The Girls
In the end, Odetta had one simple question for us: What would we do now?
She expected no mercy and only hoped to prepare herself.
But to us it wasn’t about mercy. It wasn’t about justice.
In some twisted way, it was about envy.
Despite the ordeal she’d described, all the horrible things Dorian Fisher had done to her, we still wanted what she had. The money, the fame, the success. She’d had a shot at it. And yes, it had turned her life into a despicable mess.
We wanted it anyway.
The end of our lives as nobodies.
That’s what we saw. The opportunity we recognized.
It didn’t all come together at once. It started there: None of us could bring ourselves to walk away.
Constance was finally free of his clutches.
Hearing Odetta’s story was heart-wrenching, but eventually she’d come to see it as proof that it wasn’t her.
It was him. And now that he was gone, she could focus on becoming the next great Hollywood stylist. Referrals from Odetta to her long list of Hollywood contacts would surely help, especially after Constance won back Tyler Charles. The beginning of a great friendship.
Odetta’s reputation might have taken a serious beating, but the Palme she’d just won was made of gold.
Her longtime business partner and friend had just died in such strange circumstances.
He would never get to celebrate this win, but she could do it for both of them.
Now all of Hollywood was clamoring to work with Odetta Olson.
Her next movie would be on everyone’s watch list. And that one would have a role—a leading role—for a young up-and-coming actor named Lou Ocean Utley, a deal brokered by legendary agent Liza Blick, who never once doubted Lou would become one of the greats of the movie industry.
Marshall Wild would produce it, on the condition that he was never left alone with Lou under any circumstances.
What would that next movie be? Odetta was drowning—yes, drowning—in options.
But there was only one script she could consider.
In fact, it was one she’d read while in Cannes.
The title page needed one tiny adjustment: Written by Marnie Redd.
No one would ever dare contest that, especially not a lowly marketing executive named Ben Shank, who Hollywood never heard from again.
The picket-fenced house was the only dream he would ever achieve.
But back then, in Odetta’s suite, there was little time to spell it all out.
We knew what was coming. The police would come talk to us about the party on the yacht.
They would take us each to private rooms, where they would shower us with questions.
Salivating over the potential for clicks, the press would start making rumbles about murder, about premeditation.
But no one would ever find any proof. Dorian Fisher’s injuries could have been from his fall.
He must have tripped over the railing and banged hard against the side.
He’d been distracted during the party. No one really knew anything.
Because if you asked everyone who had been on that yacht, well, it was dark and they were drunk.
Even Carly Wolf, the one true witness to Constance’s outburst, had little to say.
Maybe she knew things she didn’t want to share.
Often, the most valuable thing you can own is your reputation.
What an icon, they all soon came to agree. He would be remembered as a revered artist who had dedicated his life to cinema, who never put a foot wrong.
What a tragic accident.
A terribly sad way to go.
The world moved on, as it always did. Time is the greatest healer. No one person could ever stop its powerful progress.
As for us, we were bonded for life now. Whatever it took to make it in Hollywood.
And make it we did.
Soon our names were on everyone’s lips.
We lit up the screen, the red carpet, and every champagne-fueled party in between.
We set ablaze gossip columns in all corners of the internet, with our fame and our latest flame.
It was never easy, but it was always worth it.
There were ups and downs, so many twists and turns. But all along, we never faltered.
That night in Cannes belonged to the four of us.
The future was ours.
Whatever happened, we would never tell.