46. And the Award Goes To…
46
AND THE AWARD GOES TO…
Harlow
No big deal.
Maybe she didn’t see us after all. Maybe Isla’s face just looks like… that.
Maybe she did and she doesn’t care.
She hasn’t been around the table yet tonight. Everything will be fine. But as I return to the ballroom, my pulse is spiking. Prickles of sweat form on the back of my neck as I walk past the French doors again while the host takes the stage.
It’s Jude Fox, the British charmer who broke out on TV in Unfinished Business . He strides to the center of the stage as I scurry back to my seat.
“So lovely to see all of you tonight, and just remember if you enjoy your host, it’s custom to tip extra on the way out. I’ll pass a hat around,” he says.
The crowd chuckles softly, and my pulse starts to calm.
That was nothing with Isla. That was nothing at all.
I reach my chair and sit down, then let out a huge breath. She saw nothing. She knows nothing.
I glance around the table, reorienting myself. Someone from Vivian’s agency must have left for the restroom since there’s an empty chair next to Dad. He’s holding Vivian’s hand. Bridger is across from me. Dominic’s next to him. A few other agents are here. All is fine.
I breathe steadily again, settling back into the night, trying to focus on Jude’s monologue when I hear the sharp stab of stilettos against the floor.
The sound stops, and she’s here.
With a flick of her swishy hair, Isla drops into the empty chair and snaps her gaze to my father. “Derivative?” she hisses. She sounds like a snake.
My skin crawls. I tilt my head, listening as dread worms through me.
“Isla, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” my father says to her in his most placating, charming tone.
She whips out her phone, waggles it like a weapon, then she shoves it into his face. “It’s a pass, calling Happy-ish …derivative.”
Even while holding her loaded gun of a mobile phone, she manages to sketch angry air quotes.
Jude’s melodic voice booms from the stage, filling the ballroom. “And now for the Best Actor category. The nominees include Dominic Rivera from Sweet Nothings …”
Isla doesn’t stop. She doesn’t seem to care that one of the actors she crafts scenes for has been nominated for an award. What is she doing? Is she about to break up with my father in front of the ballroom of his contemporaries?
Holy smokes. I actually feel bad for him.
“I can’t believe this. After all I did for you,” she hisses to my father. But it’s a stage hiss, designed for the whole room to hear. “After all we shared, after Paris, after you broke my goddamn heart…You did this.”
She’s not dumping him. He’s already dumped her. My married father broke it off with his lover.
I drop my face, embarrassed for him. His affairs have gotten messier by the year, by the month as his ladies overlap increasingly.
Vivian jerks her gaze from my father to Isla and back. “Ian?” she asks. And that one word contains every question a wife could ask in this moment.
He squeezes her hand, like he did to Roselyn way back when. When Roselyn checked into the spa. “Nothing to worry about, Vivvy love.”
Isla huffs haughtily as she brandishes that phone like it’s evidence in a trial. The people against Ian Granger in the case of rampant infidelity. “There’s plenty to worry?—”
Bridger clears his throat, lifts a hand as a stop sign, and cuts in. “Isla, now is not the time and place.”
His cool voice seems like it could soothe a wild beast, but Isla whips her gaze to him. Red fumes billow from her eyes as Jude rattles off the other nominees for Best Actor. “Oh, you’re one to talk about time and place,” she says to Bridger.
But he remains calm, trying to keep the peace. “Yes, I am the one to talk because that pass came from my office.” His volume low, but his command high. “You can take it up with me after the event. Not during ,” he says, laying down the law.
Only Isla is evidently lawless tonight.
She glares at Bridger, shakes her head. Then, her smug smile from the ladies’ room returns. “But won’t you be busy after the event?”
He narrows his eyes. “Not. Now,” he bites out.
Isla’s grin turns wickedly wider. “No, I think now is the perfect time to discuss where you’ll be,” she says, then points at me. “ With her .”
My heart stops beating. My cheeks flush. The embarrassment I felt for my father moments ago reverses. Now, it blankets my entire body as Isla busts us in front of the table.
In front of one man in particular.
My father blinks, startled and confused. But then, he would never believe his princess would do such a thing. He deals Isla a sharp stare. “Let’s stop this. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
With fire in her green eyes, the scorned woman—scorned by love, and scorned by business—lashes out for the entire ballroom to hear. “Don’t gaslight me, Ian Granger. You know damn well what’s going on.”
With an amused chuckle, he shrugs. “I have no idea why you’d bring my daughter into this. I’d love to know.”
It’s a challenge, spoken as if he holds the winning cards.
I brace myself for more bullets.
Isla tosses her head back and laughs, almost like a beautiful villain in an animated flick. But not that cartoonish. She’s all real and vitriol.
I can’t let this go on, so I seize the chance to control the story. “Dad, I can explain,” I say quickly. I’m not a teenager anymore covering up affairs before someone might go insane.
Bridger jumps in next with, “Let’s go into the hall, Ian.”
But Isla will not be vanquished. With a contemptuous eye roll, she spits out, “I brought your daughter into it?—”
“Please stop,” I beg to no avail.
Isla stares at her former lover, ready to deliver a fatal blow. With a devilish grin, she starts up once more, but nope. No way. I’m not going to let her cheapen me.
“I’m in love with Bridger,” I blurt out right as Isla says, “She’s fucking the man who turned down my script.”
Then, I’m shaking. Breathing hard.
I think this is shock.
No one speaks.
Not even the host.
Not a single guest.
No one.
Then, a glass shatters in the silence. I jerk my head toward the sound. Across the room, a server must have dropped a glass of champagne, the flute shattering on the marbled floor.
But the show must go on. From the stage, Jude tries to wrestle control of the rubbernecking and the ten-car pileup. “And on that dramatic note, the winner for Best Actor is Dominic Rivera from Sweet Nothings .”
It takes several seconds to register, and then Dominic blinks, but he doesn’t move from his chair. He’s riveted by the table and the scene unfolding before all our eyes. Then he recovers, stands, and weaves through the crowd toward the stage.
But no one is looking at the star actor who’s nabbed a statuette for his work on a nighttime soap.
Everyone is staring at Table Twelve as we steal the spotlight with our real-life soap opera.