In the front row, Vika was watching Marcus. When he inadvertently met her gaze, she inclined her head with a faint smile. An acknowledgment. Encouragement, perhaps.
“Well, uh . . .” The moderator still seemed a bit shell-shocked, but he eventually glanced at the papers in front of him and pulled himself together. “I believe we have time for audience questions.”
Several moments of general upheaval ensued before a woman near the back of the room stood, accepted a microphone, and addressed the panel. “This question is for Marcus.”
“No fucking duh,” Carah muttered, and patted his arm comfortingly.
To his surprise, though, the woman didn’t address the obvious dichotomy between his previous public persona and the version of him who’d spoken moments before.
No, what she asked was infinitely worse.
“My boyfriend and I have an ongoing argument,” she said, gesturing toward a guy in a Gates tee who sat slouched and smirking in the seat beside her. “He’s convinced you only dated that fan as a publicity thing, or as some kind of political statement. I told him you’re a great actor, but there’s no way you were faking that expression whenever you looked at her. So who’s right?”
Dimly, Marcus wondered what expression he wore whenever he looked at April. Thunderstruck, probably. Lovesick.
The moderator heaved a sigh and glared at the woman. “Please make sure all future questions involve the show, rather than matters of an entirely personal nature. Let’s go to the next—”
“No,” Marcus found himself saying. “No, it’s okay. I’ll answer.”
Before April, he wouldn’t have realized the real implications of this question, the stance the woman’s boyfriend was actually taking. But now he knew, and he wouldn’t let it go unchallenged.
April might not want him anymore, but he wasn’t going to stand by while that smirking asshole or anyone else dismissed their relationship as a PR stunt or political statement.
“My relationship with Ms. Whittier is real.” He spoke directly into the mic, each word deliberate and chilly. “She’s an incredibly intelligent and talented woman, as well as gorgeous.”
The boyfriend snorted at that, and Marcus stared at him. Kept staring, stony and expressionless, until that hateful little smile evaporated.
“I consider myself fortunate to have dated her, and I would be proud to have her by my side at any and all red carpets, if she were willing to accompany me.” One brow raised challengingly, he turned back to the woman. “Does that answer your question?”
“Um . . .” She dropped back into her seat with a distinct thump, eyes wide. “Yes. Thank you.”
It wasn’t enough to make up for how he’d hurt April, but at least he’d proven one thing.
Whatever else he was, he wasn’t her goddamn father.
Right now, for the first time in years, he was only himself. No more, and definitely no less. Whether that would be enough—for her, for Gates fans, for his parents—he couldn’t say.
But at long last, after almost four decades, it was enough for him.
TWO MINUTES BEFORE their session was due to begin, Summer Diaz rushed into the backstage area and offered April a quick, slightly sweaty hug.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “The group panel ran long. There were a lot of audience questions. Awkward ones.”
“Oh?” April tucked her hair behind her ear, doing her best not to appear as starved for information as she actually was, especially if said information included Marcus. “What were people asking?”
One of the conference organizers was waving at them, trying to catch their attention. April deliberately shifted until Summer blocked any view of him.
The other woman was watching April carefully, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “Among other things, why Marcus suddenly sounded like a PhD candidate, instead of the most handsome village idiot on earth. Whether his relationship with you was real, or just a publicity stunt.”
April’s mouth was gaping. She knew it, but the air in the hotel suddenly seemed unusually thin, so much so that she needed to gulp for breath.
“What—” Another shallow breath. Another. “What did he say?”
“Quite a bit. Let me see.” Summer tilted her head. “The highlights: he’s shy and dyslexic and happy to explain more in an interview that should be posted either late tonight or tomorrow.”
Holy fuck. Holy fuck.
He’d done it. He’d disposed of his old persona in the most public way possible, short of interrupting a royal wedding to announce his dyslexia via interpretive dance before setting fire to a series of hair products.
Not that he would ever set fire to his hair products. He was very, very attached to them. Especially his soft-hold mousse, which smelled like rosemary and fluffy clouds and money.
“How did the audience react?” The central, terrifying question.
Summer lifted a shoulder. “They were sympathetic, albeit confused. I think the interview will help smooth over any ill feelings, once it’s posted.”
April gripped the back of a nearby chair, knees literally weak with relief.
“And . . . what did he say about me?” It was nearly a whisper, because the con organizer was coming closer, but she wasn’t sure she could have spoken louder under any circumstances.
“You’re intelligent, talented, and gorgeous.” One by one, Summer ticked off the adjectives on her fingers. “Your relationship is real, and he’s proud to be with you.”
April closed her eyes then, willing the tears back into her sinuses.
“We’re already a minute late.” The organizer sounded harried. “Are you two ready?”
Eyes still closed, April nodded.
“Sure,” Summer said. “April?”
Then they were moving out onto the stage, squinting under the lights, and April was looking down at her notes and trying to concentrate on the job at hand. More people kept shuffling into the room, standing at the back as she introduced Summer to the audience, and she couldn’t help but wonder whether they too were coming straight from the full-cast panel, whether they’d heard what Marcus had said. About himself, about her. About them.
Can’t think about that now.
“Summer,” she said, angling herself in her chair to face the other woman more directly, “to start us off, can you explain what drew you to the character of Lavinia?”
The rest of the session was a blur, punctuated in places by Summer’s keen empathy for her character and the intelligence with which she answered questions about her work, the books that had inspired the series, and the experience of acting on a show with such a broad global reach. Through it all, April tried her best to remain clear and present and prepared for whatever might occur, but it all went smoothly, more smoothly than she’d even hoped.
Then, as planned, they had ten minutes left for questions and answers.
One of the con volunteers picked an audience member, someone April vaguely remembered joining the session moments after she’d introduced Summer.
The tall, generously rounded girl, who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, smiled shyly as she looked at April. “Hi. I’m Leila, and I was hoping to ask a question.”
April smiled back, as encouragingly as she could. “Hi, Leila. Go ahead. Summer would be delighted to answer any question you might have.”