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implied that—”
    “Whatever she said is bullshit!”
    Marlene’s gray eyes narrowed to slivers of rock. “I beg your pardon.”
    Lauren rubbed her face. Normally, she had much better control than this, but the news that Grace—or rather Mrs. Duvenbeck—had fired her really rattled her. “Sorry. But you can’t take whatever she said seriously. I bet she’s just pouting because I practically kicked her out of the meeting.”
    “You did what?”
    “It was like trying to have a conversation with a three-year-old while her controlling mother is hovering,” Lauren said. “I needed to talk to Grace without her mother interrupting every two seconds. Grace is my client, not her mother.”
    Marlene slapped one palm down on the desk, making Lauren’s mug rattle. “Your client is whoever I say it is. Losing this account is not an option. Go and apologize. Do whatever it takes to get them to change their mind.”
    Lauren had to unclamp her teeth before she could speak. “Okay,” she finally got out.
    Marlene shoved the chair back and stood. When she reached the door, she turned back around. “I didn’t want to put any more pressure on you, but… This account is your chance to prove yourself. Use it.”
    When the door closed behind Marlene, Lauren picked up a pen and hurled it across the room. On days like this, she remembered why she had never wanted to be a celebrity publicist. After attending Boston University—a university as far away as possible from her producer mother, her director father, and Hollywood in general—she had worked in the marketing department of a nonprofit organization. Right now, she wished she’d stayed there instead of switching to a more exciting job. Her life might have been a lot less interesting, but at least then she wouldn’t have to apologize to a spoiled actress and her arrogant mother for a perceived wrongdoing she didn’t even understand.
    Lauren steered her Honda Civic along the narrow roads zigzagging through the Hollywood Hills. One glance into the red file with Grace’s name on it had shown her that, of course, Grace owned the mandatory multi-million-dollar mansion in Laurel Canyon. Lauren’s navigation system led her to the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. It had been a relatively short drive, just minutes from Sunset Boulevard, yet up here everything felt peaceful and secluded. Grace’s house, a Spanish-style residence, was set back from the street, surrounded by massive stone walls.
    Lauren stopped the car in front of a wrought-iron gate, letting the engine idle, and peered through the iron bars to the circular driveway beyond. The security camera mounted on the left side of the gate was outfitted with a motion sensor; it rotated toward her. She lowered her window and pressed the call button on the speaker to her left.
    For a minute or two, nothing happened; then the speaker crackled.
    She’d expected to be greeted by an employee, but it was Grace’s unmistakable, slightly husky voice that came through the speaker. “Yes, what can I do for you?”
    Lauren looked into the camera right above the call button and held her CT Publicity ID card up to the camera’s lens. “Lauren Pearce.”
    The electronic gate swung open.
    She closed the window and drove through. The gate clanged shut behind her, making her feel as if she were trapped in this uncomfortable situation with no way out. Gravel crunched under her tires as she steered the car along the driveway, flanked by palms and tall cypress trees. Lauren parked in front of the mansion and climbed the stone steps toward the massive front door. More security cameras peered down on her, making her stand ramrod straight as she waited to be let in.
    After a moment, the door was opened, and Lauren stepped into a large foyer with high ceilings.
    Once again, it wasn’t an employee who greeted her but Grace Durand herself. She had obviously been exercising before Lauren arrived. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail,