But the plushies tumble across the floor, and I sprint toward the emergency exit twenty feet away. The art-deco carpet swims in my vision, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.
If I’d never thrown away that script, if I’d never thought of this foolish idea to have Imogen impersonate me, if I’d just breathed and kept to myself and pushed my feelings down beneath my toes and not fallen for Harper Hart, then I wouldn’t be in this situation.
But I can’t get the look on Harper’s face out of my mind, the confusion morphing into betrayal as she realized who I was. The kind of person I am. How long I’ve lied to her. Oh God, I lied to her and that’s unforgivable and I can feel a bit of my heart breaking because I remember how she looked this morning as the sunlight poured through the curtains, her face inches from mine as we whispered to each other, “Good morning.”
And it hurts.
It hurts so much because I was—
I was—
I was happy.
And now I am unraveling stitch by stitch.
I don’t stop running until I shove open the hotel doors and stumble out onto the sidewalk. It’s pouring rain outside. My flats get soaked the second I step into a puddle, but I can’t stop because a few people are still following me. Haven’t they gotten the hint?
Just leave me alone!
I wrap my arms around myself as I bound off the curb and make my way across the street to my hotel—
A car horn blares.
I jerk toward the sound, headlights blinding, tires squealing. The burning smell of tires punctures the scent of muggy rain on asphalt as a black car screeches to a stop just inches away from me.
I stare at the car.
The back passenger door opens and out steps Natalia Ford, her gray hair pinned into a bun atop her head. She’s wearing a shirt covered in a pattern of tiny artistically rendered middle fingers and a blood-red ascot.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
A clash of thunder rumbles overhead, reverberating between the tall buildings. Behind me, a few fans and the journalist burst through the doors in search of me.
Natalia tilts her head and steps back into the car, which I take as a sign to join her. I round the car, open the door, and slide in. The car drives away before my fans realize which way I’ve gone; I watch them disappear in the rear window as we take a side street out of downtown Atlanta and away from the convention.
“You know, I’ve heard rumors that you dislike conventions,” Natalia says, “but sweetheart, tossing yourself into traffic isn’t quite the best way to get your point across.” She crosses one leg over the other and I notice Stubbles perched in her lap, staring at me with jaded green eyes.
“I wasn’t looking,” I reply. I don’t realize it at first, but I’m shivering.
Natalia turns up the heat. The windshield wipers knock back and forth, the constant thrum of the rain dampening the sound of my chattering teeth. Her white-goateed driver faces forward, wearing a slick black suit. There are rumors that he’s also her, um, boyfriend, which reminds me a little too much of The Princess Diaries—except with Julie Andrews replaced by Meryl Streep from The Devil Wears Prada.
“Thank you, Ms. Ford,” I say after a moment.
“For what?” She slides her hazel gaze over to me. It’s just as sharp as her tongue. “I merely almost ran you over and then you decided to get into my car.”
Oh. I clear my throat and reach for the door handle. “You can tell your driver to stop anywhere and I’ll get out—”
“Don’t be silly. We’re going much too fast. Plus there’s a paparazzo trailing us.”
I glance behind me, and sure enough a black SUV with tinted windows is following us a few cars behind. “I didn’t even realize. How did you know it was there?”
“I might be an ancient Hollywood actress who has no career to speak of, but I have dated enough starstruck manbabies to sense a camera from a hundred feet away.”
“I honestly wasn’t thinking when I said that in the interview,” I say, but she waves me off.
“Don’t apologize. If you apologize for everything, then your apologies will never mean anything. That woman was drilling you terribly hard. What did you do, interrupt her flirting with your costar?”
Is she…joking? Is Natalia Ford trying to crack a joke? I can’t tell. Talking to her is like playing poker with the Godfather. “I…might have. Or I said something wrong. Or any number of things that I can’t really remember doing—jeez, this convention is driving me insane. I’m not usually like this. I’m cool and composed. I don’t flub interviews. I don’t offend other people…How did you do it?” I ask, looking over at her. The leather seats are warming up, and I’m not shivering anymore. “How did you survive all of this? All of the fans hating you?”
“When I played Amara, there were barely message boards on an old dial-up computer. I didn’t have to worry about the general public giving me an earful of critique I didn’t need. But now all you young people are socially connected to everything. Your fans have you at their fingertips. It must be a nightmare.”
Her hairless cat slinks over to me and curls up in my lap, purring like a contented pet. Gently, I drop my hand down to pat it, but it hisses and swipes at me with claws out. Mixed message received.
“Nostalgia’s a hell of a drug,” she says after a long pause.
“And the greatest honor,” I add wryly, “a female character can have is death. Especially a useful one.”
A spark ignites in Natalia’s eyes, and she turns to face me. Her cat slinks over into her lap again and begins kneading her legs with its long, lethal claws. “Yet it isn’t an honor at all, is it?”
“No—and it’s not just Starfield. Even after this, if there is an after this for me, in the next film I’m either going to be fridged, or I’ll be cast as a forty-year-old actor’s love interest, or I’ll become that quirky secondary character. Or I’ll just be nothing. That’s all I’ll be. That’s all Starfield will ever be.”
“Then change it.”
“Change it?” I want to laugh, and the cat’s ears airplane back because my voice is high and brittle. “You’re kidding, right? What can I do? I just want to make a difference. I just want to be part of movies that mean something—”
My voice catches in my throat as I remember Harper’s words: Sometimes the stories we need…
Natalia gives me a keen look.
“I have to find Imogen,” I whisper, and I order the driver to pull over. I’m somewhere in the outskirts of Atlanta, I can call a taxi to take me back to the convention, but Natalia motions for her driver to keep going. “Ms. Ford, I need to get back to the convention—”
“I would suggest you check the diner on the corner of the next street.”
I look at her blankly.
She produces a smartphone from her purse and turns it on. She shows me a gossip site—and its lead photo.
Imogen and Vance Reigns.
“I think you need to save her.”
“Starflame!” I hiss, and before the car even stops I’ve shoved the door open and am hopping out. “Thank you!” I call over my shoulder, and she waves dismissively until I close the door and the car moves on.