15. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
By the time the clock in the conference room reaches nine, I’ve crossed out the same line so often I can barely read the page.
We’re in a rented conference room on the third floor of a studio complex in Burbank, the kind of generic space production companies book when they need somewhere with a working projector and no one’s assistant hovering.
Rachel is on one side of the table, Marcus Webb on the other, and I’m between them with my notebook open to a page of crossed-out lines.
“She can’t ask for the raise in the first act,” Marcus says. “It undercuts the journey. The audience needs to see her earn the confidence.”
“She’s not asking for a raise. She’s asking for fair compensation for work she’s already done.” I tap my pen against the notebook. “That’s not confidence. That’s math.”
“I’m worried it resolves too much too early. What does she learn over the next episode?”
“We talked about authenticity. A woman who’s been undervalued for years doesn’t need to earn the right to ask for what she deserves. She needs to stop believing she hasn’t already earned it.”
I turn back a page, looking for the scene that follows. “What if she doesn’t get it? She asks, they say no, and she still has to finish her shift. She needs the money. Walking out would feel wonderful for about ten minutes.”
Rachel leans forward. “So where do we leave her?”
“At the same counter. Doing the same job. But when they ask her to stay late again, she takes off her apron.” I draw a line through the last exchange. “We don’t need this speech. We need to see her leave on time.”
Marcus considers this. “That’s darker than what we outlined.”
“It’s more honest,” I say. The words come out sharper than I intend. “Sorry. But it is. The fantasy isn’t that she asks and gets what she wants. The fantasy is that she asks, gets told no, and builds something better anyway.”
“That changes the end of the episode.”
“It gives us somewhere to go next week.”
The room goes quiet. Marcus looks at Rachel. Rachel looks at me.
“Let me think about it,” Marcus says finally. “I’m not saying no. I’m saying let me sit with it and see if I can find the structure.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
Rachel starts gathering her things, and Marcus closes his laptop. The tension that’s been building all afternoon slowly releases, replaced by the tired satisfaction of having actually gotten somewhere.
“Good session,” Rachel says. “Even when it got heated.”
“Especially when it got heated.” I close my notebook. “That’s usually where the good stuff is.”
Marcus pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, I think you might be right. About the asking. I just need to figure out how to build around it.”
“Take your time. I’ll be here.”
He nods and leaves. Rachel lingers, watching me pack up my things.
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just tired.”
“You pushed hard today.”
“The scene needed it.”
She doesn’t argue, just squeezes my shoulder on her way out. I hear her footsteps fade down the hallway, then the elevator chime, then silence.
I check my phone for the first time since our last break. It’s past nine. There’s a text from Odette, sent two hours ago: Summer asleep. Bunny required three separate tucking-ins but finally surrendered. All is well here.
I smile and type back: Thank you. Heading home soon.
Below Odette’s message, there are two from Valentin. The first, from this afternoon: Flight to Sicily tomorrow, back Saturday for the farmer’s market. I’ll call Summer before bed Wednesday.
The second, from forty minutes ago: The guard called. I’m by the level-two stairwell. He’ll walk you out if you’d rather. Let me know when the meeting ends.
I stare at the message. Read it again.
The guard. The one I agreed to this afternoon after my rep forwarded a batch of messages that had come through the production company’s inbox.
Someone had found old gossip about the villa, about Ginevra, about the lies that got printed when I left Sicily.
The messages were ugly. Cruel in the way only strangers can be cruel, certain of their righteousness.
My rep had insisted on the guard. I’d agreed because arguing felt like more effort than it was worth.
I’d given them Valentin as an emergency contact because he’s Summer’s father. If something happened, he should know.
I didn’t expect him to be here.
The parking structure is attached to the building, three levels of concrete and fluorescent lighting. I parked on the second level this afternoon when there were still plenty of cars. Now there are maybe eight scattered across the floor, mine near the far wall.
The stairwell door is at the opposite end, and Valentin is standing beside it. Not blocking anything. Just visible. When he sees me exit the elevator, he straightens but doesn’t move toward me.
I walk to him instead of walking to my car.
“You came.”
