6. Skye
— ? —
Skye
The ballroom is a symphony of false laughter and clinking crystal, and I am drowning in it.
Twenty minutes by the bar. The champagne in my hand hasn’t been sipped, just held - a prop to make me look normal while my mind races through possibilities.
The manila folder is back with Harrison, but its contents are burned into my memory.
Every forged signature. Every fabricated invoice.
Every dollar that supposedly moved through accounts I’ve never seen.
Someone has constructed an elaborate lie about me. Someone with access to foundation documents, or the ability to create convincing fakes. Someone who knows enough about my signature to attempt a forgery but not enough to get it right.
Adriana Stuart holds court at Table 1, her red dress catching the light every time she moves. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way she touches people’s arms when she speaks. The way she can make whoever she’s talking to feel like the only name she came here to learn.
That used to be me, I think again, watching her. That used to be my gift.
No. That is my gift. The gift I stopped using because I was too busy shrinking myself to fit into Jayden’s shadow.
Because somewhere along the way I forgot that I existed before I was his wife, and I can exist after, and the version of me who wrote screenplays and had opinions and dreamed of changing the world is still in here somewhere.
Jayden is across the room, deep in conversation with investors. He hasn’t looked at me once since that moment with the champagne glass. Not once. Whatever connection sparked between us has been swallowed by the demands of business, by the ever-present pull of empire-building.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. A text from an unknown number.
Enjoying the party?
The same number. The same anonymous source who sent the hotel reservations. Who warned me about the red dress. Who has been feeding me information designed to make me paranoid and off-balance.
Who are you? I type back, knowing it won’t go through.
Message not delivered.
Of course.
The shift happens so subtly I almost miss it. A pocket of conversation near the center tables goes quiet. Then another. People reaching for their phones. Heads bending together. Whispers spreading outward like ripples in a pond.
My frown deepens. Had something happened? A celebrity scandal? A market crash? The usual suspects - a drunk starlet, a leaked photo, someone’s stock tanking in real time.
The voice cuts through the growing murmur before I can check my own phone.
“Oh my God.”
Loud. Theatrical. Perfectly calibrated to carry across the ballroom.
My head snaps toward the sound.
Adriana Stuart is standing at Table 1, one hand pressed to her chest, her phone held up like she’s just witnessed something horrific. Her eyes are wide, her mouth open in an almost comical display of shock.
“Oh my God,” she repeats, turning to the board members seated around her. “Have you - Are you seeing this? I can’t - This is-”
More heads turn. More phones come out. The whispers grow louder, more urgent.
And then Adriana looks up.
Directly at me.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room.
And I see it. The calculation behind the performance. The precision of the timing. This isn’t shock - this is a show. A carefully choreographed production designed for maximum impact.
“Skye,” Adriana breathes, loud enough for the nearby tables to hear. “Skye, is this… is this true?”
Every head in the room turns.
A whole room of people. Every pair of eyes in it. All fixed on me.
My champagne glass trembles in my hand. “Is what true? What are you talking about?”
But Adriana doesn’t answer. She just stands there, hand over her heart, performing shock and sympathy for an audience that’s eating it up.
The whispers crash over me like waves.
“-can’t believe she would-”
“-the Foundation, of all things-”
“-children’s charity, how could anyone-”
“-always thought something was off about her-”
My heart hammers against my ribs. My skin feels too tight for my body. Everyone is staring at me, whispering about me, and I don’t know why, don’t know what they’re seeing, don’t know what bomb just detonated while I was standing here holding untouched champagne.
My phone comes out of my clutch with shaking hands.
The screen is filled with notifications. Dozens of them. Variety. Deadline. The Hollywood Reporter. TMZ.
The first headline loads.
VARIETY brEAKING NEWSEXCLUSIVE: Rowland Studios CEO’s Wife Accused of Embezzling from Children’s Charity - Documents Reveal Systematic Fraud
The room tilts on its axis.
No.
The documents from the folder. The forged signatures. Someone leaked them. Someone timed this perfectly - the gala, the crowd, the cameras that are definitely capturing my reaction right now.
Camera flashes. Everywhere. Phones pointed at me like weapons, recording my horror for posterity. The whispers have become a roar, a wall of sound pressing in from all sides, suffocating, inescapable.
And through it all, Adriana Stuart stands at Table 1, watching. Her expression arranged into perfect devastation, perfect sympathy, perfect concern.
But for one brief, electric moment - so fast I almost miss it - her mask slips.
The corner of her mouth twitches upward.
Not a smile, exactly. Something worse.
Triumph.
Then it’s gone, replaced by that manufactured look of horror.
I see it. And something inside me shifts.
This wasn’t just bad luck. This wasn’t an accident of timing or a disgruntled employee or a reporter who stumbled onto a story.
This was orchestrated. Every piece of it.
The anonymous texts designed to make me paranoid.
The hotel reservations designed to make me suspicious of my husband.
The forged documents designed to destroy my reputation.
And the conductor was wearing a red dress.
“Jayden? Jayden!” Adriana calls across the room, summoning him. Making sure he arrives to find his wife looking guilty and shell-shocked while she plays the role of concerned colleague.
