment so the world can act shocked when we break.”
There’s something devastating in the way we’ve learned to internalize our own destruction, to mistake survival for weakness. “I don’t want to break. I want to get through this,” I say, determined now.
“You will. Everyone before you did.” She counts off on her fingers. “Britney had a breakdown? They never asked why. Lindsay struggled? Turned it into a punchline. They can try to reduce us to our bodies, our relationships, our beauty secrets.” Her laugh is bitter. “But that only works when we stay in their perfect little boxes. We can’t let them pit us against each other, make us compete for a few seats at the table.”
“We should be building longer tables together.”
“Exactly.”
“Look.” She smiles. “Why don’t I help you show up in a way that matters? The Women in Media gala is the day after Christmas, and I just so happen to be on the board. We need a speaker. Gloria Steinem had to cancel.”
“Me? Are you sure?”
“Yes. Come use your voice. No one ever gave me a chance to speak up; no one cared. So, I’m giving it to you.”
The invitation hangs. I take a slow sip of champagne, letting the bubbles dissolve on my tongue. Through the window, the city lights blink like distant stars, each one a story waiting to be told.
My story, perhaps.
Not the tabloid version, not the Reese-and-Dante version, but mine.