Chapter 43
Goddamn it, Keanu!
Emma stood just inside the backstage entrance, heart pounding high in her throat. She had no idea what she’d say to Darren—only that she needed to try. That she was done being afraid.
Backstage was a mess today, with Con fatigue settling over everything. Crew and handlers swarmed the corridors, trailing clients, hauling equipment, muttering into headsets. Emma slipped through them with single-minded focus. No one even looked at her.
She’d found out online that Darren was supposed to be at a Darkreach signing in half an hour. The problem was—she had no idea where he’d be before that.
So she circled the main hallways, tensing every time her gaze caught on a tall, dark-haired man.
None of them were him.
Her mind kept looping the same question: What if he didn’t want to see her? What if she’d already ruined it beyond repair?
But even that fear wasn’t enough to stop her. By now, she’d made so many pointless laps she was probably one step from being flagged as suspicious, but she didn’t care. She kept moving.
And then—finally.
Her breath hitched. There he was. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair gleaming under the lights. He had his back to her, surrounded by an unusually large entourage. It was vaguely intimidating, but never mind. She’d come too far to let a group of handlers scare her off.
Emma straightened, smoothed down her hair, and forced her feet into a determined stride.
She’d almost crossed the space between them when he turned toward her. Emma froze mid-stride, mortified.
It wasn’t Darren.
It was Keanu Reeves.
Again.
Damn it!
His brows raised in polite confusion. For a moment, she just stared at the megastar, perplexed. Then she blinked, veering off abruptly in a different direction.
“Sorry, Keanu,” she muttered, her face blazing.
She kept moving.
On her third sweep past the main green room, she caught a familiar silhouette—sleek black hair, a catsuit clinging to every line. Darren’s co-star. Indira . . . something.
Emma swallowed, steadying herself. Good. At least she knew he’d be here. Now she just had to wait.
She slipped inside and grabbed a coffee from the machine, clutching it like a prop. Phone in hand, she pretended to scroll, glancing at the doorway every few seconds. Soon, the show’s comic relief wandered in too, wearing a lilac unicorn sweatshirt that belonged on a four-year-old.
Fifteen minutes left. Darren could appear at any second. The anticipation was unbearable—like gripping a live wire.
Finally, with only five minutes to go, the lead actor strode in, sunglasses perched on his head. Emma’s skin had gone clammy, fingers stiff around her phone. Darren had to be right behind him.
The three stars formed their own small epicenter, laughing and bantering, handlers circling.
But there was no sign of Darren. No Max. No Sienna.
Panic surged, hot and instant. She jumped to her feet and crossed the room before she could think better of it.
“Indira.”
The trio turned. A few of the handlers, too, brows knitted in warning. Emma ignored them. She was running on too much adrenaline to feel self-conscious.
Indira’s eyes narrowed, recognition flickering. “It’s you, isn’t it? The writer.”
Emma nodded, jaw tense.
“I’ll catch up,” Indira told her costars. They exchanged a look Emma was too wound up to interpret.
“Do you know where Darren is?” she asked, the words tumbling out. “I was hoping to catch him.”
Awkwardness crossed Indira’s face. “Oh, darling. Darren’s not coming. He canceled this morning—said he wasn’t feeling well. He’s already on his way back to London.”
Emma’s stomach clenched so violently she thought she might be sick.
“He’s gone?” The words scraped out of her throat.
Indira gave a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.” She tilted her head gently. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen his eyes light up the way they did when he talked about you.”
She touched Emma’s arm, her hand cool and brief, before slipping away.
The ground dropped out beneath her.
Too late. All the tenuous strength she’d gathered—wasted. He was gone.
She should have told him right after the photo leaked. Told him she trusted him—because she did. She knew it in her bones.
The rest had just been her insecurities talking—too scared, too quick to believe it couldn’t be real. Even when her gut had screamed the truth from the start. From the first time she’d heard her own name in his voice.
It had been real.
And now she’d lost it.
Her vision blurred. For a heartbeat, she thought she might actually collapse.
But then—something sparked. A glow, golden and insistent, the same warmth she’d felt in the bookstore last night. A single word formed inside her.
No.
No more folding. No more running. Catlyn wouldn’t have given up—not when it mattered.
Emma straightened. Her pulse kicked again, but this time it wasn’t fear. This wasn’t about points for effort. Maybe it was too late—but she didn’t know that yet. And she wasn’t going to stop until every possibility was gone.
“Indira,” she called, just as the actress reached the doorway. Indira paused, brows lifting.
“Do you know what connection he’s flying out through?”
Her expression softened—pity, yes, but something like respect too. “JFK, I think. But he left for the airport a while ago. If you want to catch him . . .” She hesitated. “You’ll have to move fast.”
Emma’s fingers shook as she pulled up the airport app, scrolling frantically.
San Diego International. Departures. JFK. Departs 12:05.
She checked the time. 10:47.
Her heart gave a single, violent kick.
She didn’t think.
She ran.