6. Heidi
HEIDI
The next morning, I walk into the control room with coffee in hand, ready to deal with the Grace situation.
I need to stay three steps ahead. But the moment I step inside, something’s off.
The crew looks up too quickly, their expressions tight.
Miles won’t meet my eyes. Marissa bites her lip, barely holding in a laugh.
Then I see it. A hardcover book sits in the center of my desk, angled for maximum visibility.
The Art of F*cking Yourself: A Manual for the High-Performance Woman
What the hell?
I pick it up, assuming it’s a cheeky joke gift about mindfulness. I flip to a random page and immediately snap it shut. My face feels like it’s been hit with a blowtorch. It isn’t about meditation. It’s pages of techniques and very graphic, very anatomical illustrations.
“This isn’t mine,” I say, the words coming out in a defensive squeak.
No one responds. The silence is thick, heavy with the sound of people holding their breath and desperately trying not to erupt. Marissa is still biting her lip, her shoulders shaking with the effort of a muffled laugh.
Heat climbs up my neck. I don’t need to ask who did it. I can see him in my head, smug and perfectly calm in the back of the limo, already planning this.
Max Carter, you are a dead man.
I shove the book into a drawer and force myself to focus. I have a show to save; I’ll deal with him later.
Grace is fifteen minutes late, strolling into the hub like she owns the place.
She has a fresh blowout and perfect skin, without a hint of the fatigue everyone else is wearing.
I wave her over to my desk. We don’t usually allow the talent in the production hub, but I need to have this conversation without any of the girls eavesdropping.
“So, your history with Max,” I start, keeping my tone light and casual. “He says you two have moved in the same circles for years? Worked the same parties?”
Grace checks her manicure, her indifference a sharp contrast to my tight control. “We were in the same scene, Heidi. It’s a small world.”
“It’s small enough that a quick search links you to his DJ residencies. You didn’t think to mention that you two are pictured together?”
“I told Vanessa,” she says, finally looking up. “She said it wasn’t a problem. That we could just pretend we didn’t know each other.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the sharp pull of tension that usually signals a headache is on the way.
“So her plan was to hope for the best? Pray no one notices?”
“How should I know what she planned?” Grace says, like it’s obvious.
Unbelievable. There’s no way Vanessa would get away with it. Audiences notice everything. Some of these gossip accounts have followers who could work for the FBI. They don’t care about state secrets, but if they did, they’d have one in twenty minutes.
“Well, we need to address it. Max mentioned an event. The Red Room?”
Something flickers across Grace’s face before she nods.
“Were you pictured with any of his brothers? Max said you were circulating. If there are photos, this could…complicate things.”
“I was pictured with lots of people that night,” she says.
“Sure. But Max seems to think you got particularly close with his brothers.”
She raises her eyebrows, like she doesn’t follow. I don’t have time for this.
“That you threw yourself at them,” I say.
“I did not,” she says, indignant.
“Then walk me through it,” I say, leaning in. “I need the full picture, Grace.”
She hesitates, her composure slipping for a second. “And this stays between us?”
“Strictly.”
Grace inhales sharply, looking annoyed that she even has to explain this.
“I was twenty-four and had six million followers. A marketing company hired me to get shots with Max at the opening. All the Carter brothers were there, so naturally, I tried to do my job.”
She hesitates, then continues when I don’t offer a way out.
“Fine. I tried my luck, but have you seen them?”
I shake my head.
“I went for Henry first. He’s the CEO of Carter now, and the best-looking.
Every woman there was trying, but he looked at me like I was an annoying kid and brushed me off for some blonde.
So, I pivoted to Dean. He owns the place, plus all the best spots in the city.
He’s got that dark, broody thing, but he’s a total asshole.
He wouldn’t even give me the time of day. ”
She huffs, the sting of the rejection still audible in her voice.
“I didn’t even bother with Will. He’s the oldest, a lawyer, and he was so obsessed with his date it was actually nauseating.
Max was busy with another blonde, and then my ex showed up.
Jasmine started drama with Mary Beth, and we just left.
There was nothing to photograph because none of them would look at me.
I haven’t spoken to a Carter since—well, Max a few times, but he was always completely disinterested. ”
“So, why did you agree to this?” I ask, leaning in. “If you knew there wasn’t anything there?”
“I was promised a ring,” she says simply. “The Carter name is basically royalty, even if it is attached to Max.”
