Chapter 5
Ava
Cringing, I slide my finger across the screen and lift the phone to my ear.
Her voice detonates through the line, loud enough to make the guy across the aisle flinch. “Where the hell are you?”
Almyra Crowne. One of the biggest power players in Hollywood. And a woman no one wants to piss off. Least of all me.
“Hello, Myra.”
A-listers would kill to have her as their agent. I should be more grateful. And, I am.
Just not right now. Right now, the last thing I need is a lecture delivered at jet-engine volume.
“Do you have any idea the shitstorm I’m handling?” she snaps. “You are neck and neck for the role of a lifetime, and this is a bad look. Get your ass to my office now so we can do damage control.”
As my manager, she’s clearly concerned.
Well, that and she can practically feel her 10 percent slipping through her gold-manicured fingertips.
“Sorry, Myra, I can’t make it to your office right now.”
“Why not?”
I fight with the seatbelt that’s suddenly too tight and exhale hard. If I don’t tell her where I’m going, I’m in breach of contract. Still, I keep it vague. “I’m heading out of town. Just… taking a break.”
“A break?” she repeats. “This is a terrible time for a break. Is this because of those creepy letters?”
“No. I have someone taking care of that.”
Which is true.
Bizarre fan mail comes with the territory, and I’ve learned not to give it oxygen. But this time was different.
He was in my dressing room. Touching my things. Close enough to—
I shove the worst of it out of my head.
Gabe insisted I leave town while he dealt with it. No argument. My brother went full protective mode, and for once, I was grateful.
And the timing couldn’t have been better.
“Then what’s the problem?” Myra presses. “You need to come back and work this out. Display a united front with your fiancé.”
United front?
Is she kidding?
A low, humorless snort slips out. “Ex-fiancé.”
“Ex?” A pause. I can practically hear the panic set in. “You can’t mean that.”
“Oh, I absolutely can.”
The distinct click of one long fingernail tapping against her marble desk suddenly stops. “Detaching yourself from Pierce Maddox is not your best move, Ava.”
“Isn’t it?” I lower my voice. “When the man I’m publicly attached to shoves his dick down another woman’s throat in a viral, ten-million-downloads-later kind of way, consider me detached.”
She exhales in that impatient yet controlled way she’s mastered. Then she levels me with, “It’s a bad time to go gallivanting off while your career is circling the drain.”
I shut my eyes. She’s not wrong.
“Do you or do you not want the role of Princess Luna?”
My brain hiccups. It’s the role every top-tier actress is gunning for. The one I’d already crossed off because, frankly, my chances of winning the lotto were higher.
And I’m still paying dues. And I’ve paid plenty. Just not enough. Not yet.
Still… Myra doesn’t dangle carrots she can’t deliver.
I need more details. “What do you mean?”
“A certain someone,” Myra says coolly, “who shall remain nameless, may have overindulged in vodka and pills and is currently enjoying a very… controlled and discreet situation.”
I blink. “Are you telling me Brookie Hale is in rehab. Or jail?”
“I never said she was in rehab,” she snaps. “Those words did not leave my mouth. And spreading gossip about an A-lister is unconscionable.” Then, without missing a beat, “But if she overdosed, her engagement to a certain NFL quarterback may be over.”
Whispering, I press the phone to my ear. “Ty is leaving her? What a shithead. He can’t just abandon her when she needs him most.”
Myra exhales softly into the line. “Grow up, Ava. This is reality. Not a fairytale. Eight-figure endorsement deals were tied up on both sides. They evaporated the second insurance flagged her as high risk.”
Silence stretches. “If insurance dropped her, she’d have to pay out of pocket. Can she do that?”
“At around ten million dollars? No,” Myra says flatly. “Which is why no studio will touch her. And why I’m mentioning it to you.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the producers won’t wait. And they like you. They need someone who looks good on a red carpet and can handle the press, regardless of the headlines. At the moment, that’s you.”
I roll my eyes. “Is this where you say all publicity is good publicity?”
“As long as felonies are off the table,” she says freely. “We’ve all agreed. You’re perfect. Especially since you’re with Pierce.”
I knew there was a catch. “If this role is because of my attachment to Pierce, then it’s a pass. Pierce and I are unattached.”
“Please. Everyone knows uncouplings make headlines, and re-couplings make even bigger ones. Everyone’s on board.”
“I’m not on board.”
And to add insult to injury, Myra hits me with, “Pierce just signed as the leading man.”
