Chapter 3
Tiny white lies are the key to first-class treatment.
Emma pulled her PR manager into a hug, sending the coffee sloshing. She ignored Leah’s grumbled protest to watch the clothes, grateful down to her bones to have her there. For someone she’d only met six months ago, Leah had quickly become one of the most important people in her life.
“Oh my god, Leah, this is insane,” she said, pulling back. “Please tell me we’re not sharing with five stormtroopers and a Hulk.”
Leah grinned, handing her a coffee. “Nope. We’ve got our own suite. Top floor. Just one king bed though, so if you snore, you’re sleeping in the bathtub.”
“Hey, I don’t mind a good one-bed trope,” Emma said, arching a brow.
Leah threw up a finger. “Don’t get any ideas, Whitehart. I’m a black belt in reflexive self-defense. I almost poked a guy’s eye out once.”
“I bet he had it coming.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you managed to get us upgraded in the middle of this madness.”
“They had a last-minute cancellation.” Leah’s shrug was casual, but she couldn’t quite keep the smugness off her face.
“And I may have hinted we’re considering a press junket here with the Lucen actor.
You should’ve seen the receptionist’s eyes light up.
Total Bonds of Light fan.” She lifted her coffee in a toast. “Perks of stardom, darling.”
Emma blinked.
“You didn’t—”
“I just insinuated,” Leah said sweetly. “Assumption is the mother of all upgrades.”
Emma laughed despite herself. “You do know we don’t have a Lucen actor yet.”
Leah shrugged, lips pursed conspiratorially. “Well, she didn’t know that. And a lot can change in a weekend. A certain fan favorite is confirmed for the event, you know.”
Emma huffed, masking her faint blush behind a sip of coffee. She didn’t have to ask who Leah meant.
“Now let’s get upstairs.” Leah ushered Emma toward the elevators, eyeing her like a designer assessing a runway model. “You need a shower, an ionic hairbrush, and about a ton of my best concealer. What ungodly time did you get up at?”
Emma grimaced. “Three forty-five.” Just saying it made her brain feel mushier. And she still had a full, meticulously Leah-scheduled day ahead of her.
Leah shook her head. “Jesus, Em. Do you know what concealer costs? I’m adding that to my fee, and you’re the one who explains if Miranda complains about the invoice. Why would you do that to yourself?”
“Day job duties,” Emma muttered, punching the elevator button.
“Ah, yes,” Leah mused, sarcasm radiating out of every pore. “The noble task of ogling Excel sheets. What could possibly be more worthwhile?”
“I can’t just drop everything and leave, Leah. The accounting department is full of summer interns. I put out so many fires yesterday, I swear my eyebrows are still singed.”
Leah waved a manicured hand as they stepped into one of the elevators. “Spare me the details, Whitehart. You’re making me nauseous. Just let me know when you’re ready to quit. I’d love to make that call for you.”
“I’m sure you would.” Emma snorted, picturing it: Leah rolling in like a tornado through her boss’s phone. Poor Adam wouldn’t even know what hit him until the day she simply stopped showing up.
Her coworkers knew about The Bonds of Light, of course—her plan to keep it secret had gone up in flames the second she hit the New York Times list—but they still seemed to think of it as a quirky little hobby.
As if being Head of Controlling at a firm that manufactured standardized industrial parts was the pinnacle of life achievement.
Leah did have a point, though—she couldn’t juggle both careers forever. She was going to quit. Just . . . not yet. She tried to imagine Adam’s face if she’d told him she was leaving. Ever since he’d had to sell off his family business, he’d looked like a sad mastiff, even on his best days.
He’d taken a chance on her when his old head controller went into retirement and promptly vanished to Aruba. Emma had picked up the mantle at twenty-three, along with a paycheck bump that made her jaw drop, and made sure she’d earned it ever since.
Sometimes, it felt like she was wielding magic to make the declining sales figures add up well enough to please the board. But so far, she’d kept any major crises at bay.
There were other controllers out there—probably good ones—and she wasn’t sure what kind of divine intervention would make her take the leap and just quit. Whatever it was, it hadn’t happened yet.
And with the sequel-shaped void on her laptop, maybe holding on to her day job wasn’t the worst idea.
