Through the parted bodies, the hole beginning to close, I got my first glimpse at the man at the front of the room, our director, the famed Paulo Romansky. A man I had seen before, one fateful afternoon back on the Upper East Side: Nicole’s hipster boyfriend.

28. Oh. I Totally Get It.

Everything suddenly made sense.

Nicole’s secret fling.

Clarke’s stern directive to watch her on set.

Her role in a big budget film where she didn’t belong.

The pieces fell into a big arrow that pointed directly to the man at the front of the room. Nicole was sleeping with the director. It was so obvious I was almost insulted.

How stereotypical could she be? Everyone was walking around snidely suggesting that she’d bought her way onto the film, but oh NO. It was so much worse. Especially since Romansky was also married, to one of those Victoria Secret models with insured legs. I had a moment of pity for his wife but I’d seen plenty of photos of her. She’d bounce back. Literally. Her return to glory would be the perky boobs-in-a-million-dollar-bra type of bounce back.

I lost sight of him and tried to spot Nicole over the scores of heads, over a hundred people crowding the room. So many people and Hannah said there’d be even more once filming started. I gave up on my search for Nicole and slumped against the doorframe.

I needed a drink. I couldn’t imagine this meeting ending and having to face Nicole. Not when my face was getting all flushed and itchy and it felt like I was going to—of all things—cry. Cry! Where in the hell did that weakness come from? It wasn’t like I was emotionally invested in Nicole’s marriage, wasn’t like I’d just discovered the affair. But now that I knew who he was, it seemed even worse. Did Nicole even like this guy? Or was he just a stepping-stone she took to get this role? I could handle an affair for love, but cheating on Clarke for a role—that was where my brain stopped working.

My mind flashed to Clarke, the intensity on his face when he’d cornered me in the house. “Keep an eye on her.” He’d said the words shortly, with a bit of an edge. “For me.”

What good would keeping my eye on her do? What would I do with more information? And wasn’t that why Nicole had given me a raise? To keep her dirty secrets?

I groaned and dropped my head to my chest, too confused to know what to do. In my back pocket, my cell buzzed, and I fished it out of my pocket. It was a text, from a name I’d rather not see right then.

Clarke.

The text was short and deadly. Seen anything?

I stared at it, no idea how to respond. The meeting ended, bodies bumped against me in their exit, and I still stared down at those letters.

Seen anything?

C9. C9. C9

Carter lived in C9. Not that I’d been thinking about it. But I couldn’t stop imagining the what ifs. Especially when I was alone in bed, my body lonely, my hands wandering, my cool sheets sensual in their brush against my skin. What if he knocked on my door? What if I was in bed, like this, just waiting? What if … I rolled over in bed and pulled my blanket over my head.

C9. It was one floor and three doors away. I didn’t know how long I could fight against it. I swore his damn apartment was calling my name.

29. How to Lie Without Lying

I zipped up the front of Chanel’s coat, buttoning the top button and adjusting the hood, her tiny tongue darting out and catching my wrist. I smiled at her, picking up her tiny body and heard his voice. “Chloe.”

I set down Chloe in her travel bag, taking my time before I turned to face him, trying to smile. “Mr. Brantley. Good morning.”

The words came out well. Smooth and casual. Like my heart wasn’t pounding. Like my mind wasn’t racing over what to say when he asked the question that I knew was coming. I’d never responded to his text. I couldn’t think of how to. Finally, after four or five hours had passed, I decided to just ignore it. Because, you know, that always made problems go away.

Clarke stepped into the kitchen, the click of his shoes painful on the polished floor. I held the edge of the counter tighter and leaned against it, trying to think of something to say. The air suddenly felt thick. Hot.

Clarke stopped three feet from me. Close enough I could see the worry in his eyes, the pinch of his forehead, the bits of silver in his dark hair. Silver. He seemed too young for silver, yet too masculine for anything else. I looked at him and couldn’t understand why Nicole would want anything else. How could she kiss Paulo when she had Clarke?

I looked away, reaching for my coffee cup and took a sip, hoping caffeine would help.

“Was I right? Is she…” he paused as if the words caused him pain. Closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. Dropped his chin for a moment and when he raised it, every feature was hard, his next words dark and low. “Is she … sleeping with Joey Plazen?”

The small bit of coffee in my mouth threatened to spew forward in a Pitch Perfect stream of embarrassment. I clamped my lips shut, swallowed hard to force the coffee down, and it went down the wrong pipe. I coughed, wheezing as I gripped the counter and leaned forward. Clarke moved closer, a concerned look in his eyes, and I waved him off. His sexy hands rubbing my back might be the only thing that could have made my condition worse.

When I finally regained my breath, tears at the corners of my eyes, I tried for composure. “You think she’s sleeping with Joey Plazen? Seriously?”

His eyes darkened. “Don’t protect her.”

“Listen to me.” I squared my shoulders and met his stern gaze head on. “Joey Plazen hates her. I’d never tell Nicole this, but he complains about her to every cast member who will listen. There is absolutely no chance they’re having an affair.”

He yanked out his tie, letting out a heavy sigh. “Are you sure? I thought…” He ran a rough hand through his hair and scratched at the back of his neck, tilting his gaze back to mine. “It’s just…” he continued, “something’s off. And it’s been off before.” He lifted his chin. “In Paris.”

I knew what he was referring to. Five years ago. There’d been rumors, then photos, then footage from the hotel elevator. Nicole had been filming a tiny made-for-TV movie that no one knew about, until her affair with her co-star had made all the gossip sites. Her co-star had been married to a pop music superstar and had publicly begged forgiveness, but Nicole had always vehemently denied the evidence. The story had fizzled out, but the Internet never forgot, the story still popping up in my Google search.

“I swear, nothing’s going on between Joey and Nicole. Nothing.” I emphasized the last word, and his frame relaxed a little.

“Okay.” He wiped a hand over his face and straightened. “Thanks. I’m sorry to even ask.”

“It’s okay.” I smiled, like a good little honest assistant. Didn’t even check out his ass as he turned and left the kitchen. Returned to packing Nicole’s bag and avoided Chanel’s critical gaze.

For a good little honest assistant who hadn’t lied, I felt filthy.

I was in Nicole’s trailer when I heard her scream. The sound faint, it came from outside and I locked my phone, almost grateful for the interruption. I had just started playing Vic’s voicemail, one left the night before, his words slurring but intentions clear. He loved me, he wanted me, would I please forgive him … the same message I had heard ten times before. The same message, just like the others, that I saved, too weak to hit the delete button. I’d already listened to it four times, my behavior bordering on pathetic. I stuffed the phone in my pocket and swung open the door. Jogging down the steps, I followed the sounds of a Nicole Brantley hissy fit, rounding a set stage and almost running into the drama.