My eyes slam shut. “Absolutely not.”
“Ava Alvarez, are you or are you not a professional?”
I square my shoulders. “I am.”
“Then work with me. Opportunity is knocking, Ava. It’s knocking loud. But it only does so once. Then it moves to the next person in line.”
When I don’t answer right away, she adds, “I’m sure Brielle Blakely would love the role.”
“I’m sure she would. Her claim to fame BJ with Pierce is going viral as we speak,” I bite out, my voice carrying.
The man next to me shoots me a disapproving look. Again. I am absolutely getting kicked off this plane.
Myra finishes with a stake to the heart. “I can do her deal as easily as I can do yours.”
Damn it. I know Myra. It doesn’t matter that she represents me and doesn’t represent her. Or that she represents Pierce because I introduced them.
Myra’s allegiance is to her ten percent. And the moment she feels it slipping away, the claws come out.
“Tick tock, Ava.”
I blow out a breath. I can’t even fault her. Love is love. Business is business. She taught me that better than anyone. And this is her livelihood.
Then, more gently, “I’m only looking out for you, Ava. I called you first.”
She’s right. She represents a dozen actresses she could’ve called.
And this role is a catalyst. Not just because they’re pouring money into it hand over fist, but because Princess Luna is everything.
Fiery. Kind. Powerful. A world built on an Avatar-scale with K-pop-level reach.
It would make me a global phenomenon.
Doubt flickers for a fraction of a second. Isn’t that what I’ve been killing myself for?
Partly, anyway.
All I have to do is say yes.
And tolerate a dipshit for the duration of filming.
I give in. “When do I have to be back in L.A.?”
“They’re not starting for a few weeks,” she chirps excitedly.
But I’m more than a commodity. And damn it, I’m hurt. Mortified. A flesh-and-blood woman with a heart sliced clean open. Something that needs tending before it bleeds out.
I don’t say any of that because one, it would be a waste of breath.
And two, no one cares.
Least of all, Myra.
“This is smart,” she says, satisfied and full of wisdom. “Without it, who knows. Your career might be on life support. It’s just what you need.”
“What I need is a break, or my sanity will be on life support.” I pause. “My oxygen mask first, Myra. Just this once.”
Silence. The kind that crackles through the line while she recalibrates.
The Spin Mistress needs a minute.
“I can buy you a little time.” Then, instead of barking orders or backing me into a corner, she softens. “At least tell me where you’ll be. So I know you’re safe.”
Gabe warned me not to tell anyone where I was going.
But he couldn’t have meant Myra. She’s my manager.
And a friend.
Kind of.
Sometimes.
Just not when I’m bleeding all over the headlines.
I puff air through my cheeks. “New York.”
“New York?” Myra shifts gears like a NASCAR driver on Red Bull. “Why didn’t you say so? New York is perfect. We can get ahead of this. Press tour, morning shows, red carpets. I’ll pull some strings, get you front and center, and—”
“No.”
“No morning shows?”
“No. None of it.” When the guy across the aisle points a cell phone at me, I shove my ball cap lower and whisper, “I’m not doing a PR parade. I’m unplugging. Licking my wounds without a camera crew shoved up my ass.”
By now, Ten Toes is staring.
Myra sighs, long and theatrical.
I can practically hear the click of her Louboutins echoing across the polished marble of her Hollywood Hills home office.
Though calling it a home office is like calling Beyoncé decent at karaoke.
Home implies comfort. That place is an empire.
Twenty thousand square feet of marble, glass, and quiet judgment. A red light spa, two infinity pools, a screening room no one actually uses, and a wine cellar curated by a man named étienne who only wears black.
The thought of her electric bill makes my head hurt. And God only knows how much of the Pacific Ocean gets sacrificed and desalinated just to keep her orchids hydrated and her fountains emotionally fulfilled.
“Let me at least put you up in a hotel,” she offers. “Five-star luxury. Ultra private. No press.”
Do my ears deceive me, or did the words no press really just come out of her mouth?
Tempting.
Bullshit, but tempting.
I flick a piece of lint off my leggings. I can’t tell her where I’m really staying, but if I refuse, she’ll just grind it out of me.
If I accept, it doesn’t mean I have to stay there. “Fine,” I agree.
“You’re making the right decision.”
Myra sounds relieved.
Good. Maybe now she’ll give me a few hours of peace.
“Any preference for the name?”
