Chapter Thirty-Two
Dimple had frozen in place when she finally unveiled her dress for the premiere.
They’d checked into the hotel a few hours ago.
Saffi, clearly exhausted, went to her own room while Priyal took off to explore the city.
Dimple, on the other hand, had spent her free time trying to expel the lingering paranoia from her mind.
She had a plan in place, but at the same time, she kept thinking back to their conversation on the plane. To the promise she had made to Saffi.
It isn’t real and I will prove it to you.
The words were easy enough to say, spurred on by the challenge of putting on a good show, but there was a chance Saffi would never understand.
Dimple could go through all the trouble of enlightening Saffi, and she’d only despise her for it.
Would this be the thing that finally extinguished the fire that drew Saffi’s gaze?
The thought unsettled her more than it should have.
The dress, though? The sight of it alone was enough to wipe her mind clean.
“Stunning, right?”
Dimple’s head whipped around to stare, awestruck, at Priyal.
She should’ve noticed something was amiss.
Priyal had returned to help her get ready for the main event, but instead of chatting her ear off like she usually did, the girl had been oddly quiet.
So quiet that Dimple worried their time apart had strained their easy companionship.
She’d handed Dimple a particularly bitter dark roast coffee and stood off to the side with her lips pressed together.
Now, though, Dimple could see that she’d been suppressing a smile.
The awkward pose she’d taken up was because she was attempting to record her reaction.
Dimple subconsciously twirled a strand of hair, switching stances to highlight her good side.
“It’s—” She cut herself off, unable to supply a fitting response.
It suddenly struck her how precious this gift was.
Dimple dared not breathe as she separated the tissue paper with trembling hands.
She pinched the dress between two fingers—gingerly, delicately—and lifted the red dress to the light.
The brand name stitched into the inside collar was the same as the one embossed all over the tissue paper.
Salomé.
“How?” Dimple breathed.
“Salomé sent it,” Priyal explained, grin stretched so wide it looked like it hurt. “They want you to wear it for the premiere. It’s from their new collection—it’s not even out yet.”
Dimple held the dress up to the light. The gown extended down to her feet and when she spun around, the skirt fanned out, bouncing. Priyal was almost giddier than her.
“It’s beautiful” was all Dimple could manage, swallowing around a growing lump in her throat.
Priyal crossed the room and pulled her into a tight hug. Moving the dress to her free hand so as not to wrinkle it, Dimple wrapped an arm around her assistant.
“I’m so proud of you,” Priyal whispered into her ear. “You’ve come so far. I’m so lucky I got to go on this journey with you.” She sighed wistfully. “I wish I was an actress so I could dress up too.”
Dimple, still reeling over the dress, almost missed the undercurrent of Priyal’s words. This was the first time she’d ever spoken about acting in conjunction with herself.
“What are you doing? You have to get ready!” Priyal said when Dimple began folding the dress to put back into the box.
“First, we’re getting you ready.”
Priyal frowned. “What? Did you not hear me?”
But Dimple was already gathering Priyal’s hair so she could brush through it. She forced Priyal to look at herself in the mirror.
“You don’t have to wait until you’re cast in movies to be a star,” Dimple said. Her assistant seemed to be at a loss for words. “Besides, it won’t be long until you’re walking the red carpet, will it?”
“I’m sorry!” Priyal blurted. For what, it wasn’t clear.
She looked close to tears and Dimple let go of her hair. Great. She found a tissue box and snatched a couple free, waving them at Priyal.
“Why are you crying?” Dimple asked when Priyal’s sniffles turned into full-blown sobs.
“I just—I don’t want to leave yet. You barely needed my help when I started working, and now that you do, I have to quit.”
“Priyal,” Dimple said, nearly laughing. “I didn’t expect you to work for me forever. This was always going to happen. Your career comes first.”
“You knew—?”
“Of course I knew. And I’m happy for you. I know better than anyone how it feels when your dreams finally come true.”
Priyal was no Irene or Isaac—she didn’t have a mansion or a backlog of blackmail. She’d worked for her success and deserved it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Honestly, I didn’t think it would happen this quickly,” Priyal said.
“When I first met her, Julie said I had a lot of potential, but she didn’t have the room to take on any more clients.
She also said that my portfolio was so piss-poor that she couldn’t recommend me to any of her connections in good faith. ”
Dimple winced in sympathy but had to hide her laugh with a cough. That sounded exactly like Julie.
“So, while I’ve been working for you, we’ve also been working on my portfolio.” She gave Dimple a sheepish look. “I signed with an agent and everything. But I promise I never let it get in the way of my job! I didn’t expect to like working for you so much.”
It wasn’t anything Dimple didn’t already know.
“That’s wonderful,” Dimple told her earnestly. “And you’re booking roles now?”
Priyal nodded. “I don’t even really need a side job anymore.”
It had taken Dimple far longer in her career to be able to pay her bills through acting alone. She couldn’t help feeling a little envious.
“But I can stay longer!” Priyal insisted suddenly. “Now that your career is taking off, you need my help more than ever.”
Dimple shook her head. “That is completely unnecessary. I assure you, I can manage.”
“But—”
“I’m more upset I didn’t get to celebrate the news with you,” Dimple said, cutting her off. “We’ll just have to do that after the premiere.”
