7 #3
A vein began visibly throbbing at Ron’s temple.
“It would make no fucking sense for you and Peter to remain your current size, Maria. Cassia and Cyprian are on a fucking deserted island with almost no vegetation, and it’s winter .
They’d lose weight. They’d have to lose weight.
If they don’t lose weight, our show will lose all credibility. ”
“ Gods of the Gates is a fantasy television series that features Roman gods, fissures to the underworld, and—if what I’m hearing is correct—a
pegasus.” The cast chat had been chortling over that upcoming episode for weeks now, actually. “The story already doesn’t
adhere to reality, and the fantasy aspect of the show gives you a great deal of freedom to explain away the choices you make.”
When he merely stared at her in seeming befuddlement, she realized she’d need to describe possible directions he could take,
because apparently he wasn’t too great at coming up with ideas on his own. Gods above, the show was going to be a fucking
disaster once they moved past the completed books, wasn’t it?
She spoke slowly, pleased that she’d previously considered the matter. “Neptune already cast them ashore with a violent storm
so they could guard the gate to the underworld. Why couldn’t he intervene again to keep them fed and prevent them from dying
and leaving the gate unattended? Cyprian and Cassia could find some sort of enchanted fruit that would magically keep them
fed all winter. An apple, maybe, given the importance of apples in both Roman and Norse mythology.”
Any time now, Reedton. Feel free to speak up whenever you’d like .
But she knew. She knew.
He wasn’t going to advocate for her. He wasn’t even going to advocate for himself. If he was going to be saved, she’d be the
one making the rescue attempt.
“Let me be clear, Ron. As I’ve just explained, you have choices.
But forcing me to lose weight for your show is not, and never will be, one of them.
If you try to restrict my food, I’ll quit.
And just to clarify, if you try to restrict Peter’s food, it won’t matter whether you do the same to me. I’ll still walk away.”
At that, Ron—all flared nostrils, red-striped cheekbones, and white male privilege—finally turned to the man sitting motionless
and silent at her side.
At her side, but not on it. Just like he’d promised.
“Please tell me you don’t agree with Maria, Peter.” Ron stabbed a finger in her direction, the gesture near-violent. “You
know better.”
In that parking lot, Peter had claimed unfettered capitalism offered no solidarity, but he was mistaken. Solidarity was precisely
what Ron wanted right now. Confirmation that the two men in the conversation would remain united against the hysterical demands
of the woman shivering on Peter’s couch.
At long last, Peter spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “I respect Maria’s opinions and decisions, but they’re hers. Not mine.”
A bit of welcome news: She no longer had to worry about being a fool for him.
“Good.” Ron rolled his shoulders, and that angry flush hadn’t faded. Probably because he knew she was going to win this particular
battle, but his injured ego wouldn’t allow him to admit it yet. “I’ll discuss the issue with R.J. and get back to both of
you shortly.”
Peter dipped his chin in acknowledgment, and she did the same.
“One more thing, Maria.” The showrunner’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Let me be clear. You’re right that replacing you now would be difficult. Replacing you between seasons, however, would be much,
much easier.”
Then he immediately ended the virtual meeting, because—just like Peter—he needed the last word.
She took one slow, deep breath. Another.
All her adrenaline began to dissipate, leaving her exhausted and so fucking cold she could cry. But she didn’t, because there
was no reason for tears, and no one in this suite she trusted with that kind of vulnerability.
“They’re going to cave.” She stood without looking at Peter. “And since I threatened to walk if either of us lost weight,
you should be safe too.”
When she took her first step toward the door, he wrapped a hand around her upper arm. “Think about it, Maria. He’s right.
They could replace you between seasons really easily, and that would be a huge loss to everyone involved. If you call him
back right now, maybe—”
She stopped listening.
He sounded worried, and his voice was all gentle reason and persuasion. The skin of her cheek prickled under the intensity
of his stare, but she didn’t turn her head. Didn’t meet his eyes.
When it came to Ron and Peter, she was done for the night. Beyond done.
With one fierce shake of her arm, she threw off his touch. “As long as I maintain my popularity and keep bringing the show
so much positive publicity, they won’t kick me off. And even if they did, I’d be fine. I could find other parts or go back
home and return to the theater. Hell, I could work alongside my parents on the production line, and I’d still be happy.”
“Somehow, I—I didn’t think you would actually do it.” It was a stunned, hoarse whisper. “But you weren’t bluffing. You meant
it. You could just... walk away from this and be fine.”
Apparently he hadn’t believed her the first several times she’d told him so. Lovely.
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“I can’t...” His reply came as she wrenched open the door. “I can’t fathom that.”
He sounded—lost somehow. But finding him wasn’t her responsibility.
“I know,” she said flatly, and let the door swing shut behind her.
This time, the last word was hers.