Hollywood and fake names go together like supermodels and Botox.
For reservations, aliases are standard operating procedure. I always use Viviana for my first name. It’s my given name, even if no one ever calls me that.
Well, except mi abuela. Usually, when my grandmother’s scolding me in Spanish or praying for my soul.
“Kali will have one,” I say. The last name is always her call. And she enjoys it way too much.
If the headlines are kind, I’m a superhero.
If they’re not, I’m a supervillain.
Last time, it was Rogers.
Before that, Banner.
But when Kali went with Wilson, she really committed. She even added a note for the concierge. As in Mrs. Wade Wilson. Deadpool. Not Falcon.
“As long as it’s not Wolverine again,” Myra says dryly. “Your PA is obsessed.”
“Hugh Jackman after a thousand push-ups,” I say. “Who wouldn’t be?” Then I add, firmer, “And no circuit, Myra.”
“Ava—”
“Don’t push.”
For half a second, I think that’s the end of it, and I’ve finally got the last word.
Then she says, “One event.”
“No.”
“It’s for charity.” She lets it sit. Then, quieter, “For veterans.”
Oh, she’s good. She fires a shot right at my Achilles’ heel.
“A charity for veterans?” My skepticism is barely masked.
“I swear, Ava. And it gives context. Explains your absence without screaming damage control.” She smears icing all over the offer.
“Do one day of the circuit and a charity appearance. No sob story coverage of your relationship. No drawn-out interviews. Promote the movie. You’re in, you’re out. And you can have your time off.”
“Really?”
“I’ll leave you completely alone,” she purrs. “Okay?”
Relief pours out of me. I can do a quick round. I promote the film, a few publicity shots at a charity, and I get my privacy.
It’s exactly what I need. “Agreed.”
“Oh, and one more thing…”
God, how many “one more things” can there be?
“It would help if you didn’t show up alone, Ava.”
“Huh?”
“At tonight’s event. You need someone on your arm. Just for optics. It doesn’t have to be romantic. Just a presence. A whisper that you’ve moved on.”
Moved on? Is she insane? It’s been one day.
And while I was picking out floral arrangements and scouting venues for a spring wedding, all at Myra’s insistence, Pierce Maddox was busy screwing his way through Hollywood’s A-list audition line.
On this point, there is no negotiation.
“No date, Myra. No optics. No arm candy. I’ll be at a charity, not the Met Gala. The last thing I need is a rent-a-stud or a fuck buddy.”
That’s when the little boy in the seat in front of me starts bouncing, twisting around to stare at me through a plastic football helmet.
I swallow hard. “I mean fudge buddy.”
“Fudge buddy?” Myra chuckles. “Is there a career killer within earshot?”
I roll my eyes at her preferred nickname for children. “Yes,” I say, smiling sweetly.
The little boy keeps bouncing, blissfully unaware. Either he didn’t hear me through the helmet, or the universe mercifully erased my words from his brain.
If only the universe would extend the same mercy to the paparazzi.
“I’ve got a rock-hard A-lister,” she carries on. “And yes, I mean that both ways.”
My voice lowers. “I don’t care if he’s got David Beckham’s ass and Superman’s thrust. It’s not happening.”
“But—”
“It’s. A. No.”
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We’ve been cleared for departure.”
Finally.
“I gotta go, Myra.”
“Call me when you land.”
“Absolutely.”
And by absolutely, I mean when I feel like it.
The call disconnects, and I watch as the kid launches into a full-on battle with his mother over sitting down and buckling up. He stabs a foam sword into his dad’s ear and drives his mother straight to requesting her second mini bottle of wine.
Sheesh. We haven’t even taken off yet.
God, I feel for her.
I check my bag, hoping I have something that might distract him. Candy. Paper. A pen. A miracle.
The plane starts to push back, and right on cue, the little boy groans that he feels sick.
His mom is already flagging down the flight attendant. “I need to take him to the bathroom.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t,” the attendant says. “We’re about to take off. But there should be a vomit bag in the seat pocket.”
“There isn’t!” his dad snaps, with the urgency of a man who’s survived the hell of projectile vomit and lived to tell about it.
With any luck, it hits the guy next to me. What kind of person picks their nose, thinks no one’s watching, and wipes it on the seat?
I grab his puke bag, and mine, and pass both over the seat.
“Here you go, kiddo,” I say, coaxing a smile. “Better safe than… everywhere.”