Priyal shook her head rapidly. “No, this is your moment.”
“I’m not so emotionally stunted that I don’t know how to share.”
That drew a laugh from the girl. She looked up at Dimple, something not too far off from her usual grin back in place.
“I’m so lucky I met you,” Priyal said wistfully. “You’re the first friend I ever made in LA, you know that?”
“Me too,” Dimple answered without thinking.
“You don’t have to lie, Dimple,” Priyal said lightly.
But Dimple had been telling the truth. The embarrassing, unfortunate truth.
In all her years in Hollywood and for all her successes, Priyal had been the closest thing to a friend she’d ever had.
Now Dimple would be losing her. But before she could embarrass herself any further by explaining just that, Priyal clapped her hands and stood.
“Okay, enough, we need to get dressed. The red carpet is waiting.”
—
Dimple’s bangles clinked as she posed for reporters.
It was costume jewelry, but Dimple’s mother had left to her a set of solid gold bangles that looked nearly identical.
When she’d been a kid, she’d dreamed about finally turning eighteen years old, tugging them onto her wrists, and walking right out the door.
That day never came, of course. Her aunt and uncle had long since pawned them to pay off one debt or another.
It didn’t matter. By that point, Dimple had already given up on expecting anything from anyone.
She’d bought these bangles with her own money, and one day she would buy a set made of real gold, just like her mother’s.
And she’d have nobody to thank but her own hard work.
Jerome Bardoux was here as well, but he refused to pose for photographs, choosing instead to head straight inside the theater.
Priyal stood off to the side, shooting Dimple a thumbs-up every time she looked her way.
Every once in a while, Dimple’s attention would snag on Saffi, who stood beside Priyal, almost hidden in a corner, dressed in her usual black suit.
For once, she wasn’t ludicrously overdressed.
“You’re already trending,” Priyal whispered as Dimple made her way back to them. Dimple’s heart soared. She had a good feeling about the night.
The three of them were directed inside a beautiful theater.
Soft lighting paved the way toward their seats.
It was mostly empty as of now, occupied only by those who had either worked on or acted in Insomnia.
Dimple found where some of her co-stars were seated and was about to join them when she realized who was positioned beside her.
Shyla Patel.
Dimple froze. Shyla’s nose sat just as regally on her face as before and her black eye had completely healed by now, but every time Dimple blinked, she saw twin rivers of blood gushing down her face.
“Dimple—hey! It’s been forever!” Shyla beamed. “Are you getting my texts?”
“What texts?” Dimple replied, voice strained.
“Oh, never mind, then,” she said. “Anyway, I have so much to tell you!”
It took every ounce of Dimple’s effort to keep her voice from shaking. “You seem well.”
“Uh—look who’s talking! Your dress is incredible—Salomé, right?” Dimple barely had the time to nod before Shyla barreled on. “This is your first film festival too, isn’t it? What do you think so far?”
“It’s very overwhelming.” She felt nauseous, her dress constricting as her breaths grew shorter.
Dimple had to make a decision. Priyal and Saffi were standing politely beside her as she spoke, but the three of them stood out for not taking their seats. Where Saffi seemed content to watch her flounder, Priyal came to her rescue.
“Sorry, my feet are killing me,” she said, flopping into the seat beside Shyla.
Shyla laughed good-naturedly. “Tell me about it.”
As the two of them lapsed into easy conversation, Dimple gingerly took her seat beside Priyal.
She couldn’t have orchestrated a better arrangement.
No one would bother her with Priyal flanking her left and Saffi a solid presence to her right.
She felt herself finally begin to relax, breath evening out.
The room got progressively louder as more people entered: the general public who had paid for the opportunity to see the premiere, and celebrities and influencers who’d been paid to promote it.
Dimple could’ve sworn she saw a couple attendees attempting to snap sly photos of her.
She did her best to ensure they got a flattering candid.
“Everyone seems so excited,” Priyal whispered giddily.
Dimple turned to Saffi, hoping to gauge her reaction, but she seemed more interested in the theater’s tall ceilings than the proceedings around them. An inherently selfish sinking feeling found a home in Dimple’s chest. She wanted Saffi to see her. She wanted to be the last thing Saffi ever saw.
Before she could dwell on it, the lights dimmed and murmurs hushed as the theater plunged into darkness.
The screen remained stubbornly black long enough that Dimple feared something had gone wrong.
It suddenly occurred to her that she had virtually no idea what all these people would be witnessing in a few short seconds.
Dimple had seen many actors rise as fast as they fell. Most of the time, they never recovered, fading into obscurity in the best-case scenario and ridiculed for years in the worst.
A pinch to her wrist made Dimple’s head snap up. She let go of her biceps, trying to remember when she’d started digging her fingernails into them.
“What did I tell you?” Saffi whispered. “I’m the only one you should be afraid of.”
Dimple blinked at her as the words registered. Her hand slipped into her pocket, closing around smooth plastic. Plenty of actors came back from a flopped movie. None came back from death row.
Dimple turned back to the front just in time to see the screen fade from black.
Chilling music sounded around the room, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
Her heartbeat thumped to the rhythm. She felt as though she were watching through the eyes of a hundred people as her face flashed across the screen.