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that?”
    “I’m not. We haven’t hung out since the night you...” His voice trails off and he shakes his head dismissively. “She called and told me she was interviewing you. I hadn’t seen you in so long. And I...” He pauses. “I missed you.”
    “What about your gift ?”
    “Come on, how was I supposed to know you were serious this time?” He laughs and playfully nudges my arm. I hate to admit he’s right. Rehab was an annoying joke before. A way to get Jerrie off my back or avoid jail time. I’ve never been serious about maintaining my sobriety. I’ve never had the role of a lifetime waiting on me when I got out.
    “It’s for real this time, Spence. It has to be.”
    “I get that.” He holds up his hands in surrender and offers me that damned smile of his. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.” It’s so tempting. Spence is familiar. He’s a soft place to land when I need it most. But I can’t.
    I reach over to stick his handkerchief back in his breast pocket. My fingers brush against a cold, hard something tucked into the same pocket. I pull out the glass vial and roll it over my palm.
    A year ago, I would’ve crawled into his blue Bugatti and snorted lines until I didn’t care about some bitch reporter or losing the role of a lifetime. He would have led me into the darkest dens in Hollywood, and I would have scampered along at his heels. Not anymore.
    “Spence, I can’t go back to my old life if sobriety is going to work.” I draw in a deep breath and slowly exhale. “You aren’t good for me.” I drop the vial into his outstretched palm.
    He drags in a sharp, ragged breath. My chest constricts. He stands, running his hands down his torso to straighten his suit, and steps into the street. Is he leaving me? Have I pissed him off to the point he isn’t even going to say goodbye?
    When I look up, Spence hasn’t left me. He’s behind his car, in the street hailing a cab. One slides to a stop in front of him. He looks back to me, his expression unreadable. I scrape myself off the brick wall and walk into his outstretched arms. He places the softest kiss on my forehead and hands a hundred dollar bill to the driver.
    “Good luck, baby girl.” His words are hot against my hair. I smile weakly and slip into the backseat, waving until he disappears.

Chapter Two
    “Cut!” Gavin yells from his director’s chair beside a towering Panavision camera. His timbre is hostile, almost irate. Angry enough to earn a collection of startled gasps from the actors on set. He rubs his temples, head bowed, dramatically searching the floor for serenity. Anxious eyes dart warily from face to face, hanging on his next move. Cut! fades into soft echoes down the castle’s grand hall, bouncing off wall-sized tapestries, movie set equipment and extras dressed in royal court finery.
    Everyone freezes. Everyone except me. From the corner of my eye, I drop my gaze to the cold stone floor and realize I’ve missed my mark. For the tenth time. Grasping fistfuls of taffeta and crinoline, I lift my massive skirt and take a tiny, sideways step toward it, hoping no one sees. Only my costume is so unwieldy, everyone sees. With a communal sigh, every head turns toward the flutter of my dress. Exasperated glares rip holes through me. I can feel them, just like I’ve felt them all week. Feigning indifference, I raise my gaze above them, studying the raftered ceiling as if they aren’t there. When did extras earn the right to be assholes, anyway?
    It’s been one week on set, and already everyone hates me, not that they gave me a fighting chance after the Jessica story. I tried to play nice—my wordless apology for that damned article. But I’m over it.
    I’ve paid for my mistake—a hundred grand for breaking that damned NDA and agreeing to the studio’s fire at will clause. That’s my entire movie advance and permission to get rid of me if I breathe the wrong air. I’m giving everything I’ve got to this role for