The elevator was sleek and silent, lined with polished cherrywood and the kind of lighting that flattered even travel-worn skin. Emma combed a hand through her long blonde hair. It was slightly messy, but that was pretty much its natural state. Besides, everyone looked disheveled next to Leah.
“Who’s watching the spawn of Satan while you’re here?” Leah asked, eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
Emma shot her a dark look. “The girl downstairs is taking care of Sherlock and Moriarty over the weekend. And they’re doing just fine, thank you.”
Once, just once, her British shorthair Moriarty had given Leah a tiny scratch on the ankle, chasing the sparkly buckle on her pumps. Leah had never gotten over it—the scratch wasn’t the problem, but he had also frayed the satin on her vintage purple Manolos.
Besides that single incident, they were the sweetest, cuddliest cats in the world.
Well, Moriarty was. Sherlock was a bit kooky.
The doors slid open onto the eleventh floor. Leah led the way down the hallway with the effortless stride of someone who lived in places like this.
“Ready?” she said, holding up the keycard.
Emma gave a noncommittal hum that could mean yes, no, or “I slept three hours last night, I don’t know.”
The door clicked open, and she stepped inside, taking in the rooms. A soft huff escaped her.
The suite was bigger than her first apartment. Possibly her second one, too.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with Californian sun, illuminating sleek furniture and paneled white walls. The bed was sectioned off behind an archway, enormous and layered with crisp white linens.
On a tinted glass table in the lounge stood a silver bucket with a bottle of champagne, a handwritten note leaning against it. Emma parked her carry-on and went to pick up the folded paper.
Welcome to San Diego!
We hope you will enjoy your stay with us,
Miss Whitehart.
She exhaled slowly.
“You said upgrade. Not holy-shit-this-belongs-in-Condé-Nast-Traveler.”
Leah closed the door, looking just a touch smug. “Told you. I have skills.”
Emma turned in a slow circle, taking it all in: the skyline view, the plush blue velvet couches, the faint scent of citrus and polished wood. She went up to the bed and let herself fall backward, the sheets sleek and cool against her skin.
For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Suspended between who she’d always been and who everyone suddenly seemed to think she was.
And right on cue, like a wave catching up with her—
Nerves. Adrenaline. Expectations.
That familiar unease stirred beneath her ribs. Never fully gone, only sometimes tucked away.
Leah had gone out of her way to make this weekend extraordinary.
Emma had no idea how to live up to it.
Leah sipped her iced coffee by the window. “So, not to stress you, but you’ve got about twenty minutes to change. I’ll order breakfast—something sweet and carby to kick-start your brain. We’ll go through your schedule in the car.”
Emma sank deeper into the bed. She curled her fingers into the duvet, trying to ground herself.
“Can I just have five minutes? I’m exhausted, Leah.”
Leah didn’t miss a beat. “That’s your own damn fault for not flying in yesterday like a normal person. And for not quitting your job already. And for probably wasting your brain on something with the words Q2 performance in the title rather than sleeping on the plane, no?”
Emma covered her face with a heavenly soft pillow. “Shut up.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“You’re never wrong.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Leah picked up the room service menu and scrutinized it like a six-figure contract. “Also, don’t kill me, but I added something to our schedule tonight. Rooftop gathering for all the panelists. Very chill. Good mingling opportunity. Open bar.”
Emma peeked out from under the pillow. “You said calm night in for day one. I think I have it in writing somewhere.”
Leah shrugged, unapologetic. “Change of plans. This is Comic-Con, Emma. Everyone who matters is here, and Miranda doesn’t pay me to have you hang around in your hotel room. If you want to eat Skittles in bed and rewatch Gossip Girl in your Hufflepuff jammies, do it back in Minneapolis.”
“It’s Ravenclaw,” Emma grumbled.
“If you say so,” Leah snorted. “Look, show up for an hour, smile enigmatically at important people, and say, ‘I just write the voices in my head’. That’s it.
That’s literally the whole job. Now go shower.
We need to get through badge pickup before your first interview, and professionals don’t do late. ”
Emma sighed, letting her eyes close. Sleep deprivation thrummed in her skull, nerves prickling at what lay ahead.
And that was before she’d even factored in a possible Darren Cole sighting.