35. Madness #4
You’ve got this. You’re grown. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. You perform on stage all the time—this is no different.
My fingers find my necklace again, twisting it between them.
A quiet, sardonic laugh slips out. Pathetic.
Of course it would be his category. Of course they have me presenting it.
Like the universe couldn’t resist setting me up.
I smooth down my skirt again, exhaling sharply before I can spiral any further—
Cool, familiar arms wrap around me.
I turn to see Ava grinning from ear to ear before her face drops.
“Hey, pretty lady,” she says. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m nervous.”
“The ex?” Ava asks quietly.
I nod.
“I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”
She fingers the small locket at her throat, hesitating for half a second before opening it. “It’s snow,” she says gently. “Just something to take the edge off.”
I shouldn’t.
“Go on,” she teases. “Live a little.”
The words echo—Julian’s voice layers over hers.
My stomach flutters, caught between the past—where everything hurt—and the urge to let go of it all. I promised my mom I’d live a little, didn’t I? When in Rome.
“Okay.”
Ava moves quickly, setting it all up. She places the small silver spoon against my nostril—here goes nothing.
I inhale, feeling the sharp sting of something foreign.
What the fuck.
I have the urge to sneeze and cry but I manage to stop myself. Ava blows my face, drying my watery eyes, grounding and ungrounding me all at once. I chase it with my drink, swallowing too fast.
“I don’t feel anything?”
“Give it a sec,” she says.
A haziness creeps in slowly. The edges soften. Julian fades, Alex drifts into a memory. Broderick feels like a daydream. My body feels lighter, no longer anchored to the floor.
Oh, this is nice.
No wonder people do this.
Mike grins as he walks back toward me. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
The cue light flashes green—but for a second, it looks like a fairy dancing. Probably just my imagination.
We step out into polite applause, the audience a blur of perfect posture and camera-ready smiles. Everything feels slightly unreal, like I’m watching myself from a few inches above.
Mike hits his mark at the microphone, glancing out at the crowd before dropping his voice into mock seriousness. “Just a heads-up, Elena—this next category is stacked. Are you sure this isn’t just a list of your exes?”
I give him a flat look. “Wow. Dumping me already? And we just made it official backstage.”
The crowd laughs. He smirks.
I feel light. Airy.
Untouchable.
“Oh, come on—you’re far too gorgeous for a schmuck like me. Isn’t she stunning, folks?” He makes a show of raking his hand up and down as the applause builds.
I arch a brow. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mike.”
Another wave of laughter.
“Alright, alright—we’d better present the award before I get in trouble with my wife.” He chuckles. “This next category celebrates the performances that held us captive—”
“—and occasionally made us cry into our popcorn,” I add.
“A collection of unforgettable roles,” Mike continues, “and heartbreakingly handsome leading men.”
I tilt my head, confused. “Was that your line or mine?”
He grins. “I think it’s safe to say we both felt it.”
We laugh together.
“The nominees for Best Supporting Actor are…”
I read each name listed on the prompter. Applause rising and falling around us.
I open up the envelope in my hand and see his name.
I look up—Alex sits composed in the front row. Devastating in a navy tux. His smile is picture-perfect.
But his eyes—locked on mine—burn.
And no amount of drugs can quiet what slams into me. The feelings come fast and feral. My heart thuds so loudly I’m sure it’s echoing through the theater.
“And the Oscar goes to…Alexander Westerberg for The Kingmaker.”
He stands and makes his way up the stairs like he’s done it a hundred times.
Mike hands him the trophy and shakes his hand.
Alex leans in, his lips grazing my cheek.
“I need to talk to you,” he murmurs, barely audible. “It’s important.”
Now? Here?
The urgency in his voice sends a chill straight up my spine—but I keep smiling. Nod once. Step aside.
He turns to the microphone, trophy in hand. The crowd thunders.
Everything slows—my heartbeat, my breath, the shape of my mouth still fixed in that polite, composed smile.
Keep it together.
Alex thanks his mom, the Academy. His team. And his co-stars.
He doesn’t mention me.
Thank God.
Then, he turns and reaches for my hand.
Not staged. Not scripted.
“Alex?”
I try to pull away, but it’s half-hearted—like my limbs aren’t entirely mine.
“Let me go.”
Alex’s grip tightens around my wrist. His touch presses at the wounds he left behind.
“Never again,” he vows, his blue-gray eyes boring into mine—desperate, hopeful even—and the memories of us together come rushing back.
My stomach drops as he pulls me offstage. In the front row, eyes widen—one actress presses a hand to her mouth. What could possibly be so urgent that he would do this in front of all these people?
But my feet move anyway—surrendering to my fate as I let him drag me into the darkness.
Fuck.