Chapter 11 Emma
EMMA
I throw myself into the work, into the endless carousel of hair and makeup chairs, press junket seats, plane cabins—anything to keep the ache of missing from clanging too loudly.
Asher and I text, FaceTime, swap late-night voicemails like thirteen-year-olds, but after two whirlwind weekends together and then five days apart, my nerves are frayed, each pulse a reminder of the gap between us.
A week later, wind-tousled and terminally under-slept, I land at Charles de Gaulle with Lena and Jessie.
We’re greeted by a pearl-white SUV and a driver named Gérard, who nods once, hauls our matching roller bags through tunnels lit with soft amber light, and says almost nothing.
Lena sinks into her seat, reclines it halfway, and scrolls with rapid thumb strokes.
I gaze out the window, feigning that perfect movie-star nonchalance.
Paris in April feels like a waking dream—cherry blossoms dusting the sidewalks, plane-trail clouds drifting in a pale cornflower sky.
The Seine’s banks hum with the promise of new leaves, and I love it instantly.
“Does ‘décadent’ have a good spin in French?” Lena asks without looking up.
“I think it just means you’ve arrived in Paris,” I say, and she cackles, mimes lobbing her phone at my face.
Jessie, for once commanding the front seat, swivels around to beam. “Let’s get settled, then you can take the longest nap in recorded history. Marie Claire moved your interview to tomorrow, so tonight—”
“—We dine,” Lena interrupts, “and not in some cavernous hotel buffet. I want duck confit, a crisp glass of Sancerre, and something scandalous for dessert.”
Jessie blows her a kiss. “On it. But first, Em’s got with the director. Jean-Paul is over the moon to meet you.”
At his name, I groan. “I know he’s French cinema royalty, but he always looks at me like I’m about to volunteer for a root canal.”
“That’s standard Bressard,” Lena says. “He once made his wife wear sheer lace to their own wedding. To him, you’re a goddess.”
“Gross,” Jessie snorts. “Em, the only man you should care about right now is the one who opens blockbusters at number one, then comes home to read Mark Twain to his dog.”
She means Asher. But also Clark Matthews, the studio’s crown jewel, whom I’m due to meet next week for a photo op. I stay silent, pushing a curl behind my ear, watching a cluster of pastel blossoms float past the window like confetti I’ll never touch.
Lena sits up. “Actually, Jess, tell her my Blake news.”
Jessie winks. “Blake Reed personally requested you for a private table read in Hong Kong. ‘Strictly confidential,’ his team stressed.”
“Isn’t he a recluse?” I’m impressed. “Or dead?”
“Neither,” Jessie replies. “He lives somewhere above the clouds, and only does press in perfect twelve-minute bursts. The rest of the time, he’s tinkering with vintage cars or forging samurai swords—or ghosting Europe entirely. But he wants Lena.”
Lena’s lips twitch, a tell I rarely see from her. “It’s like being asked to prom by the quarterback after four years of him not knowing you exist,” she says, fidgeting with her bracelet. “I haven’t been in the running for anything this big since 2019.”
“Maybe he loves a challenge,” I say, nudging her knee. “Or he saw you in that Nike spot and fell head over heels.”
She smiles, but her eyes flicker like a candle in front of a drafty window.
Jessie senses it and squeezes her shoulder, fingertips pressing into the cashmere of her sweater.
It’s nice, how we orbit each other like satellites in a careful dance, never letting a wobble go unchecked, never allowing one of us to drift too far into the cold vacuum of doubt.
We check into the Ritz-Carlton by Place Vend?me.
My suite overlooks a courtyard where café terraces are dotted with early-blooming wisteria vines, and passersby sip espresso under pastel umbrellas.
I pace, fling open the sash windows to let in the mild spring breeze, then flop onto the bed and scroll.
A text from Asher appears.”
U up?
I snap a selfie with an exaggerated pout and type:
Have you left yet?
In the air. They’re serving me airline chicken.
We volley dumb photos the rest of the afternoon—him seated on a private jet’s plush bench, me lying in bed, pulling faces. The missing pain softens when his face lights my screen, even across eight time zones. I catch myself grinning like a fool.
I try working but drift in and out of sleep beneath a down comforter so light it might as well be clouds. At 5:00 p.m., Lena’s knuckles rap at the door.
“You’ll be late to not one but two parties,” she calls. “I won’t let you tank this chance.” She bursts in with an entourage—two stylists wheeling racks of couture, a makeup artist balancing cases like a Jenga tower, and an assistant juggling bottles of chilled champagne.
In the suite’s softly lit bathroom, I surrender to practiced hands.
My stylist cinches and pins while Lena’s makeup artist transforms her three chairs away.
“This isn’t a drill,” she says as someone wraps my hair in thick spirals.
“Jean-Paul Bressard will try to seduce you at least twice. If you say no, he thinks it’s a game. If you say yes, you become a legend.”
“Why do I feel terrified?” I eye the champagne.
“Because you smell weakness,” Lena declares. “And I know beneath that sweet exterior, you know how to bust balls.”