The crowd parts for him like water around a stone. His face is a mask of controlled fury as he pushes toward me, and I can’t tell if the fury is directed at me or at the situation or at the universe for disrupting his carefully planned evening.
You did this, I think, staring at Adriana. You planned every second of this.
And I’m going to prove it.
“Skye.” Jayden’s voice cuts through the chaos. He’s beside me now, his hand closing around my arm. “Skye, come with me. Now.”
“Jayden, I don’t understand what’s happening-”
“Not here.” His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. “We are not doing this here.”
“But I didn’t - I don’t know where this came from-”
“Stop. Talking.”
He yanks me through a service door, into the same hallway Miranda led me down earlier. The door swings shut behind us, muffling the roar of the ballroom, but I can still hear it. Still feel it. A room full of people who now think I’m a thief.
“What the hell is going on?” Jayden’s voice is ice. “What did you do?”
“What did I do?” I wrench my arm free, stumbling slightly in my heels. “I didn’t do anything! I don’t even know what those documents are - I’ve never seen them before-”
“They have your signature, Skye.”
“Then someone forged it!”
“Forged it?” He laughs - actually laughs - but there’s no humor in it. “Do you hear yourself? There are bank statements. Transfer records. Exposed to every media outlet in the country. And your explanation is forgery?”
“Because I didn’t do this, Jayden.” My voice breaks on his name. “I would never - The Starlight Foundation is my life’s work. Why would I steal from my own charity?”
“I don’t know.” He’s pacing now, running his hands through his hair, destroying the careful styling. “I don’t know why you would do a lot of things lately.”
The words land like a blow to the chest.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve been different.” He turns to face me, and I barely recognize the coldness in his eyes. “Distant. Paranoid. Accusing me of things, showing up at premieres unannounced, acting like-”
“Like a wife who wants to see her husband?”
“Like someone who’s hiding something!”
The accusation hangs between us in the fluorescent-lit hallway. Dirty dishes clatter somewhere nearby. A server rushes past without looking at us, intent on whatever task requires their attention.
“I have a ballroom full of investors out there,” Jayden finally says. “Board members. Studio partners. All of them wondering if they should pull their money because my wife decided to-”
“I. Didn’t. Do. This.”
“Then explain it to me!” He throws his hands up. “Explain how documents with your signature ended up on every news site in America!”
“I can’t explain it because I don’t understand it!
” Tears are streaming down my face now - I can’t stop them.
The mascara I applied so carefully this morning is probably running in black rivulets down my cheeks, ruining the armor I constructed to survive this night.
“Someone is setting me up. Someone created those documents to destroy me, and you-” My voice breaks.
“You’re supposed to be on my side. You’re supposed to know me better than anyone.
And instead you’re standing here asking me if I’m a thief. ”
The service door opens behind us.
Adriana steps through, her expression arranged into flawless concern.
“Jayden, I’m so sorry to interrupt.” Her voice is honey-smooth, dripping with sympathy.
“The board is asking for you. They’re convening an emergency session to discuss…
well.” She glances at me with something that might have looked like pity to anyone who wasn’t watching for the knife beneath it. “The foundation’s liability exposure.”
“Tell them I’ll be there in five minutes,” Jayden says.
“Of course.” Adriana’s gaze lingers on me. “Skye, I’m so sorry this is happening. If there’s anything I can do to help…”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out flat. Dead. “But thank you for your concern, Adriana. It’s very… convincing.”
Her eyes flicker - just for a second. Then her mask is back in place, and she’s nodding sympathetically, and she’s retreating through the service door with one last pitying glance.
Jayden is already straightening his tie. Already composing himself. Already preparing to face the board, to do damage control, to manage the crisis that his wife has apparently created.
“Stay here,” he tells me. “I’ll have someone bring the car around-”
“Jayden.”
The word forces itself through the tightness in my throat.
He pauses, his hand on the door.
“What?”
“You’ve talked about evidence and investors and liability and PR.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “But you haven’t once looked me in the eye and said, ‘Skye, I know you didn’t do this. I believe you.’”
Silence. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Somewhere in the distance, the gala continues, a ballroom of people discussing my downfall over canapés and champagne.
“Do you believe me?” I whisper.
He stands there, hand on the door, jaw tight.
“I believe,” he says slowly, carefully, each word measured and weighed, “that we need to let Legal sort this out before we make any definitive statements.”
The last piece of my heart - the piece I’d been protecting, the piece that still believed my husband might choose me - shatters.
“Go.” The word comes out quiet. Defeated. “Your board is waiting.”
He leaves. The door swings shut behind him, and I’m alone in a service hallway that smells like dirty dishes and industrial cleaner.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead.
The walls are beige and institutional. This is where they put the things that aren’t meant to be seen - the garbage, the cleaning supplies, the disgraced wife of the CEO.
The tears have stopped. There’s nothing left to cry.
My phone comes out of my clutch. The screen fills with notifications - more articles, more headlines, more people weighing in on my supposed crimes - but I ignore them all. My fingers find Ellen’s contact.
I need you. Now.
The response comes almost instantly.
Where are you?
Beverly Wilshire. Service hallway. Back entrance.
Don’t move. Twenty minutes.
The phone goes dark. The hallway stays silent. And I wait, alone, for the only person who might still believe me.