“You saw my message?”
“Just now. My phone was on silent during the meeting.” I stop a few feet away from him. Behind me, I can see the guard near the elevator bank, keeping a respectful distance. “What happened? Why did they call you?”
“Some of the new messages included this address. The studio complex.” His voice is calm, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. “The guard thought you should know before you left. And he thought I should know because I’m listed as emergency contact.”
“They found out where I was working?”
“They named the building. We don’t know how they found it.” He pauses. “The messages are saying the same things they said before. That you’re violent. That you attacked someone. That you abandoned your family.”
The words land like blows, even though I’ve heard them before. Even though I know they’re not true.
“That’s not new.”
“No. But the address is new. That’s an escalation.” He meets my eyes. “I’m not telling you this to frighten you. I’m telling you because you should have accurate information.”
“And you’re here because?”
“Because I couldn’t stay at the hotel knowing you were walking out of a building alone after dark.” Something shifts in his expression. “I know I don’t have the right to be here. I know I haven’t earned it. But I couldn’t not come.”
“So you came whether I wanted you to or not.”
He flinches. “That’s not what I meant. You can send me away.
Right now, if you want. The guard will walk you to your car, and I’ll leave, and you won’t have to see me again tonight.
” He takes a breath. “But I needed you to know I was here. I needed to stop wondering if something happened and I wasn’t there. ”
“That’s about what you need. Not what I need.”
“You’re right.” He doesn’t argue, doesn’t defend. “I’m sorry. I should have asked first. I should have waited for you to answer my message.”
“Yes. You should have.”
We stand there, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. The guard is still visible near the elevator, close enough to reach us in seconds if something went wrong, far enough to give us privacy.
“Do you want me to leave?” Valentin asks.
The honest answer is complicated. Part of me wants him gone. Part of me is relieved he’s here. Part of me is so tired of being angry that I don’t know what I feel anymore.
“Not yet,” I say finally. “Tell me what the messages said. The specific ones that mentioned this address.”
“They referenced the studio complex by name. Said they knew where you were working. Asked if your colleagues knew what kind of person they’d hired.” His jaw tightens. “Called you things I won’t repeat.”
“But no specific threats? Nothing about what they would do?”
“They didn’t say what they intended to do. That doesn’t make it harmless.”
I think about the woman Marcus and Rachel and I have been building all afternoon. The one who asks for what she deserves and gets told no. The one who has to decide what she does next.
“I’m so tired,” I say. “Of being someone people think they know. Of having strangers decide what I did based on photographs and gossip and whatever narrative makes them feel superior.”
“I spoke to the paper. I thought correcting those photographs would help.”
“It did help. I heard you at dinner.” My fingers tighten around my keys.
“But a statement about the photographs doesn’t make the rest go away.
You believed her too. When your mother told everyone I trapped you with a pregnancy.
When she moved our wedding photograph to that dim back staircase and replaced it with one of you and Ginevra from ten years ago.
When she put me at the far end of the dinner table in my own home. ”
“I noticed that.”
“You noticed and you did nothing.”
“I told myself it wasn’t intentional. That my mother was old-fashioned, that seating arrangements were complicated, that the photograph was just reorganizing.
” He looks at me steadily. “I was lying to myself because the alternative was admitting she was trying to erase you. And if she was trying to erase you, then I was letting her do it.”
“You were letting her do it.” The anger is rising now, months of swallowed rage pushing against my throat.
“That fiesta. You stood next to Ginevra for photographs while Summer and I watched from the edge of the crowd. Do you know what that felt like? Seeing my husband pose with another woman while his family pretended I didn’t exist? ”
“I should have walked away.”
“Yes. You should have.” My voice cracks. “I gave up a part for you. A good part. Something that could have changed things for me. Because your father had just died and you needed me in Sicily, and I chose you. I chose to be there for you.”
“I remember.”
“And then you weren’t there for me. For six months, Valentin. Six months of you coming home late and leaving early and asking me to understand that work was complicated, that your mother was grieving, that everyone needed you except apparently me.”
“I needed you. I let that become a reason to expect you to wait.”