Chapter 5
San Diego Comic-Con—home to awkward celebrity encounters
and strategically placed plants.
Emma nearly missed the curb as she stepped out of the car. The sheer scale of it hit her all at once—loud, bright, impossible to take in.
The convention center stretched out endlessly, glass panels folding over the building like a breaking wave. Palm trees swayed lazily above the crowds streaming toward the entrances.
An elderly couple shuffled past arm in arm—the man in a Batman cap, the woman sporting a Wonder Woman tiara—both beaming with joy. Emma managed a small smile, wishing she could borrow even a sliver of their ease.
Across the street, even the Gaslamp Quarter had transformed—entire facades wrapped in towering movie posters. Voices rose and overlapped around her in a cheerful, chaotic swell.
It should have been exhilarating.
Instead, a thin film of anxiety clung to her skin, refusing to let the sunlight warm her.
“Come on,” Leah said, nudging her back into motion.
The driver had dropped them at the far end of the convention center. Emma blinked when she saw the massive line zigzagging through the turnstiles.
“We’re not . . . standing in that, right?” she blurted. Judging by the length, they’d get inside just around closing time.
“Of course not.” Leah ushered her forward. “That’s the Everything Else line, for mere mortals.”
“Everything else but what?” Emma asked as they walked past people fanning themselves with glossy flyers.
Leah’s heels clicked against the sidewalk. “Hall H has its own setup. And then the Next Day Line, of course—the line to stand in line for Hall H. That’s down by the bayside.”
“Of course,” Emma said weakly. That Darkreach panel suddenly felt very far away.
They slipped through the professionals’ entrance, Leah leading the way with practiced confidence.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted. Still buzzing with excitement, but tuned to a different frequency—denser, more focused. Something tightened low in her stomach. Darren might actually be somewhere in this building.
Digital displays glowed along the walls, cycling through floor plans and event countdowns. A Darkreach teaser flashed across a screen, and Kael Ferros’s eyes met hers for half a second. Emma flinched—then rolled her eyes at herself. Thankfully, Leah was a few steps ahead and didn’t notice.
They picked up their badges at the pro desk, along with tote bags full of merch. Emma slipped her lanyard over her head, glancing down at the glossy badge. The word talent gleamed in bold beneath her name, making her feel both flattered and slightly fraudulent.
“Did they misspell your name or what?” Leah said, already heading toward the escalator. “Let’s go.”
Emma adjusted the badge, letting out a slow breath as she followed.
The main backstage area was on the second floor, tucked in behind the meeting rooms where the panels and events took place. The moment they cleared security, a staffer intercepted them, bright-eyed and over-caffeinated. Recognition lit up his face.
“Emma Whitehart! Welcome! Want the grand tour?”
“Make it the petit tour, yeah?” Leah said, with one eye on her phone. “We’ve got someplace to be.”
“Of course you do.” He waved at them to follow.
Emma’s pulse picked up as they went deeper into the maze of rooms and corridors, her awareness sharpening with every step. Every corner felt like a possible collision point with Darren.
The staffer gave them a whirlwind orientation of the layout: cafeteria, press area, and several green rooms, spread out for convenient access to the different stages.
Backstage was . . . surprisingly unglamorous. Pallet jacks, stray ladders, mismatched chairs. More like a makeshift warehouse than a movie star holding area. Still, a performative tension hung in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment that there were VIPs present.
Emma spotted several famous actors sitting around with their phones or talking to their handlers. None of them were him, though. She forced her breathing to ease. Passing out from anticipatory starstruck panic was probably not accounted for in Leah’s color coding.
Leah was still deep in concentration over her phone when the staffer finished the tour, leaving them outside a room full of podcast booths.
“Okay, I need to check in with the press desk to set up a few things,” she muttered. “Shouldn’t take long. You’ll be fine on your own?”
Emma clutched the tote bag tighter against her shoulder, backing out of the way for a young starlet and her rowdy entourage. “Define fine.”
The look Leah gave her was equal parts fond and exasperated.
“Well, I would tell you to find a few famous people and take selfies for your Instagram, but I’ll settle for not hiding in the bathroom.
Go grab a coffee or something. I’ll be right back.
” With that, she disappeared down a side hall, heels clicking menacingly.
Coffee sounded doable. Emma retraced her steps toward the cafeteria, forcing confidence into her stride. She was allowed to be here. The badge on her chest said so.
The backstage corridors were confusing, and she ended up looping past the same set of green rooms twice. An actor she recognized from a fantasy show gave her a warm nod in passing. She nodded back, surprised at how much that tiny gesture steadied her.
This wasn’t so bad. If she just let herself relax a little, maybe she could even . . .
She turned a corner—and skidded to a full stop. The blood drained from her face.
A tall, dark-haired man stood ahead with his back to her, handlers orbiting him like planets around a sun. Emma’s pulse spiked instantly, heat and ice flooding her veins. For one suspended second, the world seemed to narrow to the line of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.
Darren Cole.
Alive, in the flesh, right there.
And she would have to walk straight past him.
She swallowed hard, debating what to do. This was nothing like the airport fantasy. No slow motion, no subtly sensual score in the background. Just fluorescent lights, a crowd of handlers, and Emma with suddenly useless legs.
Also, she had imagined meeting him head-on, like that fantasy actor. Now what should she do? Just walk straight by and not acknowledge him? Risk a glance over her shoulder and probably trip over her own feet?
Emma forced a breath. Okay. She could do this. She was an adult woman, perfectly capable of putting one foot in front of the other. Even in the presence of a man she may or may not have written Lucen fan fiction about when plot arcs got too exhausting.
She would just walk past. No big deal.
She took one step. Then another.
Then promptly sidestepped behind a very large ficus, conveniently placed by the side of the corridor.
Perfect plan. He’d move on soon, and she could just . . . hang out here for a while.
“What are you doing, Whitehart?”
Emma jumped, leaves rustling as she whirled around. “Jesus, Leah!”
Leah stared. “Why are you standing behind the ficus?”
Emma smoothed her blouse, trying to regain some dignity while her pulse settled back to somewhere in the human range.
“I’m just . . . I’m considering getting one of these for my apartment,” she said, patting a leaf.
Leah’s gaze flicked past her, then back, suspicion sharpening on her face. “Are you hiding from Keanu Reeves?”
“I’m not—wait, what?”
She stuck her head out from behind the plant. The man had shifted, face half in view.
Older than Darren. More rugged.
Definitely Keanu Reeves.
Leah’s brows raised. “Another celebrity crush I should know about?”
Emma scowled, stepping out from her hiding place. “What do you mean, another?”
“You’re weird,” Leah said, flicking a leaf out of Emma’s hair. “Brilliant, but weird. Now move. We’re late for your first interview.”