Chapter 38
Nothing hurts quite like pretending it doesn’t.
Emma didn’t go straight back to the hotel after the interview.
Her feet carried her toward the marina. Past the neon flood of people spilling out of the convention center, past the food trucks exhaling sugar and grease.
The air was cooler here, drifting in from the bay, carrying the slap of waves against the pier. Her phone was turned off, just a harmless shard of plastic and glass in her back pocket. She didn’t want to know when the interview dropped. Didn’t want to think about anything at all.
She leaned against the railing and stared out at the water, streaked golden by the sinking sun. Boats rocked gently, their masts sketching restless lines across the sky.
For a few breaths, she pretended she existed outside everything. That the photo never happened. That her name wasn’t currently ricocheting through headlines and hashtags. As long as she stayed here, she was cut off from all of it. Just an anonymous woman watching the waves.
But the silence didn’t soothe for long.
You’re an actor, Darren.
Her own words washed back over her like a tide.
She hadn’t been prepared for his reaction. That flash in his eyes that wasn’t just anger, but pure, unfiltered hurt.
It shouldn’t have shocked him that she’d had doubts—not after what Leah overheard from Max. Not with how briefly they’d known each other.
But fragmented images flashed through her mind.
His hollow stare through the windshield when he told her about Alana.
The painful bitterness lacing his voice when he confessed it felt right, playing the villain.
The determination in his eyes when he’d demanded her room number, seeing her on the verge of breaking.
Did she truly believe he’d been acting in those moments?
He’d made it brutally clear how much he detested dishonesty. And that was the very thing she’d accused him of.
The wind tugged at her hair, whipping it around her face.
But Darren’s words had hurt her, too. Is this you or Leah talking?
He wasn’t wrong. Ever since she had her breakthrough, she’d become more and more reliant on Leah. Willingly letting herself be steered every step of the way.
It had been a relief, leaning on someone who knew how things worked, who always seemed confident, no matter what. She’d grown so used to it that she barely recognized her own instincts anymore.
At least she’d taken control with the interview—stood up to Leah for once. That was progress, wasn’t it?
Except the cold knot in her stomach refused to agree.
The interview kept looping in her head. Maybe her voice hadn’t been that sharp. Maybe she hadn’t really interrupted the host, just . . . cut in smoothly.
Emma always expected the worst. She was probably just catastrophizing again. It couldn’t have been that bad.
The breeze cut straight through her thin sweater, sending a shiver down her spine. She finally turned away from the water. She couldn’t hide forever.
gig
By the time she reached the hotel, the walk had warmed her skin. But the ice lodged in her stomach didn’t budge.
Inside, the familiar low-grade chaos of Comic-Con closed in around her. She ducked her head and made for the elevators. Whispers pricked at her ears. A fleeting mention of her name, a glimpse of a camera phone angled her way. She turned away from it, not even sure it was aimed at her.
Was this how Darren lived every day? The paranoia alone must have been crippling.
A group of girls in Bonds of Light T-shirts was clustered by the reception desk. One of them gasped, eyes widening, and Emma caught the words “that’s her—Emma Whitehart.”
She hurried past before they could approach. They didn’t know what she’d said on camera less than an hour ago. If they had, they wouldn’t be smiling like that.
She pressed the elevator button, exhaling only when the doors closed her off from the rest of the world.
gig
Leah was already in the suite, perched on the sofa with her laptop propped on her knees. She didn’t look up when Emma entered, just kept typing. The silence felt like a verdict. Emma toed off her shoes and went to sit on the bed, pulling her legs up under her.
“Well,” Leah said at last, snapping the laptop shut. “You sure took control of the narrative. I just hope you set the one you wanted.”
Emma tensed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see when you watch the interview.” Leah’s eyes were cool, the kind of look Emma had seen her aim at lazy assistants or careless waiters. Never at her.
She reached for her laptop, still on the bed where she’d left it when Darren coaxed her away. The half-finished email to Henrietta still sat open. She closed the draft—nothing felt more unimportant—and searched for the interview online. Then she pressed play, bracing.
The video loaded—and there she was. Sitting stiff in the chair, face arranged into something cold and sharp.
It was worse than she’d feared.
Just joking around.
Blown out of proportion.
And the one that made her guts twist: It was nothing.
The words echoed back, sharp as blades. She didn’t like the woman in that chair. The closed-off eyes. The clipped voice.
The lies.
That wasn’t her.
Or maybe it was, and that was even worse.
A rush filled her ears, as if she were plummeting even as she sat frozen. With numb fingers, she grabbed her phone, turning it back on.
Notifications welled over the screen like an avalanche. She ignored them, going straight to the thread with Darren. The tiny, fragile link still open between them. Their last shared message was his joke about the tentacle porn. That felt like a lifetime ago.
Hey, sorry about before. I didn’t mean it like that.
She hit send before she could lose her nerve.
Then typed again: Can we talk? Her thumb hovered. She deleted it, teeth grazing her lower lip.
By the way, I did an interview before, it came out a little off. Not sure if you’ve seen it, but just in case . . .
Rambling. She held down the delete button until the words evaporated. Maybe he hadn’t even seen the interview—why point it out in that case?
Her breath caught when the word under the text flipped from Delivered to Read. She waited, eyes glazed as she stared at the screen.
And nothing.
Somewhere far off, Leah was speaking. Emma jerked her head up. “Sorry, what?”
Leah had changed into a red power suit, hair newly brushed, and lipstick refreshed. She looked perfect—untouchable. “I said I’m headed to that mixer across town. Technically, you’re invited, but I’m guessing—”
“I’ll just stay in tonight,” Emma filled in, forcing a smile. “Intense day.”
“Right,” Leah muttered. “Don’t wait up.”
“Have fun,” Emma called after her, trying to sound normal.
The words bounced against the door as it clicked shut, falling flat in the quiet that followed.
Her phone still glowed in her hand. The unanswered message sat there, burning.
Sorry about before. I didn’t mean it like that.
Not only had she insinuated that every moment between them was a lie—she’d also dismissed him publicly. Her body seemed to fold in on itself, crushed by an invisible force.
She’d taken control of the narrative, all right.
And made everything worse in the process.