Twenty minutes later, she steps back. “You look lethal.” The Givenchy gown clings like a second skin, its neckline a perfect V that suggests rather than reveals.
My reflection stares back—all sharp angles and dark promises, the cat eye could cut glass, and my red lips make me feel like I’m moments from staining my teeth.
I run my hands over the impossibly smooth fabric and half-love what I see.
Jessie appears in the lobby, phone pressed to her ear, negotiating “backend percentages” and “keeping Lena out of the tabloids.” We tumble into a limo and slip through streets lined with budding trees of cherry and chestnut, families strolling beneath woven awnings.
The industry soiree is at a retired director’s penthouse—white cube walls, minimalist art, and a terrace with an unobstructed view of Montmartre dappled in April sunlight.
The room pulses with under-thirty French stars, half of America’s streaming talent, and a fellow Lena swears might be Lithuania’s future president.
All dressed in black, all pretending not to notice us.
Jean-Paul Bressard waits on the terrace, a flute of champagne in hand. He’s in his fifties, with an asymmetrical nose hinting at an unspoken past. Two young protégées flank him in crisp blazers and bow ties, barely old enough to toast. When he spots us, he lights up like the Arc de Triomphe.
“Emma Rowan,” he calls, voice rich with delight. “The next wave of American decadence!”
He pecks my cheeks, then Lena’s, then Jessie’s, and back to mine for extra luck. A flashbulb storm erupts—Variety, Le Monde, maybe Lithuania’s president-in-waiting—and we’re swept into his circle of rapid-fire conversation.
“My vision,” Bressard says, leaning so close I can smell the expensive cigar on his breath, “is not just crime, not just tragedy—but both.” His hands slice the air between us, sketching invisible bodies tangled in sheets.
“The lovers will make love like they are dying, because they are.” He pauses, swirls his champagne.
“In Hollywood, you sanitize passion. Here—” he taps his chest, “—we bleed.” Lena catches my eye over her wine glass, her lips twitching dangerously as she struggles not to laugh.
I laugh, but my mind drifts to Asher. I check my phone, find nothing but the faint pulse of connection. The party blurs into one long tapestry of gorgeous people talking too close, sipping cocktails too pretty to drink, jockeying for space on low-slung sofas.
At some point, Bressard leans close and murmurs, “You are the only one not playing a role.”
I almost tell him: I’ve never stopped. Instead, I offer a half-smile—Asher taught me that—and slip away to the bathroom.
Inside, the tile is cool underfoot, and spring light filters through a frosted window.
I lock the door, press my back to it, and count back from ten.
Out in the party, the soundtrack shifts to soft jazz, and laughter rolls down the hallway.
I splash water on my face, reapply the homicide red. My phone buzzes. It’s Asher.
Landed. Save some champagne.
Suddenly, I’m not tired or lonely. My pulse hums with anticipation. I drift back through the door to where Lena and Jessie are still entranced by Bressard’s vision of cinematic revolution.
Lena catches my eye and tilts her head: You good? I pinch my lips into a grin, then point to the screen: he’s here. She returns a conspiratorial smile.
Forty minutes later, I slip onto the terrace alone. The view is a Monet dream: rooftops pierced by spires, the city aglow in the soft blue-pink of dusk. A cool breeze carries the scent of magnolia. I shiver—cold, nerves, I can’t tell. Then footsteps, and Asher’s voice:
“That’s a view.”
I spin. He stands at the rail in a worn leather jacket and black jeans, hair as tousled as ever, as though he’s stepped straight out of a daydream.
I want to launch myself at him, but here, with eyes everywhere, we’re still performing.
He joins me at the railing, taking in the skyline, then turning to me with that blurred-blue gaze of his.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi.” The word hangs between us, heavy and true.
The pause is deep, not awkward. I’ve never missed someone like this. I laugh softly, then wince at how small it sounds.
He tilts his head. “Did I miss much?”
“Just a lot of people pretending they’re not pretending.”
“That’s Hollywood, Paris, and half my childhood birthdays.”
I smile. “You made it.”
He shrugs, but his eyes say otherwise. “Wouldn’t miss the real show.”
His scent finds me first—cedar and rain-soaked earth. My fingers itch to grab his jacket and pull him through the doorway, but I settle for a whispered, “Welcome to Paris.” When he takes my hand, the city beyond the terrace rail blurs into watercolor.
“We should head inside before you freeze,” he says, noticing my shiver.
“And miss my chance to push you over the edge and claim temporary insanity?” I smile.
One eyebrow lifts. “Imagine the headlines.”
He grins, all quiet assurance, then guides me by the wrist into the party.
We pass clusters of glittering guests—French financiers and American columnists flooding their feeds with gossip.
Jessie spots us, gives a thumbs-up, and a victorious brow wiggle.
Lena, perched on a sofa, is hosting a cellist and a femme in metallic brocade.
She raises an imperious salute as we glide by.
We slip into the empty elevator. As the doors hiss shut, Asher pins me against the mirror, cups my face, and kisses me—urgent and unguarded, nothing for the cameras. I slide my arms around him, and the world outside dissolves beneath the April sky.