“You don’t like him?” I ask, genuinely curious. “On paper, he’s the definition of charming.”
“Max is the bottom of the barrel as far as the Carters go,” Grace says, her lip curling.
“He was busy DJing and partying while his brothers were actually building empires. We don’t click.
But he’s still a Carter. He has the trust fund, the lineage, and the face.
My father,” she pauses, a genuine look of distaste crossing her features.
“Let’s just say Max is a much better option than marrying some billionaire who actually remembers the Great Depression. ”
“Right,” I say as I scribble a final note. “The plan hasn’t changed. We’re leaning into the ‘missed connections’ narrative. You’ve crossed paths for years, but the timing was never right until our testing proved you’re soulmates.”
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s go over the story.”
Surprisingly, Grace is easy to work with. She’s focused and sharper than I expected. We spend twenty minutes mapping out the reframe, using the age gap to our advantage. He was away at boarding school or touring Europe as a DJ while she was still finding her feet.
“We just weren’t in the same headspace,” Grace says, testing the lines with effortless precision. “But he was always the brother I had my eye on.”
It’s perfect. It makes the romance feel fated.
“It’ll work,” I say, scribbling the final notes. “Thanks, Grace.”
She stands and pauses, looking at me with a soft, almost pitying expression.
“You know, you really shouldn’t wear your hair so tight,” she says. “The tension is going to cause thinning at the temples. You’re already starting to see the recession.”
She offers a quick, encouraging nod and walks out.
I’m not thinning...am I? I find myself reaching up, my fingers tentatively brushing against the skin of my temple, searching for a sparse patch.
I check the reflection in my darkened monitor, and for the first time in years, I feel a sharp jab of self-consciousness. I reach back and tug at my hair tie, letting the ponytail drop until the tension finally eases.
Then, curiosity gets the better of me. There’s no one in the hub, so I pull out my phone and type: Henry Carter.
Alright. I get it now. He’s absurdly good looking. That face could stop traffic. And he looks like the kind of man who’s never had a hair out of place, let alone vomited over the side of a wicker basket.
I scroll to Dean. He has that same devastating DNA, but his is wrapped in a dark intensity.
He’s pictured at a poker table, looking comfortable in the smoke and high stakes.
Then I hit Will. He’s the eldest, and he has a level of refinement that feels untouchable.
He looks like the kind of man who’s never had a disorganized thought in his life.
Max is just as physically striking, but he doesn’t follow the same script. There’s a restless, fun energy in his eyes that his brothers lack. A magnetism that comes from being interesting rather than just being perfect.
I lock my phone and drop it onto the desk, right next to the book he left me.
What’s his play? Is he trying to humiliate me? Does he think I’m some repressed prude he can rattle with a gag gift? I suppose he didn’t learn his lesson last night.
That’s too bad.
Later that night, the garden is a grid of floodlights and fake laughter.
We’re filming a cocktail hour that, in reality, takes four hours to capture.
Max is in full charm mode, but he’s completely ignoring Colette and Grace.
Instead, he’s letting Penelope drape herself over him like the balloon disaster never happened.
I can’t even look at him without thinking about the book.
I’d hoped it would blow over, but news of my supposed reading habits has clearly made the rounds.
Every time I pass a crew member, I catch a stifled grin or a whispered comment.
My authority is leaking, and Max is the one who pulled the plug.
“Marissa,” I say into the headset, my voice tight. “Tell him to move on to Colette. We’re running out of time.”
I watch on the monitor as Marissa approaches the sofa. She leans in, whispering the instruction, but Max doesn’t even look at her.
“We’re busy,” I hear his voice crackle through the mic. He doesn’t move. Instead, he shifts closer to Penelope, pointedly placing his hand over hers.
Irritation prickles like a heat rash under my skin. He isn’t just playing a game anymore; he’s trying to run my set.
Marissa doesn’t push it. She just looks back at the monitor and shrugs. I don’t wait for a second attempt; I drop my headset and walk over.
“We’re reshuffling, Max,” I say, my voice level but loud enough for the crew to hear. “You’re moving to your one-on-one with Molly. Now.”
He winces. Visibly. He looks from Penelope’s adoring gaze to where Molly is standing by the fountain, talking non-stop to a very patient, and clearly trapped, Delaney.
“Or,” I add, “we can go with Colette? Your choice.”